It’s four in the morning and I know I won’t go back to sleep. Sometimes it happens that I can’t deal with the night, I don’t know what to do with the night, I step out onto the balcony, light one up and let the smoke blend with the mist and reach the sky, and then higher; I like to think about that, what becomes of what is no longer mine, books I lent, clothes I donated, houses I lived in. I wonder if someone sat again on the garden wall of the house on Belgrano and Chile to gaze at the rosebush as they did when they were children. I also like to think the other way around, if those who lived in my apartment also stared sleeplessly at the city lights, or if the sidewalks I walk on are the same ones those I loved walked on but are no longer here.
The phone is deafening, even in the early morning -or more than ever, in the early morning- because it shakes us with information all the time, destroyed cities, some survey, something wrong about a candidate, a dollar run and some purse advertisement about Mother’s Day, all in less than five minutes.
Eduardo Galeano said in an interview that there is a world that wants to be, beating in this world as it is, and I don’t want that world that’s resurging, the far right normalized everywhere alongside a Mother’s Day advertisement, to be that world that wants to be.
For a few days, pre-election anxiety and the anguish of the world have been present and sometimes paralyzed me. Sometimes I write because it makes sense, but not today, not this thursday. Today, I write because amid so much horror, I choose writing again as a life impulse.