Phones on
the table. Do you guys do that? I might have done it a thousand times. Do you
know the message you’re sending by doing it? Is it true then? I don’t think
that there is a single person sitting on my table less important than whatever
might happen on social media. So why? Addiction, perhaps. Lack of sex. I don’t know, but these
things have to be taken care of. On the other hand, this is how we are now. Some
of us even argue and fight through the phone with people we have not seen in
years, with people we may never see ever again. The passion is conducted over
apps. Perhaps that’s where our energy,
our potential, is being drained
though. I feel like I don’t want to do
anything after work. I only want to drink and rest, so who knows! There is definitely
something going on! The night came with beers and strawberry pie. Halestorm
on TV. It sounds good. How hard is to be
programmed for commitment! There’s always something inside pushing to bear and
accept a lot. People who don’t feel this attached are gifted, only that they
don’t know it as such. In a marriage,
for example. Committed freaks
will remain quiet at any bit of offense only to preserve the illusion of peace.
Only to maintain the commitment in perpetuity.
Others just replied go fuck yourself and get some sleep in peace. You will find a thousand reasons where
commitment is heroic but such heroism hurts. It hurts and it weights. Words are
not enough to let go. Tomorrow is another day, another battle, with less money
and the same debts. Perhaps it’s because of that: having too much to worry
about allows yourself to let pass more than you’re supposed to (if you’re
supposed to indeed or at all) These kind of things can’t be unlearned. They are
like tattoos from childhood, from life
itself. So is the mindset of us, the Venezuelans. That explains a lot of
ourselves. We need to talk more, to get
to the point we can embrace or sorrows and not hiding them as they were a sign
of weakness. Vulnerability has never meant weakness in any way. It’s totally
the opposite: it is brave to accept it and talk about it.
We are
afraid to trust. We don’t want to trust. We prefer sexist jokes and pass as assholes
rather to open ourselves up and be vulnerable.
Like I said, those are our hidden tattoos. I have a lot on my own. I know how it feels.
Summer is
coming. Today it seems to be warmer,
less gray and rainless. The sun is already welcomed. The birds are telling everyone. It’s time to get up. Last night beers make it
a bit difficult. Perhaps the magnesium:
two pills every night is recommended.
Perhaps both. The belly keeps growing.
I guess the steps count has to be much higher, specially now that the working time is seated
on a desk. Some discomfort in my back: a middle age thing. Cosas de pures,
my friends would say. I’m always imagining better times. I woke up with such an
attitude today. Let’s see. As always God, you know my spirit is already in your
hands. I’m just documenting it. I hear coughing. I don’t think it could be to worry about but
certainly it’s a sign I have to hurry.
The
president of Iran died from a helicopter fall down. The media made it the first
thing to read when opened any app. At least that was my case. Iran was very
popular, very often discussed about when I was living in Venezuela. Chávez made big alliances with them. The
Venezuelan cars come from Iran, for example. Now the gas too, from what I’ve
read. I stopped finding out about Iran since I moved out. I guess if I were in
Caracas, this would be big and conspiratorial.
Everyone must be talking about it by now. I’m not there. I’m here and I wonder if
the president would have been Maduro, would people celebrate it as they
are doing now over Iran’s? How shall we process such a feeling? I mean. Is that
what my people are expecting? It is interesting to think about it. Most of the
people who moved out have considered at least once. Nevertheless, now that I’m bringing
it out, the very sentiment might have been inoculated through the government
propaganda: Maduro has said a thousand times that there was a plot to
kill him. So the idea was born out of a statement and raised as a thought, as an idea; then the social media do its
magic: influencers, opinion debates, fake news, clickbait, catfish, framed
images of any type, even made up past stories. Whatever works out to redirect the
people’s attention at will. Now I’m getting nuts. We were programed to leave
the country. It might have been a dark experiment. It might have been a part of
a plan. I thought for a while that it was a purge. People like us don’t fit
under the current regime, but I have sensed some randomness in our community. I
have met a few people to share common grounds with. At least nothing further
than coming from the same country. Even
the city; I haven’t met people from Caracas as from other placed of Venezuela.
My ear again. How interruptive it isgoI feel proud now. I’ve made it to 60.000
words text now. I thought I was going to quit at 40.000, but here I am: counting
60.000 words of paja, or how I think it is called in English: to talk
crap, or shit. And I intent to keep doing it. Pardon the mistakes.
