Those Portuguese eyes
It’s around midnight. I get into the metro and take a seat. I am so tired that I lean my head on the wall and close my eyes. I have about ten minutes to go. I can feel my veins pulsing in my boots. My feet are tired, I can’t wait to be in my warm bed.
After a couple of minutes I open my eyes and notice that the half-drunk seemingly homeless guy in front of me is staring at me without blinking. When he sees that I am looking at him, he starts to smile. I smile back and look at the bottle in his hand. He takes a sip of the strange pink-colored liquid and says: “Oh, these eyes … You must be Portuguese”. At first I say nothing. I just continue looking at him. He looks kind, not too drunk and not aggressive. Then he continues telling me that now is not the time to sleep, no reason to be tired, that I should be more lively. He makes gestures with his arms as if he wanted to run, to show me that I should be more energetic. “When you die, there will be plenty of time for sleeping, now is time to live”, he concludes.
He is not completely wrong. I should try to be more lively, there is no reason not to be. I can not explain to this guy that I feel out of steam because I don’t see a clear prospect for my professional life. Compared to him I have what is needed to be happy, and yet he is the one cheering me up.
I laugh. I wish that dying was like a long sleep filled with good dreams. One of my recurring dreams is me flying like a giant bird. I love the sensation of flapping my wings and finally taking off after the third or the forth try. Once in the air I cruise where I can never go otherwise. I fly above the oceans or in the mountains. I admire the view in the horizon. In my dreams, I do things that are impossible in our earthy life. I cultivate giant sunflowers few meters high.
Maybe dying is indeed like an endless sleep. Heaven is when you are stuck in good dreams and Hell is filled with nightmares.
The guy doesn’t give up and asks me again whether I am Portugish. He tells me that he is familiar with the expression in my eyes. I feel sorry to disappoint him but I finally tell him that I am actually from the middle east. He raises his eyebrows. “Oh!”, he exclaims. Then to add to the disappointment I add that I am from Iran. At this point, a big smile forms on his lips. “I love Iranians, they are very kind”, he says. I wonder if I should add to the drama and precise that I am actually an Armenian from Iran?! I decide to cut it short. Maybe he doesn’t have such a good opinion about Armenians.
I am already at my destination. I wish him a good night and leave. I know that the best part of the night for him was just then, when he was sitting in a warm metro car. Soon, he will spread his sleeping bag on a cold cement floor and wait for the morning to come. With the force of his pink drink, he will probably manage to fall asleep defying the cold weather. He will probably dream of his Portuguese muse and hope to see her someday.
As for me, I go to bed wishing to experience another flight over the mountains.
