I have never lived my time to the fullest. As if I didn’t want to understand, keeping distant, shut up in my own beliefs. Always with one foot facing backwards. I have never wanted to fully understand the link with my time, the things that happened every day, because I constantly felt the need to discover more. As if the present was defective and unable to give me responses, to answer my wishes. This went on for almost twenty years. And everything flowed as if life were a movie screened at the cinema, witnessed with lazy detachment and resentment towards those who were able to live their lives.
Of that time now, wasted oh so unnecessarily, I only remember how it sickened me to watch the days passing by and feeling increasingly detached from the outside, as if my life was limited and contained within a transparent globe. As if between me and the right moment there was always a slight time zone, and it was always against me. Y asi pasan los dias (Nat King Cole)
All it took was a breath of air between myself and the time I was living in, for me to live my years without care. And with time, suddenly, one feels the need to see things die. To see them filled to their brink, with time, until they enter another dimension, even though they remain here. I was looking at everything from a safe distance, as sympathy had proven to be a highly destructive disease! Watching things die and finding in their death the morbid confirmation that I live. Yes, I live while everything else, everything that was before, is only here to remind us of what it was. I was late in realizing that everything is a potential warning to not underestimate this particular condition that we call life. But I have wasted time, and now the days are getting shorter.
And then everyone keeps on doing what they think they should be doing. Even with no regards on how to do it: it doesn’t matter if it becomes inductive and mechanical. That’s how this fictitious realizy is created, made of paper, rich and complex as the passing of time. I have often asked myself what I wanted from life. The answer contained a range of lucid certainties, but altogether was too tepid and vague. That’s because I was the one asking the question and answering it at the same time; and to time I was subduing my anxiety of living and of doing.
I remember very well the moment I let go of everything, went home and laid down to rest. I had nothing more to tell myself. No more common ground was left between my needs and my thoughts. I felt like a radio station out of tune, needing to be readjusted. Lying in bed, I went back to a few hours before, to what I had felt right before I gave up and resigned myself; confused and dulled by my surroundings, exasperated by my not-quite-certain right to live, and by that carelessness I felt. It was time to decide who I was and what I wanted; I had come to a new and changed awareness that all things are connected to each other as if they were a single thing.