Funny human beings, as though we knew what we’re doing.

Did you really think that you control yourself, that you’ll never do it again, that you know where your place is?

You’ll never do it again, of course, who would dare say you would? We are funny human things. Like we believe to have control upon the things we say, the things we do, the things we fear. Of course you said it, and you meant it, that you would never ever dare do it again, think about it again, fall again, think again, go again, straight up.

So cautious that you were.

Funny little things. That walk upon the earth crawling and rolling and forgetting. Forgetting, that it wasn’t me who promised never again. Like never, ever.

Never again? Hands up, you move in circles, star on your forehead, now you know.

You know, that you are a funny thing. You know, that you will always forget. You know, that you will not fulfill forgotten promises.

You will learn to forgive yourself.

P.S. And I, by the way, will never ever again lecture everyone as to what the philosophy of life is (if I, funny thing, don’t forget what I just said!)

Tell me what kind of coffee you like and I’ll tell you what kind of person you are. Tell me what kind of writer you are, and I’ll tell you what kind of person you would like to be.
Who told you dreams do not define you?

I once told you about the process of making coffee. Like you put water and then coffee and then you heat it and wait until coffee’s done.
I never told you about the process of writing. Like you put thoughts into words and then you reread it and wait until the feeling comes.
Who told you writing is about meaning?

It was a nice evening in a nice restaurant with nice people and everyone was smoking and drinking coffee, like we were all one and we all loved each other and we were all wide awake.
It was a cold night, full of loneliness and possibilities and you were going forward and letting out words as they came to mind. The few words that you wrote had so much meaning. While you were all asleep.
Who told you you cannot write your history when you are dreaming?

If dreams define us and dreams are feelings and dreams are histories, then it is the histories and the feelings about those histories what really define us.
So unreal that they are.

With milk and sugar for me please, a bit cold even.

Pictures are biased representations of reality, the substitutes of lost memories. A cheap attempt, a briefly cheap one, to reproduce what we try not to forget, or what we have already forgotten. An attempt to make things better, happier, sunnier, prettier. A faint unsuccessful attempt to make ourselves believe that those pictures are reality and that reality is ours and that we are someone else happier and funnier and smiling who has never seen the rain. Let the others raise an eyebrow with jealousy and envy us for our happiness. So perfect that we are.

How I wished I were you, with that bright smile on your face, you, so pretty and happy and perfect and shiny.

Pictures, then, pictures are the construction of a new reality, rather than the representation of an old one. The capturing of a single instant from a single perspective by a single eye at a particular location. And the grimace, not even real. One’s always smiling for pictures, no good sample of reality. I’ve always hated pictures myself, like you lose the present moment in an attempt to try and have a written memory, a fake one, for the future. Like you miss up on the present for the future, for a future constructed upon the past, a fake one. No good future can be constructed upon a fake past. So far away that it will be.

How you wished you were me, with all those sunny places and people, hat on the head, hand in hand, so happy that I was.

Pictures, after all, pictures are a substitute for relevance. The image of all those things for which we need an image, a written one. For otherwise one would not remember them. Pictures, then, pictures are a substitute for relevance. Either something is relevant or you’d better take a picture, not that it faints with time and you lose yourself on the way. The concretion of abstract thoughts in a faint fake attempt to tell yourself that the things you have seen and the people you have met and the places you have been to are relevant. If they were, mind you, if they were your memory would keep them. No need for paper.Words and thoughts and times and spaces written on paper.

How she wished she were I, with a real past and no troubled future and no need to lie to herself. Handkerchief in the hand, green cheek, pictures in the bin.

Door shut, paper red. It will be sunny out there.

Dear all,

I want to tell you something about maths and myths and fire. Maths, because they are something you can calculate. Myths, because there is no way to trace them, never trust destiny. Fire? What one feels like when you try to calculate the untraceable. Like you are on fire when you try to see maths on coincidence. Coincidence, the untraceable, life, myth, ever.

It seems to me that this is a land of wanna-be-maths. Like one refuses to be human and distorted and ambiguous and contradictory and always needs to calculate the answer. Not that this is a particular land no no never dare say so. Like I am talking about a land as in a globe, like altogether and the same. If one could only admit that what we reach and what we have is a matter of coincidence, the result of a finely woven spider web with no master to direct the sense of the threads, then we would stop calculating and being mad at ourselves for doing so when we do or for not doing so when we don’t and we’d just let go.

