I will not go.
I will go near the sea.
Standing, in silence, empty, I will await.
It must be on a steep cliff because it must be abrupt. It must be a cloudy day. It must rain. It must wet me. The sea must be restless, revolving. The salt must get into my nostrils. The wind must fight with the flaps of my coat. A seagull must fly by giving out one shrill cry. The earth must quake. The lightening must blind and the late thunder scare.
After that, the sun must cut through the grey, dry all tears. The breeze must play with my hair, swirling around my neck, whispering a lament. The tide must fall back. The birds must sing the end of the tempest.
And only when nature conjugates all these imperatives in my presence I will believe that you departed.
Then, staring at nothing in the horizon, I will loosen a dry, cynical, increasing laugh in homage to life and will calmly await death, the sole beautiful moment I will have left.
