Granny. Mom.
What a memory we’re building, my love! I’m getting sleepy. Some pages are calling me in but I feel like I
want to pass. I wasted too much time already, so there’s no time to invest. It's
kind of like any drug addict, only that their money is our time. Time that won’t
come back, by the way. Money does it every now and then, at least. I can’t
think about a job where we get paid of time, instead of money. Time is not regulated by SEC, it
can’t be a token to promote on a white paper. We just have to live it. It’s the
only way to consume it wisely. Live it, live the time. Make it count. Make it a story to tell, to share, to write
about. It’s getting quieter, chillier, and I’m a bit tired but satisfied. I had
some wine on Tuesday, and I plan to have some tomorrow. Why not! Do I have a problem? I don’t think
so. It’s always a few glasses. I don’t like getting drnk. It’s bad for words,
for knowledge, and for some reason I feel this impulse to write and write and
not paying attention to mistakes. I let others correct me. I really don’t care.
Voices, from
a phone, from social media. I fee like I want to stop here and hear there, for
nothing, for getting drugged at it. I also want to have Sex. I want to wet my
lips but I’m not sure. It May be the wine. Car waiting. Very common in here.
For families where everyone works, every morning is a new battle to overcome.
The good thing is that, once on time; once at the place, we feel this sense of
victory that might turn into fuel for the rest of the day. Today seems to be
one of those days but I’m in the restroom and we’re going out, so I don’t have
the time I wish to do what I’m doing. I kind of have to interrupt, or hurry up – which is definitely not good –
and incorporate myself into the rest. Back in the bathroom again. It looks like a place to write – better than scrolling
feeds from social media, right? – it’s private nonetheless. I just have to mind
my legs so they won’t become numb for being like this for so long.
I wish I
could take good part of your job. I know it’s exhausting. I feel you, and I
want to help you but sometimes, like
this time, I’m unable to and I hate it. Life has never been about pleasing
desires. We create and picture them as a response to a necessity we feed and
grow for somewhat changes during our lifetime. As human, we need to believe that
something different may, and will, happen if only, and that if only could
be our biggest support to survive. Faith does that from time to time. Or
perhaps faith is the word we use to understand it, to put it in words. Perhaps
it can’t be explained, and that is the reason why there are so many desires floating
around in silence. Car waiting again. I wonder if moments like this somehow get
a discount in life, I mean, I’m not here because I want to, I’m just waiting,
and waiting shouldn’t count as time spent. Back home. Couch guy. Wine on hand.
Still day light. My boy is playing. We’re
all chilling.
After two
oppositions candidates, the third seems to be the contender, so there will be
elections in Venezuela, the feast from baseball
has passed, and the declaration of War against Guyana looks like it was
forgotten. Now the elections is what matters in Venezuela. The elections and the sanctions. My people are
hopeful again and I wish I could they won’t be disappointed once more. They have
had enough. Wine is gone. Time for a bath. Antagonist is on TV, what a
band! What a song! Fire up your guns. I see myself as a stoic. For some
reason I believe this will be rewarded someday. Maybe. I have a song now, and
he’s right here with me. I said it was time for a bath. I haven’t taken it yet.
I’m about to. I’m just waiting for the smoke to get lost in the air.
A new day. Waiting.
In my country men are taught to wait, to wait for the ladies, at any situation,
and to try not to make them uncomfortable by the waiting. I’m the man at home,
and at work, so I wait a lot, as a matter of fact. At this point of my life, it bothers me very
little. I can say I have mastered the
art of waiting. I’m taking this time to serve words, for example. I have had two coffees already. That should be
enough for the morning. We’re going out. I was tempted to spend this time
scrolling down the phone but words want me to put them here, so here they are:
thoughts becoming a message, a timeless message, for you, for them, even for myself.
Silence and
coughing. The garbage guy couldn’t wait and it seems we must wait for a week
that he comes again. I feel like it is my fault because I left the car in his
way but, I don’t know, he could have blown his horn, I was literally at the
other side of the wall. My apologies, I
guess. It was a quiet morning. I’m exhaling and getting the scent of the coffee
I just had. Yes. The one I was not supposed to. As breath goes I place my
memories in place but I feel unable fir it. Remembering is not like it used to
be. I kind of have to try harder, and I always end up speaking about the same
topic, and I feel too tired to go back and see what – or how many – topics I
have just mentioned and never developed.
To be honest, this is real, real words for real thoughts. As anyone can
see, pointless at some point (I like that) and life tends to put us under a
spot for such a perspective: futility. I listen to music at least. There will
come a moment in which you get this code, and perhaps you’ll crack it, and
finally understand that wisdom is lent and not own, and it won’t matter how
many words you are willing to by, or how many lies you are willing to consume
to detach from this. You’ll be back, you’ll be here, with me, figuring
ourselves out as the soul we once encountered. Read me, listen to voice I’m
attaching behind every phrase. I’m not calling you out. I just need you to join
me. The boy will, someday, somehow. We
might look a him doing it. We might be proud of him, but this is not his
pressure, nor anyone’s. Let the words
collect, and let the rest alone. They just want to behold. We want to create. The
sky is greeting, the debts are letting us carry on. We just have to survive, to
believe, as all those people in Venezuela do now, once again, one more time.
Hopes is coming, and God is watching. It’s time to let go, to open ourselves to
the new. Words are increasing, growing.
Will you come down up to this point? How many times have I written point
ad time so far? Ozzie won’t tell me. But the song is good though:
no more tears… Night has come.
The blender is on, making its own music, kind of like drum solo. It stopped, at
last and at least. I feel kind of sleepy but I should read a little, just to
preserve the habit since I feel like I’m giving up on it. Why? I just don’t
know. It might have something to do with social media and how is everybody
nowadays. The cult of anxiety and fast dopamine. The fast food of the eyes, and therefore the
perception. So perception is disposable now, and that means that it has been
industrialized, junk-like typed, and somewhat contaminated by the permanent
inconsistency between the speed of the eye and the assimilation in time. Memory
is not remaining as a consequence of all this. We can just laugh and share
memes. And, of course, compete internally with those I don’t talk but I spy, because
I have this need to defeat them. To show them that I’m cooler, that I post
better stuff. Just like these words, I might trying to make a point, and prove
that I can write. Only that I still don’t know to whom I’m writing. I mean, I
would love my wife and my son to read it but they don’t need to come here to
find me stating that I love them. They know it already. I try to express it in
different ways. So these words should go beyond, reach others, and become a key to a
gathering. A gathering of thoughts that need to remain in time and be passed
through generations. Will they ever get
that far? May be not, but I can believe and dream about it. Just like I have
done it with so many things, and many people. I want Sex, by the way. I think
of her and you and I’m with none of you. I just have to let it be words of
whispers and sighs, and paint a little smile while I’m writing it. I said I
should read before going to bed, a couple of pages at least. So see you later,
I guess.
