Lack of Words

"It can be said that language is misused to capture the unsuspecting and uneducated, making them overlook the truly foolish. Debating their absurdities may appear pointless, since the indifferent remain unconcerned, and for those who care, what is left to say? Yet, we might also argue that no words can fully convey the experience when it comes to this separation. There are no words to describe what happens, so it is a time of rupture, for some, decadence, even for the optimists. These are times when optimism is condemned, and unrealistic hope is preferred. Six in the morning on the last Sunday in March. Seven days of spring, snow still high in the mountains, and a bit of laziness, though not due to the time change. The coffee accompanied him, as did the sound of the wind against the windows. The atmosphere was no longer dark, but gray, a touch violet. In that laziness, he thought it was stupid to get up so early on a Sunday, in a time when everything didn't matter, for a long time, and that is part of his extraordinary freedom; he needed words, that lack of words to describe what is happening and to create. It couldn't be said that it was because of their breakup, since it was constant back then. Although perhaps it was, and that explains their strange freedom.

The lack of words is evident. Not being able to describe what happens to those who abuse, but also not being able to truly have the strength to go against the fallacy, against that violent appropriation of real meanings, and even of the obvious and of history. In times when, thanks to technology, the meanings sought in any language are used, communication is possible, but it is standardized communication. Not one that allows men to debate, understand, and construct. But rather one that simply informs and understands orders. Or that a refrain is repeated before a rhythm of civilization that, without being foreign, seems to simplify thinking, leaving only the options of silence or that repetition. He chose to stick with Camus, setting aside that elusive spiritual peace for another day. At the same time, he recognized there were some books he would never revisit, despite their presence. He reflected on those peculiar books, tucked away in places he might never get the chance to return to, not even to say goodbye.  It was not one of his novels, but one of his essays, considered dangerous and soon to be among the banned books. But it would no longer be censorship, but rather cancellation, and it was very easy to impose it in a world of emotions, especially rabid ones. It's a world of rage and frustration. And staying within that passive intimacy of love despite fear and disappointment was a task of the readings. It wasn't the only possible one, and it was imposed by the ones and the others.

Silence is then preferred, given the cowardice of claiming words and the impossibility of creating others or uniting them in a way that describes and creates concepts without definition. Also, because writing or speaking can lend itself to damaging privilege or comfort, even if one believes one has the power or is with those who have the power, that power. The more conspicuous the privilege, the more fragile it is. The more ambiguous the tenses, the more words are snatched and new meanings are absent. It's even complicated to find those that already exist in other languages, because those are either penalized or the idea has been so stale that what is written is not thought of and not even revised. So, the trick lies in playing with this standardization and untraceable expression, finding what's missing in language. Art often manages to do this, even if it's incomprehensible in its time. She was still asleep, and he marveled at her. Later, he would paint her and immortalize her naked back, and how the shadows on it, despite the morning light, told a story that went beyond the previous night together. He only kissed her briefly when he left, and she, still in her sleep, wouldn't honestly notice his absence until many hours later, while drinking coffee alone, half-naked, looking out that window at those northern mountains, the last ones before the sea. The last ones that offered her no protection, nothing. Just meaningless mountains that reminded her that beyond them lay her home. And that far beyond them lay him. And that perhaps, fortunately for her, despite the wonderful nights together, he would never return.

A picture can say over a thousand words, but those words are needed. And that image, or that rhythm, or that something created, conceived, intuited, felt (it could even be improvised or meticulously designed and constructed from reflection and a will that, in the absence of words, could be said to be conscious) will allow us to find or create the words in one of the many languages ​​that humans use. But, beyond art, the fruit of thought and reflection and what could perhaps be called consciousness, also allows us to transcend the environment and describe what would be thought indescribable and recover the meaning of what others (in their fallacy) have taken away. It requires studying and feeling. Knowing and, in a way, going beyond simple existence. He could only say that she wasn't well or mentally ill. He always had been, and he found the words to describe himself as blinded by the longing for love and not really by what she represented. Or yes, the possibility. Still, loving her, as any love implies, also involves a certain mental illness. To be passionate in the midst of frustrations and to feed on them in the face of uncertainty, or rather, in the face of the uncertainty of the continuity of frustration with it, is not praiseworthy. Wait for what will never happen - he said to himself while chewing a bit of coca leaf, passing three thousand meters above sea level, far away from her and from everything that condemned him, he found the words to explain everything, when it was already too late."

