Days and hours go by sitting with the monitor and a notebook in front of me, the text cursor twinkling and an immovable pencil, my eyes reading and rereading, waiting for some inspiration coming from somewhere, for anyone or anything to happen that can make me put in words all the thoughts that occur inside of me. But time keeps going by and nothing happens or rather, everything happens but I can’t express them in words. Sometimes I fear to have lost the gift of which several people have talked to me about, I fear to have lost connection with the entrails that inspire my being, I fear to have lost contact with the inspiring world. Is it because from one day to another I stopped traveling and traveling was where I obtained those wonderful connections? Perhaps it’s also because my conversations have gone thoroughly banal and my interests narrowed. I attempt to convince meyself that it is not, thus, my life would lose completely its sense.
By other moments I feel that my life is in pause, surrounded in a fog, like the one right now present in Buenos Aires, where days and nights are gray, people are gray, events go gray as well, and everything that surrounds me seems to lose its color.
From time to time, I feel people quite absent, per moments a little sadder. I arrive home, enter my room and search for a book to leaf through before going to sleep. But my memories get stuck and cloud my head. I remember when I took my first flight, remember some details, the factions of the people, some phrases and passages, scents, flavors, lost feelings that I hope I get to find someday. Remember some faces, dark eyes surrounding me, strong arms, intoxicating smiles and charming words. Some expressions that still remain but seem more and more distant and I fear someday to forget. Memories and more memories that obstruct my life with this nostalgia that does not let me fall asleep. And more pages full of words that seem to be in blank to my inconsolable attention. I ask myself how long will I stay like this, walking through a life filled with nothing and filled with everything at the same time, walking through the agony of this unbearable slightness of being.