Next Stop

we are in the tube sitting next to each other as if we were childhood friends and we did not meet each other four months ago “what are your dreams?” we are travelling the subsoil of this massive city “my dreams?” I ask “yes, for the future” you always ask me this question what are your dreams for the weekend what are your dreams for today you always ask me this question but never this way I don’t know what to answer I would tell you “I don’t know how to dream as big as you do” but I suddenly start to dream in a future where I am not afraid of leaving places and nor
am I of staying I dream of a future where no
thoughts leave me awake at
night a future where people
love me for who I am and not what I do I dream of a future in which I
cook with no recipe and I travel
without a map a future without any anxiety or expectations who knows if I could be a writer
in that future a journalist a photographer an artist or an NGO worker I have no idea of what I am
saying you don’t know what an
NGO is but you understand me you would also like to be part
of one you look at me  attentive even if you are struggling to
listen to me with the underground’s
noise  and my Spanish accent you look at me you believe me more than I believe in myself “we are getting off at the next
stop”