Díficil

"Es dificil entender la mentalidad individual ante el abuso masivo. La victimización por un lado, la opresión, el odio y esas ganas absolutas de joder al otro, y mas aun, en tiempos en el que la violencia se disfraza de persecución y se preferiría estar aislado, rodeado de una muralla de montañas, ignorando que lo de los otros, igualmente afecta en lo particular e individual, pues el aire traspasa esas murallas, e igual el odio, la falta de agua, la incomprensión y las frustraciones de los otros.  Esa mentalidad que de una u otra forma hace que una persona se fije sobre otra, solo con el ánimo de joderlo, por las razones personales sensatas o no. Y lo peor, es que si es algo personal, pero esa maldad de un sistema establecido, promulga que no hay que tomarlo personal, cuando si es así.  No debí responder, me lo repito y esta noche no se me permitirá dormir y seguiré con ese temor en este momento, justo cuando debería ser mas fuerte, justo cuando se supone que todo pasado deberá quedar atrás y justo cuando tengo tantos enemigos necesarios para simplemente hundirme por la mas tonta de las estupideces. Lo peor, es que lo hice por ayudar, pensando en que tal vez, ella podría encontrar algún tipo de ayuda. Y no. No se porque tanto odio si de mi parte solo hubo amor. Y ya.  Y ahora, solo el deseo absoluto del olvido, tanto ella de mi, como yo de ella.  Y no se trata de buscar algun tipo de justicia divina o de justicia humana, solo eso, olvido, pues ella se merece eso y si, yo también. Tanto mi amor como cualquier otra acción fue de una vida pasada, y ahora me encuentro, nos encontramos en otra vida, y otras vidas han pasado entre esos años de anhelos y no de realidades y ahora. 

Las creencias religiosas parecieran controlar al individuo y de paso a la masa ante temores, pero también exaltar los abusos ante supuestas elecciones divinas. Por otro lado, las estupideces y tonterías, llevan a consecuencias inesperadas, exageradas que son un reflejo de las ansias de justicia por un lado, pero mayoritariamente de venganza y de mezquindad. ¿Acaso hay algo peor que esa maldad? No. Pues esa misma lleva ser a los humanos miserables y a traer la muerte sobre la vida. Alcanzar esa nada, por encima de todo. Y pensar que algún dia me inspiraste y hoy pienso que ni siquiera debí haberte conocido, pues hoy pienso que el anhelo pudo mas que cualquier realidad y esa mania de querer cambiar el mundo, de hacerte el amor de mi vida, en una vida que terminó en fracaso y llevó a la miseria las subsecuentes. Podría decir que así le paga el diablo a quien bien le sirve, siguiendo la palabrería del pueblo, y vinieron otras tantas vidas hasta la de ahora, en la que a pesar de todas los renacimientos, apareces y el aire seco de ese desierto y mortal simplemente me atrapa, al parecer sin ni siquiera tener la esperanza de una partida en paz. ¿Acaso no sera posible, otras vidas sin siquiera recordar un sortilegio de tus nombres? Es difícil, pero alguien como tu, no merece el olvido, sino un constante recuerdo para no volver a caer en el presente, ante los maleficios del pasado, en esta selva.