Three and four are just an equation.

It was a long long time ago, when kings and queens and princesses built up castles in the air and it was snowing. When the people of this land started to believe in numbers and facts and objectivity and reality. The more they believed in reality, the more theirs would be blurred. Sawing till dawn, myths disappeared. Things were all clear by then, all clear and calculated and exact and science was born.

If you don’t believe in fairies and stories and dreams and thoughts and desires but all you do is believe in neat facts, crystal clear, in the things which you can have an influence upon and you can calculate, then you might as well burn your fears and hopes and snow. What you want to be is much more worth it than what you are. But remember, no master for the spider web. You are your own master.

It defines you better. Forgotten stories of childhood crying out loud to be remembered, in case you were afraid to read them. In the end, what we are, is a mixture of facts and dreams, of maths and myth, of asleep fire. Maths, myth, fire.

What defines us. I guess.

IT WAS LIKE, like walking on paper. Not that paper is bad no no. Just that it was a bit, you know, a bit dry. You know like those dry books that you read and never tell you anything. I was just like, you know, like waiting for the word to appear which would tell me what it was all about. So, back to what is relevant. Relevant things, mind you, relevant things are never what they seem to be. Like they change any time you look at them or even disappear. The worst thing, when they appear. If only I knew what this all means.

IT SEEMED LIKE, you know, like you were walking on a foreign country. Even the red leaves made you feel afraid. Not that you did not know, that you would find a different texture here. Like you had been waiting. Waiting, for the crack of those leaves to frighten you. You, who had been warned of what might go wrong. Wrong, if you are corageous enough to leave the womb and face new things. Things, that are waiting for you to be discovered in that new land with a new name which might eventually become yours.

IT APPEARED LIKE, maybe, like you had been trying to find your roots where you do not belong to. Like, you know, like you are never happy with what you have so, why not go further? You walk in zig-zag and realize, after all, that it was not a question of space but of time. Time will put you on your place, no wonder. Now tell me which is the superordinate axe, no doubt. Doubting, that you would become one. One, within the place which was waiting. Waiting, to teach you a lesson. Lesson, which you did not know. Knowledge, that is required for the application. Application, that is written on the red leaves of the new path you are walking.

Let the path begin.

I find it funny that someones life can be summarized on a piece of paper. Like you can squeeze all your feelings and thoughts and experiences and the people you’ve met and the things which you have done, and those which you would like to do, into a tiny little space. Tiny little space, space that is supposed to define you. Try and have a shiny attractive paper with you, otherwise they won’t accept you. Mind you, all lines of the paper should be covered. Not that they think you have wasted your time doing nothing. You need to be productive.
Applications are that, life on paper. Half-truths which define, who you need to be rather than who you are. It stresses so much, one never knows what they want to hear. And deadlines? Well deadlines are there to be fulfilled I guess, they are like the deadline defining who you were and who you will have to be, once you are accepted. Since you promised. One always needs to know what one has written on paper, not that it turns out that you are not the person who they thought you would be. Curricula, applications, certificates, recommendations. Does that really say something about you?

Go here, come back, get a signature, go take a stamp, send the documents, you are done. Bureaucracy, mind you, bureaucracy is also an art. Without that art, the art of putting down on paper your life and making it shiny, that art is what really counts. It is like having a new pair of shoes. Bad quality, yet shiny. Much better than an old pair of shoes shouting they need some repairing, good quality. If you see what I mean. Summarizing your life onto a paper then, and making it look appealing, is what will take you far. I f that is your intention, of course, never dare to say that is the priority. Never dare be modest. Only if you are not.

Nothing’s for ever.

Ever is actually a human construct, one of the numerous tangible consequences of our god complex. Ever, then, ever does not exist, well just the word and its sense, but not the reference. Let me explain you this. Imagine the word “night”. Its sense is “part of the day+after the hour X+associated to darkness, etc”. And its reference is the actual night, or AN actual night, so the thing (concrete or abstract) itself. Well then, once this is clear, you see why I think that ever does not exist really, that it has no reference in the real (whatever real means) world? I repeat, just because nothing is for ever.

So, by ever, I mean nothing.

Everything changes, my mother said, everything changes and people do not realize it when they worry about something. My mother is wise, very wise. I do not think being wise just comes with age. This is an apology for going with the flow, no good trend nowadays. If nothing is for ever, because everything changes, why should we worry then? Those who do not worry are said to not care.

