Nineth page III

 

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. 

Nineth page II

 

 

Engagement farming. How interesting is that! I wonder if it applies to our past, to our definition of things, or knowledge of what it happened, on what we think it happened. It’s kind of like a postulations pool, I bring something up and it will turn slowly into my personal vision which is, not necessarily, the truth of the whole. So we’re back picking concise crumbs from a bigger abstract cake. Our concise, not the concise, again; not necessarily. How harmless is that? A meeting is set. Friday has turned into afternoon. Another week saying goodbye to life. Office is quiet. I remember noisier times. Not here, there, where noise collected joy as it gets. I’m not saying there’s no joy in here. I believe that offices have a common ground when it comes to people’s behavior despite the cultural differences. This is more than a halfway meeting. I gave to pay. I have to pay a lot. I need to put that down. I’m optimistic today. Estrogen, it feels good when I’m surrounded by them. I feel like I want to do more, go further; improve. I feel this impulse to be better when I am with my son. I guess it’s natural. I was trying to get a better explanation of this connection, but my social media burnout pose won’t let me, so I guess I will have to make it up. So be it. Enjoy! In a kind of Charles Xavier style, I let my thoughts out of my head, and everyone does it the same way, we can’t just see them, but get them in our way, when driving, when walking, when trying to come up with own thoughts. It’s a mute noise, like the white noise, but unable to be heard. It’s more like an abstract picture. In fact, sometimes we get to see some pieces, but not the whole thing, not anyone’s at least. We barely see our own. The streets are full of those, of the living, and of those not around us anymore. Incomplete pieces that hold on for years to be decoded, and therefore understood. I want to make sure my son will get all mine at least. Not that they are the most valuable pieces of thoughts, but certainly they will be some of those he can decode when the time comes.  This is something we don’t do by ourselves. We need God, Angels, past lives souls to get every needed piece. You see, we’re talking about different universes and chronologies, about different places and figures.

 

Coffee smell. Voices asking. A space of silence from time to time. No answer to state. Emails to take care to. Spring and its moments. We just came back from the screenings. I felt this urge for checking if anyone has ever yet reacted to any of my social media posts. I have this fantasy in my head that I am some sort of discoverer, or it is just my ego playing with my thoughts and making me think that whatever I found, or create, constitutes somewhat something interesting for some people on the other side of the screens. The void when nothing is found, grows bitter and increase my intolerance, also my time spent on those feeds looking for nothing but wasting myself as it was a cigarette, a cigarette I light to see my questions floating with the smoke I exhale. I have exhaled enough for these days. I want more flour in my life. These diets and their crusades against wheat. Sometimes I think cigarettes brands sponsor such campaigns so people worry more about sugar intake than tobacco or alcohol. Don’t get me wrong, I love alcohol,  and I hardly get wasted because of it. I get more wasted on social media, it is a stronger drug.

 

Funny videos and cool pictures to then check who saw them a make up a whole narrative out of it. That person saw my profile, I can tell because of the recommendations to follow now. We have no people in common,  or we do, but I don’t talk to them, I just see their posts as I suppose they see mine. They want to know what I’m up to, if I am in better situation or I keep hanging in there like all of them. Immigrants and our picturesque view of life, of society.  Virtual society nowadays.  A few messages back and forth. We’ve got to keep the diplomacy,  we may not know when do we need her, him, them. They are full of shit, perhaps, but there is always the chance of success on the next move, and we all want to be close to the successful,  but not yet, no while they remain as they are now. It is just in case, just that. The narrative goes on, my life become archetype to model, I can see them copying me. I need to expand my spectrum: the world is more interesting than this. Yes, but nobody knows me, or give a fuck, only those I don’t speak to, so we ignore each other in the real world. We all have to work and pay after all. So there is not really too much time for the immense, nor for making peace, so we keep it in here, in the void, a void full voices, names and memories, all silent by the present and the unsure; the unknown. Better wonder than find out.

 

I see myself cool, still cool, after all. I can see it when she smiles at me. I believe I still got it. It can’t be just politeness,  it can’t be because I refuse myself to it, besides,  there is always a post suggesting me that this may be real, and may be is enough to trap myself into it. So I let my imagination fly, fly high and create a whole possible new reality, a successful one, so everyone comes back to talk to me again and flatter me this time. I woke up. I wasn’t even sleeping.  It’s time to go. Duties always knock on and out.

I’ll wait sounds in my ear, only one. I have to pay attention. Words coming in but with no story to place, instead, I’m just putting pieces together. Pieces of faith, of hope, and laugh at the suggested scenarios. In the end those things might never get to happen. I think I better go outside.

