I wish I were the child of a Thai, sad prostitute and a Greek, shameless, sailor. He would be for the first time on land, after six months at sea, horny and hungry for a woman, any woman. They would fuck in a dirty brothel, on a loud street. He would be drunk and she would have empty eyes and quick moves, in a hurry to get home and boil rice for her brothers’ dinner.
I wish I were the child of a blonde, sun-burned British tourist and a handsome, dark-haired Moroccan. She would have freckles and he would be a drug dealer. She would give herself to him for some crack, on a beach at Marbella and he would take his pay while standing and pulling her hair.
I wish I were the child of an arranged marriage, in a far away, Indian village. My under aged, scared mother would kill my old, pervert father, right after the wedding night which she owed to him, by contract. Then she would run away, emptied, ashamed, with her soul dying and with me growing inside her, like a bad memory.
I wish I were the love child of the sinful passion between a man and the woman he had met at the theatre. He would be married and she would be naïve. Betrayed, she would give me birth in pain, in hate, in tears and in madness.
I wish I were abandoned on the stairs of a church. I would carry the mystery of my origin with me forever, craving for a place to call my own. My eyes would be angry, my lips would be questioning and my heart would be looking to belong.
Maybe if I were born out of torment, out of sin, out of hate, out of odd, I would know why I can’t find my place or maybe I would know where to look for it. I would know that in my blood, the remains of too many ancestors are boiling hot and I would know why, deep down my mind, ancestral voices are screaming in too many languages that I don’t understand.
I would know why I need to travel the world until the countries and the people are nothing else but a bunch of memories. I would know why I need to walk streets that I have no idea where they go to, why I need to look strangers for whom I don’t exist, straight in the eyes, why I need to listen to stories about nothing from people I will never see again, people that will live in my mind only until I forget their stories.
I would know why I have so many questions and why the answers are not enough and maybe, I would know if this bumpy road I am walking, takes me somewhere. Or maybe I wouldn’t know, but maybe I wouldn’t care, either…