Ai yai yai
I’m your little butterfly
Swing like a bird, in a body made of ice
It is something i am not foreign to.
Sometimes i wish somebody took responsability for anger -i thought, as i took a quick glance at a couple discussing issues protected by the faint glow the artificial lagoon shimmered- sometimes i wonder what would happen if somebody decided to take responsability, and not just think “But everybody gets angry! That’s only natural!” and do nothing about it.
Sometimes i wish i were that somebody.
I don’t know many things for a fact, but the repeated tendency with which i stop doing stuff nearly after i begin it makes me feel, for the lack of a better word, useless.
As i pay heed to these thoughts, i leave behind the body of water altogether, its light no longer protecting me. Instead, i look for protection in my thoughts, as if i were the main character of a book, who nearly never finds troubles during a moment of introspection.
Sometimes i wonder why i am not in university yet, why didn’t i took the chance to study harder, why didn’t i took the chance of finishing that programming course, why didn’t i finished the ICPNA and took the exam and got with the program and went to find my loved one in the US, and as i finish that thought, i remember the phrase “Do you remember the passion of that day?”
No, i don’t, but i wish i did. But then i think how, when (TN: if?) i get it back, i will only long to never have wished for such a thing. Then i curse myself, and curse life, for never allowing me to find happiness and making of it a non-trascendental thing. What things are there that are trascendental, anyways? My list begins with modifications (TN: upgrades?) to my muscles, my skin or my systems, which are supposed to last until i die, or maybe even further. Then i follow it with modifications to my mind, knowledge, habits or skills, which are also supposed to last, but in these 17 years i know they haven’t. I don’t remember what i was doing a week ago, i don’t remember what i was thinking today when i woke up, and i have lost some skills i haven’t honed for a while.
17 years, huh? It’s been a while. Who would have thought? I still remember when my parents used to baby me and call me those stupid little nicknames that for some reason you find endearing and then, ten years later, nearly obligatoriely cringe at. Oh wait, they still do. Nevermind.
But really, 17 years. Soon to be 18. Soon to be a grown-up. Soon to indulge into worldly pleasures, like drinking or smoking or choking down whatever food i desire. Soon to indulge into worldly pains, like working or moving around or playing a role in society.
I like to joke about stuff. I bet, had i been less isolated in my childhood, that i’d totally be a prankster with my friends or teachers. I like to say stuff that is not true, to fix the statement 5 seconds after, only to say it in such a cryptic manner that they still think i’m lieing. Or perhaps tell people i’ll take 30 minutes to get to the rendezvous point, when in reality i’m just watching them from that nearby tree, waiting to show up and surprise them. Maybe even, if the situation calls for it, insist and insist that an object or a trait i’ve had with me all my life is nonexistent, and try to play with alienation so that instead of me or my house or a random object being the alienated one, the other person’s mind becomes alienated by believing i’m saying the truth and wondering how did they ever thought such a thing possessed other qualities (i suppose that’s a bit abstract, so here’s an example: I had a couch in my living room, but i gifted it two days ago. My friends came over yesterday and me, being who i am, pretended for a while said couch never existed in the first place. Granted, the odds of that working were so abysmally low i knew i was fighting a lost battle, but there are some other occasions when the trick works out to perfection.)
Because i like to joke about stuff, i also had the fleeting thought of trying to get serious, as i thought my thoughts on trascendental things, and as i walked the short distance that divides the park (not so aptly named Ramón Castilla) to my house. Needless to say, getting serious implies dropping the bullshit, which in turn, implies that there was bullshit on the first place, so i just, out of lazyness, dropped everything and tried to evaluate the things i know for a fact.
What do i know for a fact? At the moment, i knew for a fact my house was two blocks away from where i was standing, or rather walking. I knew for a fact my mind tends to forget stuff like a bird flaps his wings. I knew for a fact my social age was about to hit the most important milestone (and frankly, only one of the three milestones, the others being birth and jubilation) in anybody’s life. And i knew i knew little else. Do i know for a fact gravitation exists? I can trust scientists on that one, because its effects can be proven anywhere. Do i know matter and energy are the only things in the universe? Do i know Pascal’s triangle is “right”? Do i know the actual currency system is a necessary evil for society as a whole? Do i know science is not flawed, and instead shines forth as a beacon against what in one time was pitch-black darkness brought upon us by religion? Do i know what art is? Do i know what matter is? Do i know? Do i? Do? (TN: my questions are flawed, but they got the point across)
Yeah, that’s a lot of questions, and had all of them raced through my head as i was turning down the last corner to the building i live in, i would probably have suffered a small mental breakdown. Luckily, i got the adbridged version of the deal, and instead of asking myself what do i don’t know, left it at “I don’t know much else”.
At the moment, i thought: “Jesus, i’m turning 18 soon and i don’t know anything about life”
“What am i expected to do?”, “What is the most noble cause to support in this time and age?” were among the questions that did flew through my head, as other, less philosophical questions like “What do i want?”, or “Who am i?” and “How do i stop being so useless?” also did.
Then i thought about having to write this down, i thought about how every night before sleep i have great ideas and i remember most of them, but often have nightmares on how many other great ideas i may have lost because i didn’t writed them down the morning after, or how many times i’ve had this exact same conversation with myself (though, the age situation missing) and never done anything about it, and how my failed attempts with channeling passion, or love (Indeed -i thought- love has already broken through these four walls before. Do i remember the passion of that day?) or rage (Anger. It is not something i am foreign to. Maybe if somebody took responsability, anger would just stick to that one person and leave us all alone) have been futile. This usually is enough to send me into despair, and either try uselessly or drop the topic and feel sorry for myself, and think how feeling sorry with myself is a burden, rather than a luxury,
and how saying “I’m sorry” instead means to me “I want you to carry the weight of my apologies, i need to share this self-pity with somebody else”
and i end up being sorry for being sorry and
but instead felt myself at peace, not losing concentration as i often do and with a small fisure in my mind i could put pressure into, not unlike the chord of a fiddle which you can keep twinging on to let the note linger longer than usual. So i tried to move as little as possible, not letting go but not applying pressure either, while taking slow but decided steps through the stairs to my house. Each set of stairs brought a new idea to my mind, while each set of apartments brought a resolution.
This happened twice.
Then three times.
Then four times.
Then i got home.
TN: Me gusta considerarme un purista, creyendo que la accion del momento debe ser hecha lo mejor posible para no ser modificada luego, ya que la pasión que hubo en el acto tan solo se mancharía con ajustes y retoques hechos a pedido. Sin embargo, there are things you must concede, y creo que un poco de proofreading, y otro poco de TN, o afterthoughts, son el mal menor para una mejor lectura