After two polar days of scratching our skin against cold walls, the temperatures finally softened. It is now 11 ˚C outside, 23 ˚C in my room, the sun manages to throw its heat to my skin even if, when a cloud passes, the ghosts of winter manage to make me shiver.
The same goes for my budget that I decide to do. It was one minute to midnight when I decided to go to work. Let’s say the patient is stable, although the columns of numbers in front of me are clouds on the sun of my hopes.
The situation is both calm and fragile. Like the rest of them. Tomorrow I could slide down the stairs, tomorrow I could die in my dreams, tomorrow I could see everything in black. And tomorrow, I could have won the lottery.
In the other column, the one that cannot really be counted as financial planning, there is my existence, my achievements, the happiness of being naked in a warm bed, the refrigerator stuffed with food, the novel in the making, the voice in talking, the heart in madness, so many beautiful promises and certainties.
In another column, just as intangible, are the contradictions of my being, the convoluted, beautiful but still unstable situations, the multiple demands, the survival.
On a wire.
The abyss is deep.
It always will have been. I’m not making this up. It is described, worshipped, defended, and complained about for thousands of years.
It is better to look, feel the sun, think that tomorrow there will still be something to live for, that tomorrow and today it is the same thing, that you have to keep quiet while talking as loud as possible. Accept and resist, always do the opposite of your opposite, rock with vertigo and cling to the thick clouds of the carefree freedom to live.
My words are alive. What a miracle.