profile picture

Chapter 13: March 2016

March 01, 2016 - 2301 words - 12 mins Found a typo? Edit me


It Becomes More Noticeable

The value of our time becomes more noticeable, along with the memory of death, evoking that constant nostalgia, wishing to make its way on this path full of uncertainties and, at times, disheartening.

The scent becomes more noticeable when the winged souls of the roses are absent. When that essence is missing, allowing us to relive with enthusiasm, that’s precisely when it becomes more noticeable—remembering what? What were we supposed to remember?

I felt how the training wheels were taken away, like when we learned to ride a bike, the ones that gave us confidence. However, above all, I felt it today with the same reality regarding how the pressure of different situations can be, at times, an honest and unpleasant enigma.

We soak ourselves in experiences that we didn’t expect to find initially, yet they end up finding us, not knowing how to respond.

Time drags us without mercy and fear. It obliges us with serenity, becoming more noticeable when it reminds us of who we are, but above all, who it is.

We are newcomers in this game with no rules beyond the ones we invent or want to conceive. Beyond our sincere understanding, where for reason and truth, we despise those who use different prisms to observe.

Wanting to exist as an eternal beginner is like water flowing down the stream, destined for the ocean’s vastness and its abandoned forgetfulness. The carelessness linked to the disinterest in everything is our most significant risk. Living with the excuse of the uncertain tomorrow and the same indifference towards ourselves can only end in an infinite void devoid of all possibility and opportunity.

Slowly withering away, we see the value of our time pass before our eyes.

It’s When

It is more challenging to believe it’s possible when the blank canvases are still white when that mature thought feels somewhat withered because of who knows what and how…

Interweaving of ideas no further than our mere and subjective thoughts, and perhaps, they no longer deserve much more… “Clarity” is the word with which, in its absence, everything darkens.

Both in a simple and complex way, our ideas can coexist with this practice we understand as life, where the purpose, beyond learning, escapes our knowledge because we couldn’t conceive another idea. Our experience is motor and bold comprehension; the more reflected, the deeper we decide to delve. The cause of the cause and its consequence sometimes prevent us from smiling.

Movement without return is destined for doubt and the continuity of its absence. Because not everything will be science, and much less some unnecessary belief.

Time and its relentless non-stop pursuit… No one was born prepared. In diapers, in front of every question that one day we will have to face, it will be then that we realize what we are worth.

In our sincerity, we should admit that, at the very least, we should be; otherwise, we wouldn’t be fulfilling our purpose because if there’s anything we’re responsible for, it’s being sure of what we would like to have lived.

We tend to confuse and mix between causes and consequences, where questions pretend to be answered before they are formulated. What, then, is our task if not the one that should already be more than evident?

And I don’t write for you who hear us but for you who listen to us.

On the Mountain

Tremor. Fear. Failure. Suffering. Disheartening…

Fearing failure and its horror, suffering with tremors in our despair for not seeing ourselves capable of achieving more remarkable feats in the coming days.

Where did we end up? When will be the perfect moment to conclude once and for all? An overdose of meaning’s lack guarantees helplessness in an abyss. A rusty clock is about to make its last turn. Betrayal betrayed… Perhaps forgiven for being ourselves? Who could live without their forgiveness, after all?

Rocky Mountain, years ago, accompanied by sips of discouragement that sought less confusion in that chaos without a name but with surnames.

Lurking admission, the ambiguous purpose in a disillusion that turned out to be out of control. Accompanied by deception and loneliness, but above all by our constant lack of belonging to a false reality, especially behind closed doors.

Pity for the one who was almost… Our treachery to our betrayal saved us from that mountain and its disguised nighttime cold that attacks at night.

Eyes from back then were cruelly blinded due to the lack of understanding and the pressure in all possible directions. Remembering with each sip at the top of the mountain while the music played and tears were born to succumb a few seconds later, during the wait…

Memories that felt their fading,
real, and deep sadness without breath.
Confusion served in every feeling.

We could have flown on that mountain, ashamed also by the unnecessary complication we introduced to many third parties. But it’s not shame we feel now, but sadness that it could have been possible and the many probabilities of different endings that, fortunately, more than unfortunately, we never came to know.

It seems that that mountain had a surprise in store for us. Or, instead, we were the ones who invented that uncontrolled surprise with an entirely different — as well as rewarding — ending from what we, on that misguided day, set out to achieve. Reason enough for joy from that day to now.


Savor the sweetness of that moment
when we wrote with goosebumps.
Feel alive, protagonists of this tale;
it seems like we chose it in its day.

Not seeing ourselves as something fully defined,
feeling how there's still so much left.
Dressing alongside the not-so-quiet storm
that day and night reproaches us for how much.

Let the moon dawn clear,
with a strange fear of having lived.
Be born again adventurous,
stay awake until its oblivion.

Abundant joy perseveres, graced,
sometimes distressed by the wind.
In its simplicity, along with its gaze,
she enjoyed and waited in her seat.

Tasting the bitterness along with pleasure;
Let it serve us once as a lesson.

Having as our only fear the reality that, at times, we can behave as if there were no simple rules of conduct. Reality where colors, with their grays, lose even all the sense they might have had in their day.

To those hands that drew and now write with so much pleasure. To those who remind us how it’s possible to express, reflect, and bring mere ideas into reality even before they exist. To those with whom we grew up and who made us grow. To that idea that timidly arose and wanted to train and trained to stop being cowardly. To that whose purpose was, is, and will be in itself.

