Third page III

 

Friday afternoon.  That used to mean something but not now, not anymore. There’s work tomorrow so Friday could be any Monday. I’m trying to bring up a time where days of week mattered for doing any specific thing. I don’t. I can’t.  I believe I’m jut going to take my son for a little walk. Let’s see If I can gather a couple of sentences to serve after that. See you then. Then is now. Not much to write about. Daylight is still painting the sky with its typical blue. Colors. 10 hours shift. Mosquitoes. The balcony is not welcoming as expected. I got wine, I guess I just need add some to my mind,  so I can at least forget for a while and bear the news stoically, which is the most accurate way to face it. I was watching a guy exposing that we should stop complaining immediately. Complaining is a bad habit kind of like smoking. You just get addicted to it. If you don’t like something,  change it, if you can’t change it, discard it, if you can’t discard it, start any sort of movement against it; a campaign, a counterstrike, but please stop complaining.  I was thinking about it. This is pretty much a complaining, and I’m doing it through written words because I feel I don’t have the voice up for it. I’m sticking with this guy’s speech about complaining because I saw it convenient for me. I just quit complaining. Yes. Yes, but. Yes, but what about these words? This is my therapy,  hoping to get a least a faster English writing, or a less mistaken one, if possible.  It is still dark. There’s a little light on the back announcing a new day comes. It is quiet. No birds singing,  no wind melodies, maybe a few bugs making their way. An intro, an overture. Some vestiges from last night wine. Yeah. More for worse than for better but it sort of put a smile on my face. Face is a fine word. In our Spanish, most of the meanings derived from facing goes on the forehead. We forehead the truth rather than face it. Let’s forehead this life. Beer in hand. Saturday evening.  Nothing to write about. I was thinking about the disappointment. Why will it be that we hold on hope when we know we’re going to be laid down? I’ll stop smoking.  I will stop smoking next Sunday.  Next Sunday is tomorrow.  Why do we believe? We only get the chance to love our children as they see us great, and that is pretty much it. The rest will only keep disappointing us. We are going to let someone down too. This world is, in the end, a result of some mixture from all those things done out of a chain of disappointments. Whatever we can make up from it. Wherever we can go on from it.

 

Dark blue Monday. Dark because it’s early. Blue because sunrise is coming in a hour. Stars are still floating in the sky. I can see many, actually. I’ve never been a star reader. I don’t know what do they mean or if they do mean something at all. I see them more like little windows that let pass a bigger light from the other side. Of course, that is nonsense, right? Supposing that these surroundings were not as infinite as science claims they are. The thing is how science is so convincing on showing the magnitude of the untouchable, but when it comes to human soul, everything is reduced to superstition.  I haven’t found anything about it yet but the truth is I’m not really looking for it either. It is just that there are  people, specially these coffee shop pseudo-intellectuals, that claim, assure and deny, with this confidence so derived from a total absent corroboration, that precision is met only through science, and superstition, which means everything else, is typical of ignorants, and by ignorants they often mean the people who didn’t go to college. Going to college in my country is seen as some sort of important, and significant, step towards self realization.  Understanding self realization as an elevated social state (or status) of the person itself.

 

It is hard for a society to grow surrounded by people who claim that bare knowledge holds a market value for which the government,  by any means, must pay, and I say government because who else will pay for hiring someone whose expertise is not required? I won’t hire a lawyer to fix my pipes, right? And If it happens that the piper is a lawyer, because he went to law school, I would be hiring him as piper, not as a lawyer. It seems obvious but obvious stands by the culture who proclaims it so. That is one of the things we learn when we leave home. We come with this,  I've read it’s called: Cultural baggage, and it’s hard to unpack it and let it get along with the soil that is holding you now. Besides that,  there are these daily basis little undoings, which add a bit of frustration to any attempt of conviction I try to build. Another day comes. It's darker than yesterday. There are these butterflies trying to remind me of something.  We are in the afternoon now, inside the company’s property, feeling the heat, the sweat; the sticky sensation when taking the pants off and on, the march of the equipment; machines keeping up the beat of the must, of the duty, of the programmed schedule to meet the goals. Not my goals, of course. Not anyone sweating or lifting weight either.  Chaplin’s Modern Times pops up in my head. Block chain technology,  only the human type. Dark again, darker, also earlier and no butterflies. It’s is now when I can write. It is not now when I would like to put a thought into words. I hear a car passing by. Another person going to work, I presume. I feel tired already but at least I can listen to music I actually choose. It is strange how the things I enjoy find, and hide from myself; depending on the case, a certain path for not being completely absent in this very case. Despite of everything,  here a I am listening to music. Boxes are coming up: “Dame tu amor, sólo tu amor, sólo dame tu amor”. Let’s see if good news come in too. Let’s see if good news come in too. “You get what you deserve”; what do I deserve? Do we really live under a system of deserving anything at all? That works for music songs, yes, but music songs move you, move me, move us. We bear big things thanks to music songs. Thanks to art in general. Lunch time. A cat. I used to see cats and dogs on the streets of Caracas all the time. Not here. Not common. I may write something about it, but I understand every place has its own procedures when it comes to animals. I’ve seen some deer here, they are just cute. They make my day every time. There’s a red window in the apartment across the street. We’re pretty close. It’s more like a red reflex from what is inside. I guess it is because of the curtain, it must be red. The color and the light, along with this darkness, makes it special, makes me wonder; imagine, think of the shape of a woman’s body taking her clothes on. She got up naked, I think, and naked is why I can sense the details from where I stand. My coffee gets cold, my attention is on my eyes, but it’s not my eyes really. It’s more what I’m thinking of. The woman dances, yes, dances while getting dress, I become her audience: this is a show. Is she aware of me? Who knows! I take my imagination inside my house. It’s time to get ready for work. It was a rough day. I have this sense of satisfaction because I was up the task even though I tend to see myself kind of old for things like that. I thought about a glass of wine but I decided to postpone it until tomorrow.  I am going to see Sum 41 and The Offspring. The first one has a song named We’re all to Blame. I hope to get the chance to listen to it. Tomorrow will be a day not to think about debts or worries. I’ll see my sorrows on Saturday. Hopefully I may have some time to let myself go and worry back again. It was good. I had a great time. I went back to teen years. I was unavoidably comparing the difference. It was great.