To read the original version in the author's native language click here
I am here. Here, everything happens. Here, there is no constant that doesn’t change, nor anything that isn’t completely altered. The rotation is transcribed in orbits, and the translation has a linear path. “The way is ahead!”, they say. I don’t even know if there’s an answer to the ones who say that with a finger pointed in the air. If I grabbed the words and nibbled their shell until I reached their core, what’s left is the seed. The fatalist truth, exempt from alternative choices.
Time builds us, life changes, the world moves. Forward.
And what about me? What about us? I don’t know about you, but this is where I come in.
I get home. Take a deep breath and woman up. I clench my fist and knock on the door. I go through the lobby and look around. I’m surrounded by walls, doors, floor and ceiling. I deliberately decipher the direction. I go through the hallways that seem endless and I let myself go, without letting myself be taken. I sense the ground with the five senses and sweep the pavement with steady footsteps. I open the windows and escape when I catch their sight.
And the wristwatch insists in showing that the hours go by behind its pointers, and time passes without permission. I feel the tick-tock pulsing on my skin, and let it gnaw without corroding me. I keep going, wanting and knowing that it is not will that makes me stay, but it is will that makes me stand up. My bare feet get entangled in the soil where they lay, and my hair lets itself get wrapped in the wind.
My eyes dance around but don’t rest, because they know where to focus. It is in life. The one that’s gone, the one that could still be, and the one that already is.
This house is not mine. But I live in it without a permanent address. There are no rules wielded in a wooden spoon, but there is advice heard by the fireplace. There isn’t a space that doesn’t get messy, nor a drawer where I keep its emptiness. There are walls that divide, there is a ceiling that limits, and a floor that doesn’t sink. But, one day, I came to the realization of the space that I occupy. I saw matter that makes itself alive and I saw a life that is free. To choose.
Whether I like it or not, here I am. Whether I like it or not, it is true that I might not say it again. Wanting more than not wanting, I choose to choose: the handrail instead of the stairs, the agitated – not dragged – feet, the open door, the fire on, the story that rewrites itself when the narrator echoes it in his own voice.
I choose to choose, because I don’t choose if I’m alive, but I choose how I live.
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