Counting down the days

Plaça d’Espanya, Barcelona

A narrative, to whomever is listening

Did you see that cute picture from Barcelona? The selfie, and I was smiling.

No, I mean it. I was really happy then. There I was, my best self, thriving.

Doing all the things I love to do: shopping, traveling, going places I’ve never been before.

Meeting new people. Talking in between languages,

eating good food.

Then I came back

and you know?

I cried the whole bus ride home.

It was dark so no one saw.

How can I be so unhappy when I’m living my dreams?

I came home and I crossed the days off the calendar;

the one I made myself

The one I make, not always but often

The one I make, that is of a month

And I tell myself, just make it until the end of this month.

And?

And then what?

And then I’ll be happy?

Probably not. But

maybe there is something to look forward to.

Maybe the weather will change

(but I also thought this before).

Maybe by then something will be different.

Something is always different, I remind myself

When I look back, things do always change

But,

what if this time they don’t

what if this time they don’t get better

and I don’t find a better apartment

or a job

or someone to love.

I want to believe things will get better

but I still don’t believe that I deserve them to.

Yet.

Maybe I’m counting down the days,

until I do.