Israel Centeno

The dream was an endless exodus. You walked through streets you once called your own, crossed seas, paused on islands to the north, to the south, at the edge of the habitable, always moving, always leaving something behind. At some point, you no longer knew whether you were being carried or advancing out of habit. Then you said: Just a little further, and we’ll arrive. But where? Upon waking, you understood there was no destination—only the weight of the journey and the exhaustion settled deep in each vertebra.

The pain had not stayed in the dream. It was there, anchored in your bones, wearing down your back like a burden no one could lift. It creaked with every movement, reminding you that old age does not arrive suddenly, but as a debt paid in daily installments. And this old age of yours is that of someone who has lived an agitated life, filled with fractures, with jolts, with days that seemed to have no tomorrow. But above all, it is the old age of someone who has lost much.

Sometimes, the mirror returns a face you struggle to recognize. Your eyes, weighed down by their own heaviness, no longer seek conquests but a place to rest. Yet pain does not relent. There is no lasting respite, no relief that endures.

And then there is memory. Not only of the years lived but of the last ones, those that stripped away what little you still believed was yours. The country that had once been home became a ghost. You lost everything, or almost everything, and what remained was not enough to call a homeland. Now you understand—there is no homeland in this world, only passage.

Thank you, God, for until now, the bread has not been lacking.

And because, despite all evil, you have delivered me from all evil. Because my share has been small, given the circumstances in which I lived. Because the price has been low, considering the swamps I walked through. Because, despite everything, this reminds me that there are people in the world I love. And for them, I hope for less pain, less turmoil, fewer shadows upon waking.

What aches are the dreams and experiences woven together, the steps taken under the weight of what could not be left behind. Now, what remains is the rest of the journey, seeking the threshold. It looms ahead, unsettling, unfamiliar. A thing to fear, yet also a promise.

You approach it with hesitation, still clinging to these unbearable pains, to these mornings heavy with sorrow.

You have the instinct to preserve them—to cling to your broken bones, to your open wounds.

Do you want to go a step further, a day beyond?