that you’re always the one who has to wait.
And when you stop,
no one understands your pauses—
incongruous and long.
Caught up with and surpassed,
you come back to the world,
shelve the existential crisis
and, on a fresh sigh,
you leave everyone behind.
But this time was different:
so far you went, so far,
that even if you stop, you know it:
the only thing left
is to write in solitude,
because no one knows
how to get to nowhere.