Afortunadamente están los valientes.  Los reales. Y por otro lado, la posibilidad de partir, para algunos, de irse mas allá de cualquier realidad mientras la noche misma exista, para no caer ante la denuncia y la maldad de una masa alimentada por ese odio y por el miedo. Los valientes, se enfrentan en minoría y sus principios son tan loables que transforman positivamente la vida y la realidad. Es una fortuna que se cuente con ellos, a pesar de la violencia de los agresivos y opresores, pues como se ha escrito por muchos, esa cooperación en favor de un objetivo común, puede mas que cualquier bloque destructor. Aquella tarde al zarpar, sentía un poco de amargura sobre sus adioses y sobre como la gente del puerto ni siquiera tomó en cuenta su presencia o mas bien, su último pasaje por el muelle. Años después, al recibir aquellas noticias, pensaba que deseaba realmente ser olvido, no ser participe ni siquiera del chisme, o de la leyenda, al fin de cuentas su existencia era otra, sus amores, aquello que compartía pues aquello que había vivido y que aunque por mucho tiempo no se arrepintió y hoy lo hacia pues le hizo perder tiempo, años y no le dejó algún aprendizaje, lo perseguía y él, esperando algo, había dicho que aun respiraba. -Es una mierda - se dijo mientras deseaba, mientras miraba la aurora boreal, ser olvido. 

La culpabilidad genera preocupación en algunos y en otros simplemente orgullo. ¿La responsabilidad? Solo en aquellos que realmente toman conciencia de sus actos, pero también, si hay que nombrarlos de alguna manera, se convierten en el foco de aquellos que quieren oprimirlos y destruirlos, porque la propia existencia de esos responsables, empáticos e intelectuales, les recuerda que la consciencia humana es mas importante que la supuesta voluntad divina. En esa culpabilidad, en esa responsabilidad, es difícil encontrar la tranquilidad necesaria para mantenerse por encima de cualquier acción de destrucción. El individuo lo sabe y aquello que busca oprimir esa individualidad, se aprovecha de ello. Aquellas obras pintadas con su supuesta belleza estaban en tierras extrañas y olvidadas. Donde deberían estar, sin recordar si quiere su nombre y el del autor. Alguna vez, en tiempos del futuro, alguien descubrió que se trataba de él, pintor y de ella, inspiración. ¿Pero como podría inspirar alguien tan miserable? El anhelo. Es difícil, incluso cuando el deseo mismo es también algo imaginado y no real. Tal vez fue su cuerpo, tal vez la posibilidad, o tal vez el momento en el cual, con esa necesidad de escapar, se aferró a algo inexistente que solo esas pinturas y una que otra canción de tristeza que se escribió después, podrían explicar. Si él viviera, preferiría que jamas se hubiera descubierto en aquellas pinturas ni su autoría, ni el nombre de ella."

Réciprocité

"Il est vrai que la compréhension est excessivement fatigante lorsque la réciprocité n’existe pas. Et au fil du temps, cet individualisme des autres permet simplement de mieux comprendre que on marche malgré leur égoïsme, de manière partagée. Mais c'est fatiguant. Car il s’avère que cette vision n’était pas partagée. Et ce n’est pas seulement une question de supposition, comme cela est également communiqué à maintes reprises, mais l’individu (oui) est tellement habitué à son confort et à son obligation envers les autres, entre ses prières et ses règles, qu’en réalité, à moins qu’il ne recherche un gain, ou quelque chose, cette réciprocité, ce partage est inexistant. -Bonjour, merci de votre compréhension. Et après mon silence. -Je suis en réunion, mais je peux lire. Et avant, je lui demande comment elle va. -Prof, j'aimerais vous demander votre aide... - et très vite ma réponse (et mon aide). -J'ai besoin d'une grande faveur de ta part.... Et c'était il y a quelques semaines seulement, quand elle me tutoyé. -Et maintenant, je suis dans une autre chose... - et avant, juste je l'ai demandé comme elle va. Et maintenant le silence. Demain il sera encore une fois comme je pourrais le répondre et l'aider et le désirer bonjour. Et alors, il n'y a pas le droit à penser sur la réciprocité. -Bonjour, merci de votre compréhension. Et après mon silence.

