Wednesday. A
month later, a month of drowned thoughts that never learned to swim. Here I am
at the shore of my cavitation, waves of advice come and go. There’s too much to
pay and too little to earn. I’m kind of addicted to bad times, they’re always
close, alongside. Wine, always wine. I’m kind of waiting some help to knock on
my door like a relative from Venezuela, who magically managed to get through against
all odds and made it here. It’s the way we are; picturesque, that’s the most
suitable word for us. We need to go back and across the entire family,
neighborhood, childhood, just to give an
excuse of why we’re coming late for work, for example. Caracas, sometimes I think
about you. It’s hard. There are a few names I like to evocate, names I wish I
could, names that never meant to be,
names that my social media brings up, names, names and moments: I’m smiling
right now. I’m smiling at the fact that I’m about to be evicted. Eviction is
quite a word. TV is on. My boy, my everything. Something has to happen. Wine is almost over. Winter is gone too. I
reduced my spectrum, I have even less
people to talk to, to vent, to speak my mind. I’m just stacking words, building
a train of nonsense going on the railroad of what I’m thinking when I’m sitting
on the toilet, and I have to get a shower, by the way. Let’s rest. Worries are
getting me and I need ideas, money, but
I don’t have any, and I get paid in two days. Isn’t it ironic, don’t you think. I’m disregarding of everything I just wrote
lately; not because I’m not feeling it but because I don’t remember it, and I
don’t want to go ut supra to be in context again. Today, I don’t care. I
was thinking what if this is ever published? What sort of story this should be?
This is a diary, not dairy, despite my intolerance, which I’m not, I mean, I
might be, but I don’t care, I love dairy products, but this is, in spite my thoughts, a Diary:
the Diary of a settlement in the world of an immigrant. An adaptation of a new
life, mixed with middle age crisis and first time parenthood; a man in his
forties finding out what he left and how to keep going on without it. Nothing
really promising, nor original, but very
Venezuelan indeed, and that means, that what’s missing will never matter as
long as we get with this comfy place (literal or figurative) available, on
hand, to stay there for a while, so we can smile at our sorrows, and fight back
again. Wine takes me there, mostly, Cerati too. A Letter to Elise again
in my ears: I love it! Thanks God It’s Friday! At work, but my myself. Voices
floating, but I’m here… nothing wrong with that! Evening is greeting, a
child program on TV, everyone in their own thing. I was thinking about reading
a book, I may grab it but it will not work. I might have to cut it, so let’s
stay with the phone. Wine time is coming. I wanted to leave here this thought
I’ve been dreaming about and, it is that I kind of feel how some pieces of me
start parting from myself to my son; it’s quite an honor, actually, to be
honest. Will some of me live on in him? Is that how we remain in this world after
we die? If so, do we die at all? What if every dead person is just spread out
in people who got something from them? Wasn’t something like that this Prince
from Oscar Wilde? I tend to think this is also how we talk to God: by writing
and letting go whatever flows and burns behind social smiles and focused
silences. There is the noise: nothing for me except the glass of wine. Shapes,
the time of shapes: circle, every circle seen is declared. My son sees it as a
shape, and I see it as a reflection. An answerless reflection, by the way. I didn’t get to read and I knew
it. Night time. A movie, perhaps. There
are some cookies and a bit less than have of a bottle of wine. Silence is here.
It suddenly came. I thought it was only in the office but it seems like it cane
hiding in one of my pockets. I really
need to figure it out. A rainy Saturday,
inexplicably amusing. Everyone woke up in good mood today. The smell and
the taste of coffee has taken over, lips are having somehow a good time. Alright,
let’s keep going: pieces of us. Features (rather than skills, but it can be
just aspects, I guess) have started to transfer: it’s a wonderful feeling. It also means that the time to get totally
transformed is coming. I just wish to accomplish a few things before that. God,
please, let me stay here, healthy, and working for such things. We could say,
assuming that I might have a point, that puberty is the time when you start
collecting for the next generation; childhood is when we collect for ourselves.
