As it tends to happen, life and its experiences impregnate our soul. With urgent haste and without tricks, it is best to let it drain out. I am going through this, and so are you. What should I say, how often and with what words? My thoughts and actions are being guided by a hand, my noble accomplice—my own. It grips a pen and onto paper pours out testimony that is more than a confession. From my spirit, crazy and incoherent ideas escape, and by some strange act of magic, they manage to find order.
About these years and what I am living through: For nine years I have been residing in this home that is not mine, but it inhabits me, and I inhabit it, creating a family (that has been mine) among friends that emerge from misfortune. Living in this home that belongs to no one, we are only temporary residents. I have racked up half a century and an inventory of battles I have won and lost.
About forgetting: One day it might just surprise us to remember that it too exists. And it might accompany us for a bit, or forever. Better yet, forgetfulness might arrive as a hunch, a feeling or a dirty trick, suddenly installing itself in our soul to open wounds or to heal them.
About my memories: After many years I am flooded with memories of my mother, memories of her parting from me forever, at the onset of my youth, watching you leave without the ability to escape the abrupt and cruel plan. I only recover it in my memories. And at that moment I remember my brother, who passed without receiving my last embrace and left me without his.
About what I hope for: The strong and secure embrace of my family and those who love me. The blooming of hope for my country and that each and every one of us receives a small piece of it. I want to get up every day and be surprised, to no longer be at the whim of what is predestined to come and how.
Again, my words talk about time. A time that waits and travels. Again, my voice is time. I will leave to time what I have lived, what is missing and my silences.
