I keep dreaming in English.

I keep dreaming of big cities, wide landscapes, hotel rooms full of light, a room in the south, people I once knew. When I wake up, I don’t know where I am.

What’s funny is that, most of the times, I can only stand being in the city because of my vivid dreams of leaving the city. I never leave. I never rode into the sunset.

I read the 127 short stories I wrote but never published, and I wonder how all of them can still be true. I listen to the music and I hate the songs that go horribly wrong after the first 44 seconds. I put songs on repeat that I’ll soon never listen to again.

What’s left are the walls, the bricks, the stones. What’s left is the concrete.

Being able to name things is powerful. I’ve been saying that for a long time. Only now did I understand what it really means. Only now did I understand how being able to name things can change a life.

I keep thinking in English. There’s no one to correct my grammar mistakes.