 

Nineth Page

 

Time to leave. Only not yet. There’s a little bit more for some words, words of waiting, waiting without expecting, expecting without hoping, and hoping to serve me a glass of wine. See you tomorrow, but not just yet. Still Thursday, it’s raining hard. Toto is on TV, and it’s probably one of the few things technology has to offer: Music wherever and whenever we want; anything, any band we like. That’s something to rescue, to appreciate, and I do, I do appreciate it. Wine is gone, time to bed is right here, I’m just taking advantage of the moment alone and get some words for service. Elections here, elections there. I feel like I want to say something about it but I guess it doesn’t get me like it used to, it’s more like I just don’t care. I never got a choice, at least nor there, neither here, but here I am and stand, for my wife, for my mom, and specially for my boy. Dad is in my heart but he’s still there. I hope that time won’t be cruel with us this time. Specially now that the vulnerability has been getting some strength on our hearts, on our faith. We stand strong, still stoical; this is a storm, sun will come tomorrow, to shine, and make us hope for the best with will, will for doing more, doing what it takes, whatever we might need that for. Too much bread, too much flour, it never bothered me before. It’s just this hype that flour and gluten turn into sugar and that is poison for the body. I think sniping someone else’s lives is more poisoning. Comparing oneself with anyone else as reference for what we should or should not do is the real poison. I gain weight as I work out, it’s kind of simple: no work out, more weight, and we set that balance with each day that goes by. It’s up to us, nobody can work out for us. Don’t let the sun go down on me, yes, specially on vulnerable times. Sorry seems to be the hardest word, and perhaps mind your own business, the hardest advice…

 

Advice we get often. Many people love giving advice, especially when it comes from the voice within to sweet their ego, because to be honest, it’s rarely given on some attempt of sympathy, and I kind of get it. Advising has more to do with katharsis than with advice itself. We just need to project it to someone, make that someone a target of our inner voice and disguise it as a sort of care, but it’s not, not really, I mean, and it becomes necessary at some point. Immigrants need to project a lot, in every tense, mostly on past tense. Nobody wants to admit mistakes or, perhaps phrasing it differently; people often find in the action of giving advice a hidden confession of mistakes once made. Yes. I think it is that way. Friday, lazy Friday. I better get a coffee and get back to work too. Saturday afternoon. Cynicism over resentment, I was sort gravitating my thoughts. We must believe in something, someone; careful, it’s risky, I know, but we have to believe, we have to chose to believe, because otherwise we become cynical, and such a pose tends to reveal resentment in disguise. In Venezuela Chavez sold out the idea, in his signatured (I give him that) style, or way, that resentment came up as a consequence of a failed and corrupt system implemented for over forty years, and that’s why there were so many with no chance whatsoever. Chances never came for those people, to be honest, but the idea that those then in power might lose their status over a change of system, got many enchanted enough to transform a promise into disgrace, and the disgrace was the plan since the beginning. Only that we thought it was about verbiage and a matter of procedures, but they; the chavistas in power, they achieved their goal, systematically, and by steps of depth. Now the Venezuelan problem affects the whole continent, and only a few can ignore it. Here I go again, for a Saturday, for a sunny afternoon on a nap time. So back to the resentment, people thought it was fair, and the government made it look that way for perhaps almost ten years, enough time to convince a whole generation of it, then the resentment, once there, once among many, burst into what it has always been: a spoil born out of failure, a failure commonly confused with unjust. There are unjust cases, of course. A society, a social system will always have flaws, but their anger is not because the former system failed them, because they were outcasted from it, not, the anger is for not trying harder, because there was always someone preaching that hard was not fair, and fair was what we deserved. Nos we’re all fairly broken, and many decided to start over elsewhere, and back to the song: here I go again!

 

The war: how difficult is to understand why they come up in modern times. It used to be like, easier to get when it was about territory, power, siege, expansionism, but nowadays, I’m not sure. People claim so lightly that it is over resources, I kind of disagree, I mean, you can just buy them off, out, in perpetuity, all of it, however the case may be. They are all for sale, and it’s much cheaper just to do business rather than destroy a whole place to rebuild it again and take whatever resource you were looking for at first. I don’t think it works out that way anymore. I don’t think it’s about expansionism either, I mean, what’s the use of having more territory, taxes? Again, resources? Come on! It’s too expensive. It has to be something else, something unclear for the commoner, as many other never ever understandable phenomena of the human race. Music fades. Language barrier, that’s how it is called when you can’t make yourself understood. Halfway meeting again. I’m cool with that. Program Information Report. I should focus more on it. I’m about to, but my fingers need some dancing, and this keyboard is pretty much their dance floor. I should get a music keyword and learn how to play it, but I’m going to need a level of abstraction and concentration that right now are impossible to obtain, regardless of what’s within or outside, it won’t matter at this point. We’re getting into a state of splitable thinking and rearranged reasonings, and I’m afraid it will turn perpetual eventually. An empty room and a cell phone to simulate joy, wisdom and lifestyle. Followers of unapplicable opinions. See you soon!