How much I envy them.

Now look at the other side of the coin. If you stop worrying about things because you do not believe in ever-ness, then you are giving up. You have given up worrying or trying to change things just because “oh well they will change so why should I care?” But the truth is that precisely because nothing is for ever, because we do not have that much time and we need to make the most of it, that things need to be changed, so do not dare stop worrying and thinking and trying and perfectionating the nose of that ice sculpture which you made last year. Do it now before it melts.

Or you’ll regret it when the sun comes.

It was all a question of knowing.
Knowing, that it was all a question of thinking.
Thinking, that you had to change things.
Things, that are waiting for you to wait too long and change themselves.
Not that you try to change them when the deadline’s over.

I find it funny every time German people look at me with a weird yet welcoming smile when they see me all dressed up in colours. Not that Spaniards are not amazed at the fact that I know that there are more colours to the world than black, white and all shades between them no no. Rather like they show me a happy smile because they have identified me as being a Spaniard. Same thing for Spaniards smiling at Germans wearing flip flops with socks. We all smile at people who we can identify I guess although, to be honest, I think it’s rather a question of smiling to ourselves, so good we are that we can put a stick on others’ faces, so smart that we are. I am so proud to be myself. And to be able to exactly know what others are like, it’s so obvious! Can’t you see it?
Red and green and knowing with a smile.
You think it’s funny that Spaniards always arrive late and you laugh at me. Of course I know that that is my culture and that I have no reason for being late just because I was born were I was born. No tautology no no, only as far as an equation can also be said to be one. Of course there is a kind of acceptance as to everything which I do which, so to say, belongs to my culture. But that is no convincing reason. Don’t you dare allow me everything just because you were expecting it. Things can actually change. Things are in fact changing. Can’t you feel it?
One and twenty-four and sixteen minutes late. Before she had waited.
We are cliché human beings. Thanks god (dess ) (es ) ( us ). Otherwise we could not be social beings, maybe then we could not be humans either. Not that our social character is what defines us most no no. Or maybe, now that I think about it, maybe yes. Yes yes of course, it is that what defines us most. Social thoughtfulness and mindlessness thanks to which we can identify others and ourselves in opposition and our culture and our particular pickiness. We are, definitely, different species. Yet we all belong to one. Not that I want to make this a claim for difference or equalness or national, local or whatever kind of pride, or the opposite. Rather like the contrary. And, if I include both sides of the dichotomy in opposition to what I call the contrary, then I am denying both sides of it, and everything in between, the mere construction of such dichotomy, the mere fact of talking about difference and lack thereof and pride or lack thereof and all that discourse of which I am a bit bored. It is all a question of learning. Learning that we need to stop teaching others. Can’t you hear it?
You and me and us and millions and one.
Remember to forget for once your glasses.

Call it deadlock, call it impasse. Call it what you will, the metaphor still remains the same.
Sometimes, then, sometimes it is not a question of language. Sometimes it is not even a question of perception or of the expression of that perception or of the perception and interpretation of that expression. Sometimes, then, again, sometimes it is just a question of volume. Of the volume, not of the tone, of the volume of the things which accumulate on your way and which prevent you from walking further. If you cannot walk further, you might as well fall backward, always the same old story. Not that the ice gets thicker and you slip on your way and fall backwards no no. I am talking of the snow which gets thicker and which (un)fortunately allows you to think “oh well I cannot go further, I really do not want to make the effort of having to jump or do a half-circle and walk around no no too much of an effort”. Of course, you’d rather just turn backward.
First deadlock: laziness, social acceptance. If you tried to move in circles, like in locks, you’d see that that movement was not in vain, not even if your point of departure was the same as that of arrival. Those locks would tell you you’re not dead.
Like a deadlock.

