On Now’s Efforts, or Lost Thoughts in Cold Water

Now it will be different. Now, every question will not burden us with the necessity of the answer, on the contrary — questioning life will be, by itself, a simple exercise of existing. The link between our beginning and the end of the world will be as light as the dust of the stars, and so I say because we are made of such dust, and you may ask me: are we, then, light? That you can keep on questioning me, but remember: a question is just a question until we know the answer. Long live thinking! Long live my doubts that make me grow old beyond the invisible wrinkles of a youth that, by being lost, lies within itself (long live the millennials!), long live the small steps we take as we walk into the abyss, and long live the abyss because now, it is our only way out — long live, therefore, our union, which makes us weary of the darkness that engulfs us (the beauty of inebriated hearts is powerful). Long live life! Live your life.

The more we connect, the more I feel that the bond between our beings is languishing; the seconds are no longer the perfect measure to try to establish a point of intersection of my senses with your senses — in fact, we don’t have to spend too much energy with this task, since what binds us is also what breaks us. My senses tell me that the answer to any and all questions is empathy; for a nanosecond yours also talk about the same thing, but soon after, the Earth changes its position and my heart no longer has the necessary strength to continue clinging to yours, without giving up, without fear. And we must continue to live: wanting to give up, feeling our veins freeze with fear, it doesn’t matter. One thing we can agree on — we need to learn how to accept that our times are not accurate, our planets don’t rotate in the same orbit, and yet they depend on the same sunlight. We agree to agree on something, only to feel close to a purpose of such existence. What I desire for us, once again, is that life can continue to take our breath away so that we can continue to fight it. Your existence takes my breath away, and I like it, after all.

My grandmother holds my hands tightly, and talks about how time has not yet passed for me, and how cruel time was with her. She tells the time by using her wrinkles and the calluses of her fingers, I tell the same time by using the prayers I do every night for her 80 years of age to become 90, to become 100. She says: time dries our hands, and dries even more the hands of mothers who are suffering. Grandma, it is inevitable that time will turn our hands into true maps, and that the veins that leap into the skin that grabs the bones, without the flesh that time has already consumed, will become the lines that will limit the stories we’ll have to tell. No other wrinkle elsewhere in the body, says wisdom, is as painful as the dryness of hands, because the hands always want to produce, and the same wisdom fears not being able to continue to create its roots in the very heart of its own history, if the hands start to fail. That is why I pray for any deity, I pray for clarification enough to discern the empty productivity from the true creation of the senses of our lives.

I imagine modern humor as a dead-end cave, in which we are steadily entering. In the beginning, the darkness and humidification of enclosure create a feeling that will suffocate us, which ends quickly when our curious minds begin to question the reasons and motives for us to be there. And since we never found the answer, we spent a good amount of time inside the cave trying to understand the wave of petty feelings that invade us. Only after we get enough of the uncertainty of darkness do we decide to try to find a way out of it without realizing that we only have the same door that we used to enter it. It’s a vicious cycle: this cave has and has no end, and when it seems to us that we are definitely closer to finding the exit, we discover a new type of bright crystal in a boulder in the deepest left corner of the hole, we are excited by the discovery, and we get lost in the immensity of doubts again. It’s upon our hearts to be drunk with uncertainty, only to numb our pains. Sometimes I lose hours inside my cave, sometimes the hours I lose with you inside your hiding place pass us by so fast that it seems like a few minutes. Sometimes I wonder if there will ever be the perfect convergence that we so desire for our times.

Now it won’t be so different — the same Sun will rise in a new day, and because of its timid rays due to the storm that is always lurking, we won’t find time to read all the books we would like to read, to drink every gallon of coffee we would like to drink, to dream all the dreams of love that we’re still allowed to dream without paying for them. They say youth dies as we sell all the cells of our bodies for the price of survival. At least for one thing, I can thank you: I still see the dreams alive in your beloved fallen eyes.

Patch your wings, eat your protein: for real, I don’t know what will become of us now.