I started thanking tomorrow yesterday

Picasso, Weeping Woman 1937.jpg
Picasso, Weeping Woman 1937.jpg

 

The instant I laid my finger on the key to write the last letter of my abstruse title, I started to feel a tepid tear trickle down my right cheek; and that tear, along with the salty droplet-companions that followed, softened the seemingly inextricable knot that had built up inside my throat.

I have no valid reason to be upset – no socially valid reason, no reason that would be deemed worthy of woe by anybody else – but sometimes we simply need to turn to this “base” behaviour just to remind ourselves who we are.

I’m drained, I’ve never been quite so tired in my whole life. That’s probably why my body was so vulnerable and flaccid in the fight against the sea of roaring emotions that has been brewing up inside of me for an unhealthy amount of time. This enervation from which I’m suffering could even be gratifying, meaning that I’m leading an active existence and actually doing something: I’m doing something, but it’s not something that I want. I haven’t been able to write for days, I haven’t had 10 minutes for myself to think about mystical things that don’t pertain to the misery that daily life can draw us into – and I consider any time for this activity as a divine gift – I haven’t had time to talk the people closest to me, I haven’t had time to study the things that I love, I haven’t had time to play music, to listen to music and be ravished by it, I haven’t had time to appreciate anything properly. The only thing I have had time to do is to say thank you to tomorrow for being another day and for the myriad of disparate possibilities that it may bring.

Not long ago I published a brief composition on time and the enviable ability to chisel chips  of our daily aeons for ourselves from the block of unrefined marble that is our day: towards the end of each day, this hunk of white solid should look more like a sculpture, rather than just an austere, shapeless mass. A sign of a fruitful day. I describe it as an enviable talent, as I realise now that I haven’t been praticing what I preached; I’ve been barely managing to read two pages of my book every night, before plummeting onto my pillow like a dead horse and letting my thoughts stream into a world of oniric chaos.

The best thing about today is that it will never be today again.

Thank you, Tomorrow, for being your imminent self; bring me hope, for my heart has never been more ready to fall in love with a day.

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