My streets are full of ghosts that don't exist

My streets are full of ghosts, the shadow of the past accompanies them at every intersection, every house, every square and every grocery store that sells you a little bottle of rum, even if they have the Santa Maria down there because, well, you're a corduroy. My streets are full of ghosts of that stuff that makes traffic lights flicker, but nobody pays attention to them because they think it's another one of the city's many electrical faults. My streets are full of ghosts that run and run with the boys from the high school in every disturbance of broken desks. My streets are full of ghosts of invented stories that, although they never happened, emerge on the edge of existence by popular belief.

The crazy ghosts of the square screaming in the early morning, the Portuguese from the cellar who was killed on the corner, the beggar who walks the streets begging for alms, poor even after she is dead. My streets are full of horrors and apparitions that people say chase and scare drunks as they leave the bars but, over time, have left their posts and after a widespread strike, Rather, they decided to accompany these men and women who overflow their souls after a few sips of Cucuy, accompany them by discussing the vicissitudes of life, the pain of existence, the weight of hope, but the sober hardly see a crazy drunkard talking alone in the street.

My streets are full of misunderstood ghosts that many do not believe in, but they are the first and only explanation for the uncertainty of something seemingly inexplicable. Ghosts that are active at all times, that close the door of your house when you go down to throw away the garbage, that move the bushes, that hide your glasses, and ghosts of higher rank to which they attribute much more complex things such as the widespread protection of one place or the destruction of another. These ghosts, big and small, fill our lives from time to time, from time to time, with memories and superstitions that make us doubt or reaffirm our beliefs.

Sometimes we don't even know how we begin to believe and assume that it's not a thing of belief at all, it must be a fact because we don't even remember hearing that story in the first place. Like that time when you stayed in the park until 6:00 and your mom was rushing you because of such a serene man, but a bigger threat appeared (although not literally), moving sharply that only swing and between the purest persignations and the purest birds of Mary, they grabbed you by the hand to run away and after 20 years you didn't enter the park after 6:00, It's not that you're afraid of ghosts, it's not that you think anyone's going to follow you, it's not that your mother's irrational superstitions haunt you until today, no, no.... but you know, you have to be careful because they fly, fly.