Today I woke up with a hole in my chest. First thing I thought was “Oh God, please, this cannot be happening to me. Not again.”
It took some time to hold it together and realize this time was different. Throughout the years, I had grown accustomed to the feeling of a gap in the left part of my chest and, used as I was to living without anything that really moved me, anything touching enough or worth fighting for, I just let myself go into an endless vortex of straightforward self-indulgence, nonsense and void.
Truth be told (fact could prove it wrong, though), a lack of an engine or motivation had never been a proper excuse not to take advantage of the sea of numbness I was living (or rather drowning) in and for, but it had arisen as a powerful alibi for all that mindless joy and estranged pleasures. Except this time was different.
This time had nothing to do with self pity or wizard-of-Oz-ish quests; the hole wasn’t an absence: the nothing was some thing, something I could actually feel, touch, grab and caress, a palpable growth right in the middle of both lungs, the arrival of something positive through negation. I’ve started to do things right, there was a lot of catching-up to do with myself and, now that deeds are done, this is just the product of what should’ve been done many, many years ago. All in all, this is about who I am, not what I am.
Then again, I guess I should start going out less and let time come to me instead of fighting it as much as I guess I should quit smoking, but sometimes I forget to remind myself I don’t smoke. I reckon the coming of an age has finally struck a bell, moved something deep inside, and it’s just a matter of time some kind of reaper gently waves her hand to me and announces it’s high time for last calls.
I know I’ll know when the time has come. Until then, let the end of the world catch us dancing.
Número de familiares en el extranjero: 2. The Singing Newspaper and Other Short Stories.