C'est un peu triste de voir comment la haine et la frustration prennent le dessus en masse sur quelque chose sur lequel on s'attend à ce qu'il soit travaillé individuellement. Mais ce n’est pas vrai, car en tant qu’êtres sociaux que sont les humains, ces problèmes ne peuvent pas être traités de manière isolée, et en ne le faisant pas et en les individualisant, ils deviennent plus profonds, et la déception et la tristesse grandissent. Et avec, l'haine que déjà fait parti des discours même sans le dire. -Je ne lui ai jamais demandé de faire ça. De plus, je vois l’amitié différemment. et oui, c'était tout. Et c'est ce qui restait. Aucun respect. Aucune loyauté. Dans tous les cas, c’est une question de commodité et d’opportunité, entre amis d'un pays que cela ne vaut même pas la peine de revenir, seulement d'émigrer et de vouloir émigrer. Un pays où il n’y a pas de devoir de mémoire, seulement l’espoir du résultat de cet investissement (monétisé). Là-bas, au pays des pirates, mais je ne suis plus assez vieux pour supporter autant de rhum. 

La vérité est que dans une société mentalement chargée, il est très facile de devenir désillusionné et déçu, en raison de ce silence et du manque de dialogue, de conversation et de vision partagée. L’humanité a oublié que c’est cette vision partagée qui lui a permis de réaliser de grandes choses, et non sa cupidité et sa religion. Et dans cet empressement à satisfaire la cupidité individuelle, les gens ont même menti aux autres, sans comprendre que ce qui a vraiment de la valeur n’a pas de prix commercial. Mais si cette valeur du temps, de l'espace et de la vie elle-même. où la motivation est réciproque (et non une monnaie d’échange), et l’inspiration peut être à sens unique, mais appréciée, sans l’excuse qu’elle n’a jamais été demandée. Cela fait plusieurs années que elle est resté silencieuse, depuis la dernière fois (après sept occasions précédentes), que elle m'as demandé un faveur. Et je pourrais dire que j'espère toujours qu'elle me recontacte, pour quelque chose comme ça. Mais cela n'a pas d'importance. Cela n’a plus d’importance car il n’y a rien de plus lourd que de se souvenir de ce qui est oublié.... et plusieurs chanteurs d'opéra et auteurs-compositeurs l'ont dit, rien n'est plus difficile que de se rappeler que je dois t'oublier.

Heureusement, il y a ceux qui écoutent et ceux qui parlent dans la société du bruit et du silence. La contradiction même entre ce qui est crié sans raison et la misère de rester silencieux, car même si l'on a beaucoup à dire, on n'a même pas la force de murmurer. Il y a ensuite l’art et les points de vue que la connaissance en général transmet. Il n’est pas nécessaire d’attendre, mais il n’est pas nécessaire non plus d’arrêter de le faire. Il n’y avait pas besoin de dire ou d’attendre quoi que ce soit. C'est le triomphe de l'apathie. Ni souvenir ni désir, juste laisser passer l'après-midi gris alors que même la musique n'accompagne pas le moment. -Que fais-tu ? et deux jours plus tard la réponse. Et puis une onomatopée. Ou une émoticône. Ou un emoji. Ou simplement quelque chose que quelqu'un d'autre a créé pour que le manque de mots et de motivation puisse être comblé, au moins en disant plus rien en guise de réponse."

Life.That Life.

"Regarding fear, it remains unclear whether the critical issue is the fear of losing life or the comfort of living. However, it is evident that fear intersects with laziness and indifference. This constant noise exemplifies that: it evokes fear for those who notice it for the first time, while it leads to fatigue and apathy in those who have become accustomed to it, turning it into a mere background hum. Both aspects are unsettling, as in a state of decay, they ensure total subservience and the cessation of life following the degradation of that life. Even though they seem to be content with existence alone. He hadn't been able to read her well. And he felt a little frustrated. The second night, according to her, he was close, but he didn't feel disappointed, but rather curious. Why are there people afraid of a woman like her? Maybe because of machismo. Or maybe because they are not capable of listening and feeling. Tasting; smelling. Yes, her aroma, he thought of her and then of the coffee. It was strange. It hadn't been more than three nights, and he already missed her. Meanwhile, she was naked, looking at the sea with a glass of wine in her left hand, and her sex was receiving his right hand. - it was close - she thought. And she hadn't held back. He was an excellent lover. Only seconds were missing, and thinking about that, she had her orgasm, dropping the glass and spilling that red wine on those Italian tiles.

