Am I lazy or just Exhausted?

The craving for coffee now seems to be a learned reaction to light. The switch is on, so I need to pump myself up. Get ready for whatever they need me. I sit and think: I may have taught myself to react instead of acting as a reflex to accomplish something. Note the word 'accomplish,' not make. Life is 50% reacting if you think about it. Reacting to somebody else's action on you.  As a result of constantly moving to play along I am in a corner now. The corner, although it might be limited in movement, is comfortable. I know now there are just a few squares I can choose to move. Having a lot of options does not help. It makes deciding overcomplicated. 

There is half of a lemon next to the sink. I don't remember leaving it there. The light in the kitchen is yellow, and there is nothing to see outside. The threes are dark slabs of coal. The only contrast is the hoary sky of winter. My hands are tired. Maybe is all this typing on screens and keyboards. My shoulders feel like I have been carrying a sack of potatoes the whole morning. I go to my bedroom and stretch my legs under the desk. A current goes through my spine. Have I been working for over 14 hours? Is this normal... the new average. It must be my new normal. 

I love drinks. I always have more than one next to me: water, orange juice, brandy. I hope I regain some strength. I don't want to do anything, but I feel the need to be ready for something, the next thing. This idea that I don't do anything valuable is persistent, although my supervisor at work says I am a valuable asset. A printer is a valuable asset, too,  I think. Perhaps is routine.

Usually, 40 minutes of sleep helps me recover from this drowsiness. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. Waves of purple and diluted cosmic green cover my sight. I can hear tree branches clacking on my window. I caress my neck and imagine a big thumb with hair on top. My eyes are open. I let the blood run. I said to myself: don't fight laziness; Let yourself get into the slumber. This is good, I say. Then I remembered I had to call my mother and wake up to continue my day... night, exhausted. 

The deer in the park

I was in the middle of a forest, it was afternoon. The fog wouldn't let me see more than 300 feet from me.

I was with somebody else, I think it was my brother. The trees were monumental, the treetops far away from the brown raven ground, their trunks looked thick but fragile like a dead man's limbs. Some of these had strange forms, wavy and holed, while others were split in two.

In the middle of the forest, I found a valley, and in the middle of it, there are trees aligned in two rows, like open arms waiting for something or somebody to pass through.

I can see the sky above them, some birds coming across those walls of living wood. The threes seemed to have welcomed that unusual form, the dark green leaves on top grow effervescently, and move quietly with the wind.

I can see grey wolfs looking for something, their snouts are few centimeters from the soil, what are they looking for? I am close to them, about 20 meters away. If it is not me then to whom?

I start panicking, I hide in some half-covered hut in the middle of the forest. It doesn't feel cold inside. I peer through a wall slit. I see the sky; no clouds, no substance in it, only a dimmer blue light, a dying day on a winter coast. I turn my head and there is no hut, surprisingly I am again in the open, and I see a fawn, 1 or 2 months old. It has its small tongue on one side, it looks fragile and funny. I had the need to protect him.

I extend my hand towards it, and I think: it would scare and leave, but the deer sniffs it and gets closer. It let me touch it, and a sense of familiarity awakes in me. As if I had to do something, to care, to protect this baby deer. Then I wake up sad and without any desire to work or to do anything else. I see the light pouring over the space between the blinds, as it was telling me, you can run and hide, but you can't get away from me.

I had a Dream

I saw a white horn on a white table in front of a white background. The place seemed to be a house or somewhere close to the sea. I could hear the waves and feel the sea breeze from the coastline.

I grab a conch shell, with tiny black and blue dots all around its protruding surface as if it was seasoned with color. My sight was from the point of view of a man who sees the horn while he is seated behind a desk, like an old tax collector or a white beard bureaucrat.

The man opened the horn from one of its sides, (it was a secret money box) and take out silver coins from it. I noticed his burly hands. They seem the hands of a fisherman, rude, and bronzed by the salt and the sun. I know this is happening in the Mediterranean, although I was not sure of which part exactly. The table in which the horn and the coins were, is made of greyish marble or so it seemed.

The breeze enters the room clear, transparent, pure as everything else in that room. Suddenly, The man hears echoes burst from the port, some ship has moored and somebody at land needs to greet the men after their journey.  

The Dark Path

The dark path I ran away from, years ago, has apparently been following me; like a black snake. A black two-headed vermin with no eyes and with no more occupation than stalking me.

It is now weaving at me, with its long meager hand, a palm that wants to cover me completely, remove me from sight as if I was dust on a screen.