To the depth of confusion, the sea and its oceans, and the infinite abyss and inner chaos. Fear? Whom should we fear more than ourselves? We want to speak from another perspective, but at this point, it’s challenging to turn our heads and look the other way, not as others did to us more than once, where we still remember names and surnames.

Should we perhaps write with some predefined order? Who could expect more from us than ourselves? Here, no one has written anything.

The taste of lack is undoubtedly the dish par excellence that will teach us so much and leave us so little. A dish where prudence and disorder seem to try the same, disputing among themselves the helm of suspicion.

Sometimes savoring reasonable moments, appearing like authentic nonsense… but above all, relishing the uncertainty of the lines yet to be written, finding them pleasant and not so sweet. Sensible moments where emotions shoot without fear of who they might hurt, reviving us in our eagerness for resolutions.

Hatred for God

Our most sincere rejection to the figure of that almighty and omnipresent God that so many people try to persuade us. To that figure superior to us who watches over or protects us to the extent of who knows what possibilities.

Our most profound hatred and rejection of the idea of that benevolent, as well as annihilating God, where contradictions are constant, constant, and interested in those who try to sell it to us.

Our most sincere repudiation, hatred, and rejection of that superior figure’s putrid idea. To that God and prophet who claimed to come in the name of who knows who. To the one who claimed to be cowardly today, many still trust in his foolishness.

Our greatest disgust, repudiation, hatred, and rejection towards the very idea of God’s existence as something superior to us. To that who claims to love us and yet is permissive with everything that is not love. To that which hides the egocentric interests of an idea devoid of everything, especially humanity.

Our greatest and most sincere contempt, disgust, repudiation, hatred, and rejection towards God and everything that his idea represents in itself as long as we are not ourselves. There will be no greater fallacy than denying that we were born to be our gods.

Our most sincere pity for those cowards who hide behind their lack of interest. To those who today blindly believe in some of the words born from some tale, either out of tradition or simply due to a lack of logic or intellect.

Our most significant intolerance is for anyone who claims to preach the truth through their mouth and contradicts it through their actions, excusing themselves by saying “the flesh is weak” or “the devil deceived us.” Damn you, too, fools and hypocrites. You are the evil ones!

Even having more logic than the idea of God itself, which they try to instill through religions in our youth, is not at all complicated. Who can hate us more than the idea of God itself? An idea full of human gains, lies, and deceit. An idea rich in falsehoods and disdain, but above all in uncertainties within the abyss that all this can become if we cannot say “enough.”

And It Won’t Be Enough

And it won’t be enough to wish for everything to end, for all this concern to dissipate once and for all.

To turn a possible grain of rice into a mountain full of uncertainties and terrors. To wish to end all this pressure that abducted us by surprise. The fear of uncertainty and its confusion is what overwhelms us the most.

And it won’t be enough to believe to be, even being at times within the limits of our possibilities. Talking about intention is not always the correct thing, and it won’t be enough to avoid specific fears or help us clear simple doubts.

And it won’t be enough to be without being, for being is and will be forever our main mission, where the very idea of emptiness and its absurdity may visit us on so many occasions without permission.

And we cannot allow ourselves not to feel! Although missing each other may be, at times, also something inevitable. What are we doing now? And with our life? “It won’t be enough, therefore,” we tell you! We have survived pity and falls: enough once and for all this poor and senseless idea, for surviving is not living.

And it won’t be enough for them to tell us! We will be the ones to say to ourselves…! I hope that everything will be fine and will continue to be so.

The Complexity of Obligation

When we forget who we are, it is when we tend, to a greater extent, to the anguish born of confusion. That enigma that scares us and makes us feel uncomfortable. Something that might seem unnecessary initially but surely should lead to a compulsory conclusion: educating ourselves on the matter.

When we forget who we are, we should remember ourselves the most. Hurriedly… In a race where time is forced not to stop for a second. Decisions with a clear mind become complicated, especially when the identity that should belong to us feels overwhelmed and lacking in essence.

Everything revolves around an aura of conjectures, dizziness, and linked fears. Forgetting our beginning, our personality is unequivocally in the wrong direction of what we want.

How would we avoid those situations or knowledge that we would like to evade and do, learn, or know in advance many others that we could forget or not interpret correctly in time?

To what extent are we willing to go? To what extent are we ready to give up certain things for others? What is this, if not an exchange of decisions and priorities?

That’s why anxiety pursues us when we err, with more or less guilt, in our commitment because it is about the feeling of proximity from us to ourselves. Our fulfillment should be nothing more than our understanding of ourselves.

The complexity of obligation lies in its responsibility, which is proportional to the burden we are willing to carry, which should never be imposed but desired.


When everything passes, and nothing remains, we will remember with possible nostalgia those moments that happened, especially those that made us feel. We will miss the desire to write, as everything will end up like a fire consumed by a lack of oxygen.

We will miss those desires for madness for learning, perhaps even for that same self-improvement or identity… Who knows how much we will miss? We already miss it, and it is not strange a little every day. Growing up makes us more aware of our pulse, breath, and chained purpose.

We will miss the water flowing, the sun waking us up in the mornings, and spending hours reflecting on what we will miss…

But it won’t be today.