I just finished my coffee in the balcony, under a spring sun that gave me the heat that I didn’t have inside the house. Everything is imperfect, I discovered it shortly after becoming an adult. Or I became an adult when I discovered that everything is imperfect. I have learned to love imperfection, not because I like Kintsugi, but because I had no other choice. That, or suicide.

Writing gives me serenity. Not just writing, there are other activities. Walking, chatting, listening to music, watching a movie with friends. It is my hallmark. It is not necessary for others to know, or to be recognized or admired, it is only necessary that I finish this damn story. But today I can’t continue with this story. I’ll leave it for now. Also, when I don’t write time passes faster, it’s as if even that was stolen from me. My cousin tells me that she has already written five books and I am spinning around and doing other addictive activities that are less healthy than her five novels.

Today I was invited to a forum that intended to create an association with the motto «the day after», it intended to reduce polarization, promote new models of public-private-social relationship and generate spaces for dialogue to build a new social contract. They asked me if I would accompany them and I said to myself, why not? But whether it’s the day after or the day before or today, I realize my reluctance for life.

Referencia: Serenidad perdida