Let’s try to
break this down: a bad moment has triggered an old failure I thought I forgot.
I was wrong. It actually floated up as the drinking was getting me. So I
remember not wanting to. Next act I spitted it all like a mind vomiting. Alcohol
does that too. Now I have this failure moment attached to the recent bad news I
got. They are now related. So the news is processed and stored in my head labeled
as I failed, when I first thought that
they were unfair at me. Was it a good experience? I really don’t know. I have
to keep thinking about it. I have to think about it while not drinking,
otherwise I’ll get back to it as an endless spiral, or until time and oblivion
do what they do. I exist as I think. I have neighbors, I know other Venezuelans
who try hard as immigrants. We have
chosen a destiny in which we have to prove our worth to be accepted, understanding that such acceptance comes with
a judgement, and such judgement may undermine our true worth, or at least the
concept we have of it. It makes this whole experience tough, but tough is also the life we left
behind. Do we exist? Do they exist? When
do we realize of our existence? When it hurts, or when it bothers us? I don’t
add happiness because probably that’s the one we save for ourselves, for our own amusement. Nap time. I’m hungry. I wish I could save
moments like this forever. After crying
like a little girl out of impotence,
this is very comforting. My spot, my silence, my thoughts fighting one
another to be served here, without any order consideration. Sunday afternoon
with no music for now. The toilet is making its own noise with no previous
flushing. I wonder. The night is
greeting from the window I am next to. There is a door right beside it that
takes you to the balcony. It is the kind
of those that has a glass-wood combination style. It is broken on one side, by
the way. Maintenance said it is already ordered, but it’s been a couple of
months since I reported it. Anyway. I was having a peaceful moment that today I
just forgot. It’s Monday now. It’s early.
It's still dark. I dreamed at lot last night. I was in Caracas, always
in Caracas, my Caracas. I was there but
I wasn’t, really. It was not a memory. It was some weird present time with myself
there walking through the streets as I remember, only that somehow I was
conscious that I didn’t live there. I couldn’t tell if it was a trip what I
dreamed about. I just remember being
there, hanging around; explaining the difference between both places: here and
there. I could sense some sort of resentment. Now I kind of understood that it
was my resentment, the one I hide
because I feel ashamed of it. I’m home now, wondering. I saw something good on
social media. It turns out that Dr. Kanoche is going to have a movie.
Caracas, if I haven’t said it already,
is a valley. There is a big mountain that surrounds a good part of the
city. That mountain is called cerro el Avila, despite
Chávez insistence to change its name. Deep in the mountain lies a
mansion, as far as I can remember, the
mansion is named the ruins of Kanoche. According to the story, he was a doctor
that learned how to mummify corpses. I would enjoy that movie when I get the
chance to watch it. I just watched Simón, the movie. It summarizes a lot of we’ve been
through, a lot of what we thought then.
I was already an adult when the story told took place but I saw a lot of what’s
told there. Good movie. You can tell why we have become in the biggest exodus
of western culture. Modern times have a different meaning to Venezuelan. Modern
times is story of unwanted farewells and a tough adaptation. This is us. This is us now. God bless us all!
The day has gone by quiet, with no complaints so far. That’s good. I like
quiet. There is an engine that makes everything shake in the house, I believe is
the air conditioning system. The glasses tell everyone about it. Everyone on
their on social media: searching; searching the endless search. A search turned
into a finger movement I call scrolling. Thumbs work out more than the people
who hold them. I am no different; my thumb is the one serving these lines. I’m
listening to Soen while I can see the orange through the window resisting
the farewell of blue. The night is coming.
Time to go to bed. Time for artificial light. Trees remain trees still. They’re
getting ready to become shadows. Birds are looking for shelter. I have to do
something about this wasp nest that is growing at the balcony. Wednesday. Work
hours. Inventory. Sadness never asks for permission. Sadness never cares if we are busy. It only
takes a phrase, a simple phrase of impotence,
of disappointment, even just a
phrase of a satisfaction still unmet, to, to low your enthusiasm and lose any
expectations from the day. Sun is not shining anyway. Not now at least. I woke
up hopeful, thankful. Only not strong enough to bear the bitterness of any
economic insight that reminds me how far I am from solvency, and that this is
one more day of hanging in there, with no other expectation than hoping not to
get worse, because it’s much easier to go worse. Hope must be adapted I guess. Let’s
get back to work. I thought I get a little, anything at the very least from
doing this. It hasn’t happened yet. Not while these words are taking place and
we are about to be 67.000 words work. I’m not planning to quit or whatever, but
the necessity of resources is putting stupid ideas in my head and I feel like I
want to write them down. One of them is to go back to Venezuela: better be poor
there than here. I have to give it a second thought. I’m tired. I’m tired of
being this way. I’m thinking about Galeano’s horizon: too many steps and
it’s still far away. I’m not even losing weight from it. On the contrary, my
belly grows as worried I get, and I’m worried on daily basis. I’m grateful too.
Let’s keep going. Algún culo echa sangre, we colloquially say back
there. Not yet, only not yet… but it will! I can feel it.
