Stubbornness

"It is difficult to determine to what extent (or how far) one should uphold principles that, in one way or another, become tiresome or seem to lead nowhere. The same doubts arise about love, or even desire itself, and it is then that everything becomes clear: the answer is that one has been mistaken about the small matters. Or worse, one inspires someone one doesn't love. That person, of course, isn't interested. And it's not so much because the wrong message is being sent, but because motivation leads to wonder—toward forgiveness, persistence, fighting, and stubbornness. In that stubbornness, the individual asks why others inspire it. Why has he suffered it himself? When she told me she'd slept with my best friend, I wasn't surprised. Or maybe I was, but not because it was with him; I knew from the beginning—just like she did—and I still fell in love with her. The unpleasant surprise was that he was the one who betrayed me. Not her, in the end, since that's just her nature. The frustration is that I couldn't motivate either his loyalty or her fidelity. More than a blow to the ego, it was primarily a blow to my pride. The pleasant surprise was that she told me herself, and that I, not out of foolishness (which is why I think I should look for that Dostoevsky book), but out of what I’d call wisdom, not only gave myself the chance but also gave it to her, and allowed him to remain "my friend." All this until his stubbornness—and what certainly justified his actions—insisted that she be unfaithful to me. And yes, even then, I stayed with her. I fell in love, and I believe she loved me. Even so, when she left me after several years, I expected it, because it's in her nature. Sometimes I miss her, and she doesn't think about me. I don't believe it. Maybe I don't inspire her, and in that respect, my stubbornness doesn't go that far.

It's not merely optimism or resistance, but rather endurance. That same endurance enables a person to withstand the unbearable, including injustice, and even justify it—often for misguided reasons—yet still hold onto hope for something better. It's complicated, as those who attempt to theorize might say, and perhaps they are right. But complexity doesn't justify resignation, even if it tries to explain it. And in that explanation, there is not only comfort; in any case, there are many words that people try to use to explain the inexplicable in terms of acceptance. It was regrettable. The purple flowers weren't enough, and a phone call would have been necessary, even years later, even now. She knew it. She always knew it, and when she decided to do it, it was too late. Suddenly, he realized that fifteen years had already passed. Then twenty, and then it hurt too much to do it, so it became recurrent, constant. His pride, like his youth and his life, was already calling for oblivion to avoid suffering. And him? The interesting thing is that he hadn't been heard from for years. Perhaps he had died and been reborn. Or perhaps when he died, he moved on to something else.

Human beings, citizens, forget how words are arranged so that their emphasis is on survival rather than on living and making a sound. Insistence and survival, life and stubbornness. These are just words that, when put together and in black, create a spectacular contradiction that could define any human being. And because they isolate themselves from others. The citizen, as such, makes the name fade into oblivion, leaving only a license plate, a registration, a number that hardly reveals who is smiling or who is dying of sleep in a city. Perhaps they should have had more sex, but neither she nor he was in the mood to be together, although he might have done it very well. She, however, wanted someone to help her with her accounts. And perhaps with her dreams, but already realized and financed. In exchange for what? No, it wasn't (only) sex, because she wanted that love she had lost at some point. That passion... but... there's always a but, desire overcomes hunger.

It's not hard to imagine that one could go much further and turn that thought into a source of frustration during intimate moments. But that's not the point. In humans, it's about recognizing a recurring pattern or the disappointment itself. Different eras, different people, but the same result. Hence, the importance of not disregarding history; only if, upon consulting it, the human recognizes the pattern and the moment of rupture. So as not to dwell on it. Despite their resignation and the weight of human nature. "It's not loneliness, it's freedom," he said with a touch of irony. But yes, the truth was that every time he arrived home alone, he'd have a glass of old-fashioned Saint Louis-style bourbon, he admitted it. He remembered, however, other trips, other nights, other autumns and summers when he had simply crossed the avenue holding hands with one of them. And that was more than enough. The moment of remembrance ended with sleep."