Then when adulthood comes up, and it’s more like struggling back and forth with
the time left and the expectations still unmet. We’re keeping the good mood. We’re
going to have difficult times, again, but here we are, happy, yes, great! Let’s
drink to that! Presidential elections are on the schedule: here and there, the
clown decided to run again. First, a war threat, then carnivals, and now the
anticipation of the elections. That’s Venezuela, and the people keep with the
hope, the good mood. Perhaps that’s why I am how I am, I can’t tell. Come
undone is sounding, I have two bottles in my system at this time. It’s time
to stop, indeed, A view to a kill sounds now: dance into the fire
then, or whatever it says… Sunny, early, time change. I noticed that because of
the microwave; probably the only device not connected to the network.
This is
Wednesday. Evening. Everyone is angry. Anger is kind of like a
rain falling and getting all wet. Despite the umbrella, despite the boots,
somehow it gets into your socks… and it’s never selfish. We always want to share it, to pass it
through. I need to write this before I
forget it: fulfillment is a place, a place we build over the years and, once it has some room, once we fit in, we
start understanding that what you didn’t bring is because you never needed it.
I hope to be able to show that to my son. I want him to build his place for
fulfillment, somewhere he can leave worries out and forget for a while, because
obligations will always wait, but a pause is good from time to time, and thus,
if he gets hurt, he can use it to feel better again. I will try my best. So
Anger, Anger needs to be shared, that’s the only way to transform it. I must
go, by the way. I feel like I need to close my eyes and hug my parents, tell
them that I love them, pick up my wife and tell her it’s going to be fine, that
we need nothing but ourselves. I have to get back to work. I love this job! Napping,
trying but anxiety tends to take over. The need to be inside any feed on social
media is, let’s say, dumbing me up. Fortunately I believe whatever wisdom I
might have collected, is probably
already passed to my son. That’s narcissistic, to be honest. Who isn’t in these
days! We need to consider we are presenting our lives as a slide show full of wealth
understood as good. We have already talked about this before. Let’s go back to
resting. I should get some sleep. It’s not Sunday yet. Saturday evening indeed.
Daylight is lasting a bit longer, so we can take a walk before it gets dark. It’s
good if we intent to open a bottle of wine. Cheers already! Time is becoming
wind and as wind It’s touching my face, making me close my eyes and forget
where I step. Music is playing chaperon, then I’m not alone. I open my eyes,
and I’m already in my living room; having a glass. I was evocating, as I try to
do when I’m alone. Time again, like I just said; it has its power, and now it’s
becoming light, indoors light for a indoors contemplation. Cronos is how they
call you, right? Well then: thank you, thank you for everything. I know I’m not grateful most of the time but
I do appreciate all, and I actually can tell when it’s you. Night has fallen. There
is some discomfort. I wanted to complain,
to make an scene out of it but then I realized; why, what am I
complaining about, whatever bothering me has always been there, and it didn’t
come out of nothing I haven’t done previously to make it happen. So I just
remained quiet, as always; keeping the bitterness to myself to drown it with the
wine I’m drinking, or digest it with all
the junk food I have to then feel regretful for it. My belly won’t stop growing
with regrets, and time, time won’t do (and there’s no need, actually) won’t do
anything to stop it, or delay it. This is all on me. Tuesday morning. An arepa is put on. I
think that could be the most suitable way to say “montar” in the context
of cooking for an arepa. So I’m putting on an arepa for my son
before leaving. I have to work. It’s
cold. Unnecessarily cold. I write while I wait for the engine to warm up. There
are opinions about this but it is already an old habit and this is an old car
too. Let’s go. I used to feel kind of like a poser when wearing sunglasses but
now, now I just got used to it. I might still look a poser but I just don’t
care anymore. The value of the benefit overcomes the shame from the shyness. Puberty issues, I know. Now let’s get back to
work. Not before a coffee, of course.
