Third Page

 

Pain. Pain is something we use when we need to learn, and along with Art, they both embrace suffering as some sort of vehicle. There has to be pain so I can feel what needs to be done to achieve it. What? Whatever you want the pain to get you for. This is a hot afternoon,  full of commitment. A promise I need to keep, to suffer, to let the pain walk me through.  I am tired but I have my motivation.  Time is not so friendly but it never was, to be honest.  God’s time is perfect; many people state. I want to take some advantage of the language and propose instead: God’s tempo is perfect. Tempo rules the rhythm,  the speed you do what you do. So tempo, as it is interpreted in English, sounds to me more like something it may happen when, let’s say, the right time comes. When is that? God only knows. That’s the point and that is what The Say wants to imply. Another morning. I can be a witness. I can join the audience for whom this show we call sunrise is being performed. I see. I feel. I close my eyes and think: there might be a chance. We might make it. This could be a hard step we had to take. The reward is the fact that we know why we are doing it. I think not everyone knows. That’s why the need for distraction on the phone comes out so often. Slow cook. Baby steps. My stomach is talking. A few hours later, I’m finally home. A beer in my hand. It was a productive day. Empanadas for dinner. Nowadays homemade ones. I wish I could explain it better, but I’m not so sure if You can feel me when I’m saying how great is having Empanadas as meal. The texture on the first bite, the flavor as is being swallowed. It is just something else. Else, else is not well defined in Spanish. I mean “else” tends to play as “more”, so there is no big difference when saying: something more or something else. The way I see it, that places a desire in a different state of intensity, of deepness, of abstraction. Then abstraction can fluctuate depending on the language, thus our capability to picture a scenario, is, in a certain way, affected by the syntax of the language we speak. These very words I have just written, the commas I have just placed. They came out from a Spanish mind thinking,  pretending to send a message in English. I said it before: we meet halfway, so halfway will be good after all.

 

I believe the word is steam. The steam comes out from a hot mug of coffee; always a strong one. That steam comes out making shapes, shapes for my mind, for my thoughts. Those shapes shows up following a rhythm,  maybe from the birds, from the morning. It is a slow movement, anyway. The thing is that it seems like it also has its own language, a kind of language that dances with my silence. Debts invades, always invades. This search for balance is tiring.  I feel tired already. No money for anything when getting paid. That certainty overwhelms harder than any other existential crisis. For this era, money is the one true catalyst for almost every form of thought, idea, wish, whatever comes to mind. Sometimes I dream and think that these words somehow might become any sort of money, and that I could finally get the basic decent life I’ve been working so hard for. I had thought about it already: when I get to a certain number of words, I will go public, posted, published, the method that serves better for any money collect. Then I think twice, I think of a song, and then of a debt, debt invades, always. Debts are the noise of any form of silence. I think again,  like I said, and realize that it is a nice dream, a noble sort of hope, but it is not likely.  Now likely is a nice word, a polite kind to me. It is not likely that I can get a better income anytime soon by only showing my curriculum, and  hoping that somebody out there, in fact give me any chance because he saw something like potential to join me in whatever he is recruiting for. Not likely at all. I was collecting some extra money by working with my car and, today, my car is down. There is Say from my country stating  that when the poor do the laundry,  it rains. It is raining over my hope, over my will, over my self esteem. So I grab a beer from the fridge and stop thinking. They were more than one, indeed. I would like to confess that I’m not sure where this writing is going. I don’t even know if it’s going somewhere. I’m just placing words as a pointless attempt to see myself in them, so I can actually figure out what’s going on with me, and start solving it.

 

Up to this point, everything lies on money I can’t get, despite this sort of double shift I’m having. I want to cry. Cry feels good when I’m like this, but I want to do it alone. I don’t want to explain anything, I’m writing it precisely because of it. One more morning. A cold one. A summer August chill morning. I don’t remember it like that last year at least. I woke up with the same problem I went to bed: the car. It’s very cloudy. It may start raining at some point of the day. I often think about this Guns and Roses song; Estranged.  I tend to see my life as a movie.  I even think about songs at inappropriate situations; in this case, I was just remembering that the song starts by saying: “When you’re talking to yourself and nobody is home”.  I talk to myself pretty often. More often than I want to admit. In a couple of times, someone has asked me something like: who are you talking to? Or You’re getting old, you’re speaking alone already! And that tells me I can’t even control it. So my need for reflection is stronger than my will to appear before others. I can simplify it by confessing I am just getting crazy, but it’s not true, I mean, I am alone. I feel lonely.  I have no one I can try these thoughts and not coming up with those types of answers, the kind I’d rather not listen to such as: don’t worry! It’s not big deal! Like we say in my land (this is the worst) “You are drowning in a glass of water”. I prefer to speak alone then, and I don’t think it makes me a crazy person. Have you ever listened to this Foo Fighters song: I should have known?  It is something else. I never get tired of it. Anyway. Work time went by with a tiny victory.  Let’s see what’s next. Next is now, and now was yesterday, indeed. Today is the tomorrow of that time, a past tomorrow then. A past tomorrow that  tastes some bitter despite the short nice time we had. Time to get ready to go to work.  I’ve been thinking about Deserve, and the impact it has on my people; many of then, or many of us, go around assuming that we deserve better. Why? I mean: why are we still thinking our efforts should be compensated  by some high power, just because we’ve been working hard? We’ve been working hard to get the payment we previously agreed to, and with such payment, we should make ends meet, or stay tight and bear it. Only we don’t want that. We want, like a Say we have; “to shit upper than the ass” (or higher; not sure which one suits better)