Call it acceptance, call it stupidity. The metaphor of immobility still remains the same.
Sometimes, then, sometimes it is not a question of concept. Sometimes it is not even a question of the construction of that concept. That construction usually tells you more about how you would like to be rather than about who you are. The how is then normally foreign-bound and who you are is yourself-bound. If you are not foreign to yourself of course, otherwise the dichotomy falls apart. It is precisely when that dichotomy falls apart, when one realizes that you know yourself yet you are foreign to that unknown part within you, it is then that one overcomes the second kind of impasse, of deadlock. Not that your neural ice gets so thick that you say to yourself “oh well the ice wall within my brain has gotten so high that I cannot climb it any more”. Of course, you say to yourself, if the wall is that high there is a reason, that is just the way you are and you know. You know, you think, you know that because that is who you are. But not who you’d like to be. Not that you begin to climb the ice wall and fall in the middle of the way. No wounds to cure no stains to clean no snow to redden. White and red were never good friends anyway.
Second deadlock: self-authority, self-arrogance and voluntary erasing of all those stains and stands and stills and stones that you throw against yourself because you deny them yet you are sure of them. If you tried to climb the wall you’d see that the shadow of yourself , waiting on the other side of the ice wall, also belongs to you. One always locks that dead shadow so that it doesn’t come bother us with its knowledge anyway. A lock for the dead shadow, a lock for the dead, so that it doesn’t run away and catches us. We don’t want to hear what we know. A lock for the dead.
Like a deadlock.

Call it erasing, call it maturity. The metaphor of incoherence still remains the same.
Sometimes, then, sometimes it is not a question of knowing. Sometimes it is not even a question of knowing about that unkonwn part which we do not want to accept and which might render us happy. Not that you realize that the solution was that from which you have been running away your whole life and you get depressed no no. Like you’d rather lock yourself within a lock and see that you belong where you had to, that you’re doing what you have to, that you’re making the right decisions, that you are mature. That you are an ice cube, 50?50?50, perfect little ice cube resistant to the summer. My father, and he is by far the most cultured person I know, s a rational guy, he told me the other day that the best decisions are those which are made just like that, following your feelings, without too much thought. I hope he’s right, since that would prove my hypothesis. The hypothesis that we always try to be mature, to do the right thing, to be rational. Instead of just trying, to be.
Third deadlock: self-erasing, self-control, self-emprisonement. A lock for our development, guide for our actions, constitution for our feelings, visiting hours for our thoughts. The worst? That we impose all those upon ourselves, noone else to blaim for that. Not even that little pleasure. Of blaiming someone else for our inner death, for that lock which we expand around ourselves.
Like a deadlock.

Promise for the new year? Walk in circles around that ice ball, fall down the ice wall, ice cube in the pocket. That would mean that you at least tried.

To see, that the shadow was actually the I, and I was just a shadow. Of myself.

It’s all a question of wanting I guess. No no not of wanting, of waiting. Like of wanting or waiting to leave and come back and remembering who you were while remaining who you are. Your self will never leave you, so why should you worry? Well you do worry. You worry because you always leave something behind, and yet you’re going somewhere new. Somewhere new and appealing, but will you not miss the old? The old memories and miseries and clashes and get togethers and waitings. Each flight is like full of hope and past and future and dellusion. Dellusion.

You thought about staying next to my shoulder. Yesterday.

IT

All those things which you left behind. You had already lost them before forgetting them, remember?
Airports then, airports are like the space of no time. The in-between space of your ear, the very only and exclusive space where the present is not perceived, rare species. Otherwise, mind you, otherwise I’m a believer. A believer in the present and a skeptic, per extension, since I’m extreme, as far as the past and the future are concerned. The past and the future only exist if one thinks about them, their existence being completely dependant upon thinking. Thinking, then, thinking needs to take place at a certain moment, now, at present, so I assume that the present is the only thing that exists, the only human construct which is close enough to reality as to be an independent entity and whose ability to change, what defines it, makes it appear almost real. I refuse to believe that the past and the future exist if one does not perceive or think about them. And perception, once again, is present-bound. So, no present? Then no past, no future. Relativity lover.

You’ll think about staying within my temple. Tomorrow.

IS

All those things that you are getting now, you feel them? Too late to perceive them. On your toes.
But airports. Airports are the exception. They’re like the line in the middle, the fine thread where you stand without knowing whether you’ll fall to the left or to the right, upward or backward. Like the unique piece of land where the present does not count. No wonder that airports are human-made, artificial. The present then, the present moment might as well go on strike there, so unwelcome that it is. It is precisely for this reason, because the present at airports is no wanted guest, that decisions are best made there. Because they constitute the only reachable isle where your decisions are not biased or minuciously guided by your present perception of things but rather by past events or future opportunities. Wanna be rational? Then go to an airport and decide there. And yet, I am convinced of it. I am telling you, don’t you dare not think present.

Because I am leaving you. Today.

NOW

One usually falls backwards.
A shame.