Some see time as something that will pass, and everything will improve. Optimism, as in a joke, is not revolutionary in times when faith and hope guarantee oppression. However, in the same joke, it is possible to think that useless mass (because it is not even useful for the oppressors) could be the perfect accumulation of desires so that at least, being there and recognizing their frustrations, they accompany those who have decided to rebel. They are not expected to think about anything beyond their own selfishness. But yes, that by accompanying this oppression, they will soon cease to exist. Their life. It is life. Life, that life simply will not even be a memory since they have been taught to forget just the same. Uselessness, like stupidity, can favor consciousness because it is the majority, not ignorance. They, the imbeciles, know, and yet, between their pettiness and fear, they receive those exhausting cries that generate hyperviolence. The ignorant can always learn and expect liberating actions from them if cultural decadence does not turn them into idiots. He couldn't see anything, and although the fall was very strong and he didn't understand why he couldn't balance himself, he understood the relationship between his sight and the surroundings. The wind, the snow, and the empty space that surrounded him. A few meters ahead, he saw his glasses spinning in the wind; he approached as best he could, retrieved them, and put them on. He laughed. They were completely covered in frost. He glanced at the thermometer on his wrist, which read -8°C. Leaning back slightly, he listened to the sound of the wind while cleaning his glasses with whatever he could find. He didn't feel scared, but he did feel cold. So, when he stood up and began to slide again, he could already see the tip of his board after descending about five hundred meters. He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes had passed since his fall and about three since he resumed his descent. The good thing about not being able to see, he said, was that the speed was maximum. But he could see again, and although the wind was still strong, the cloud cover had dropped to two thousand eight hundred meters, and now, at two thousand two hundred, he felt satisfied. Alone. But satisfied. Life—he said—life, that life.

In all this, the thinking minority believes deconstruction is impossible and is time for a rupture. But the rupture is uncomfortable for the majority, hence their staunch defense. It is about comfort, not community, even when certain words are used. They are demonized and go against the efficiency of thought and the silence imposed in the face of programmed noise. So, without optimism, what could there be to think of as a humanity that fights (not resists) decadence? Without a doubt, the consequences of a reflection are based on knowledge and not superstition. An individual who does not think remains more selfish and understands that as a human being, he is a community-based, social, and thinking person. She had understood too late that he loved her. And even more so now, that he really loved her, because that love had remained in that past time, not now. While she was simply useful for desire. How many years? Many. And he had realized that, despite everything, he had already noticed that time was transforming his body and mind. What will become of him?. But asking herself these questions went against what she had labeled as emancipation, even though it was really a transaction between her body and the men who had provided for and sponsored her. She didn't try to talk. This year's man was only interested in her orgasms, moans, and ejaculations in her chest. Not listening to her. Occasionally, he would show her off, and while she was at home, he would look for another lover until she got tired. But his words? Maybe to worship or ask him for money and feel like he possesses her. In the past - it was said - how they sought my voice and marveled at my way of talking about the world.

That crowd will be helpful at some point, like the mountains that are a wall and defense. Ideas and history will create, and ultimately, like someone who thinks of destiny, life will prevail. At the same time, humanity itself (which will live) will find it challenging to save itself despite the apparent decline foreseen just a few years before. It is not an obvious question, no. But it is about that intellectual minority and those who want to learn, find a way to communicate, and achieve prevalence and transcendence. Optimism may seem like a joke, but the truth is that all this evolution and the construction of a civilization cannot fall under the fire generated by the stupidity of simple popularity. Mankind, in its pride and arrogance, loves life and being able to contemplate it. It wants to transform and emancipate itself, despite those who say it destroys as a species, and that is not true. It is the individuals and not the whole of humanity.  He had slept like he hadn't been able to for a long time, but wasn't it a good idea to do so at the end of time? He thought of her scent. Of her scent, not just hers, but of all the scents he had ever encountered in his life. And then he remembered how that scent had become the taste of his lips and his body. He shuddered. And then, upon receiving the aroma of coffee, he thought it was time to transform that scent into taste. And he took it to himself. And drank it."