I go out and notice that the blinking eyes of strangers reminded me of handclaps. Everyone hard sounding, like little bricks crashing into each other. All of them watching the world crumble while making deafening sounds. They believe the dark path is also away from them? Maybe they have never seen it. Are their lives so simple.? So bored and predictable than their mere existence found satisfaction in forgetting, episode after episode, that they are dying? -Am I living? -they asked every minute. No, you are not living, you are dying but you don't realize it yet.

While I am getting submerged in my grievance, I can picture myself in front of a bush made of small white flowers whose brightness has been dimmed by the dust. It is summer, 6:00 PM, somewhere close to the Pacific. The light is barely seen, there is only a hard red shine over the city. The concrete walls look ominous, while I am giving small jumps trying to smash the autumn leaves on the sidewalk.

The cats, the dogs, and the birds have left the city. There are no more animals to pet, to admire.

I can see many sick women in the street. They are licking their arms and hands, tasting the flavor over their bodies. There is one however who doesn't do it. This woman knows the truth, but at the same time rejects it. She is doubtful, but she still prays for revelation.

Eduardo Guillen.

The corrupt, the purity, and the way we are

How can a man who promised himself to work for the people end being so corrupt? I have been thinking about this problem (in the sense of transformation) for several days now. The fact is that no men become corrupt suddenly. In other words, let us say this change is done, first, with small steps, baby steps.

Moreover, this is the dilemma that haunts men in every aspect of life, good or bad. In ancient Greek men wonder and continuously ask themselves about the purpose of life. Many felt into the idea that the 'Logos' of life was to pleasure oneself incessantly, asking for more every time; and with each new episode of pleasure, their need to seek more innovative ways to satiate a hunger that became increasingly dangerous and pernicious.

Only one taste, one single touch could get you into an overfall of desire. This can be translated to the corruption of the politician, the intellectual, the philosopher. Corruption means that something has been altered, atrophied, debased. And the corruption of the pure and beautiful are the kind of denigration that deals more damage to the collective mind of society.

Are purity, and the desire to be pure, wrong? Why people nowadays see it as wrong? Why we ask so much less from ourselves when it comes to being a better (pristine) person?

I don't want to belong to a society that drills into the mind of young people ideas of moral and ethical imperfection. The nature of men, by default, is always asking for more, whatever the men choose to go for: good, bad, or lame. If a man decides to be bad  eventually this will grow, and it could only be stopped for two reasons:

1) The corrupt imminently knows he is going to be caught and for that reason stops, for a while.
2) The corrupt dies.

Not only that, the corrupt will make his case to justify his deeds. At this moment you know he has normalized his behavior because the evil has taken his eyes, ears, and tong. This person is completely transformed and cannot be trusted again, because for that purpose he would have to be renewed.

I just keep seeing this pattern happening continuously, incessantly, and it is taking a toll on me.

Falling or Failling?

People believe the enchantment is unconscious, No. It's conscious; it gets you through your five senses, being aware or unaware of it. You can feel something beginning to burn inside.

I ask myself, is this what I want? Maybe it is. Part of me wants this to happen. It reminds me of this book called: 'This unbearable lightness of being,' from Milan Kundera.

The book expresses, briefly speaking, you only have one life. And you sometimes fall into doing things you don't want to do but that you are called to do from deep inside of you at the same time. This doubt is inherited by every human being. (Christianity has a better and easier way to describe this. It calls it: 'Temptation').

There is fear, anxiety, small pinches of panic. That fire is burning, but burning what? Something must be ignited to be burn. I know, maybe dreams, expectations, ideas, hope.

I was thinking about how to describe my feelings now. It gets clearer with time. I am saying this is getting clearer. The message is that I must make decisions. I cannot keep running out of them. I have to close some paths to open others.

So, I need to hurt others to keep my sanity? I need to be honest; if that means to hurt, then it must be like that. There is no motive to keep evading the truth. Freedom is unavoidable. It is called being honest. I must speak with the truth.

This also means I will have to pay the price. I can't deny this either.

Another stone in my way

These past days have been hard to come up with. I have felt the stress before, but this time there are complex considerations in play. Living far from home carries a feeling of displacement. This comes to me from time to time.

I am not weak, but doubts assault my mind every day. Still, nothing clarifies my sight there is only a foggy road ahead. Sometimes, I discover myself numb, in automatic mode, performing daily tasks I already lost any interest in doing.

Regardless of that, there is light at the end of a tunnel. There is hope, I can find my way in the middle of so much confusion. I need to take radical desitions now. Be braver. There is so much to do, so little time, so little energy left.

The conclusion is simple. If you want something you have to fight for it. I mean, literarily fight for it. There must be a hidden meaning into all of this. Maybe here lies a mistery, a divine purpose disguised as mundane perspective. The only thing clear is that you must go foward. There is no other way, you must go further.

Humans are dangerous creatures, there are never satisfied.