La crisis de identidad del otoño.

Me resulta familiar, sobre todo en el otoño (boreal, puesto que vivo en el hemisferio norte) escuchar cada año acerca de su caracter poético: de como es la estación más bella, la cadencia de las hojas al viento, la lánguida paleta de colores de la flora preparada a dormir; y sobre todo, el fin del calor infernal al que nos tiene sometido el cambio climático. En fin, clichés, clichés. Muchos clichés. Yo pienso en el otoño como una primavera a la inversa, con todo y su equinoccio. Pero tiene una peculiar traza de inestabilidad mental que no encuentro en ninguna otra estación. Si bien la primavera también es cambiante, es relativamente predecible a lo largo de los días (salvo, de nuevo, el horror del daño al ambiente). El otoño guarda en si una confusión. Se sabe camino al invierno, pero posee una mano con muchas cartas de las estaciones restantes y las va jugando como si no le importase demasiado traer a octubre la primavera, la nieve a septiembre o el viento de marzo a los albores de diciembre.

El otoño no abraza la locura, sólo es inestable, una inestabilidad mesurada que en su mesura desmesura todo (pffft).

Tiene muchos "días extraviados":

Porque muchas veces, en tal tiempo del año, se encuentra un día extraviado que pertenece a una estación distinta y que tiene la propiedad de hacernos vivir en esa época, evocando sus placeres, haciéndonoslos desear, y que viene a interrumpir las ilusiones que nos estábamos forjando, colocando fuera de su sitio, más allá o más acá, esa hoja arrancada de otro capítulo en el calendario interpolado de la felicidad

Marcel Proust, En busca del tiempo perdido. Por el Camino de Swann.

Tal vez sea por ello que sea una estación tan socorrida "sentimentalmente".

The answer to your paradoxical questions

A very frequent and maybe inconscious ask for forgiveness. How can I deny it to you. But you ask carelessly, without even knowing that there is just one thing that deserves such petition. And the paradox is that it is not your fault. The thought do not appear to your mind, the feeling isn't printed in your soul. Maybe I'm just a captive of my subjetivity, of my reality (if I can call it that way). Trapped temporarily in the way I think about you and feel about you. May it be for the best. Ignorance is bliss.

Vorágine.

No puedo recordar si antes había usado este título para alguna entrada y no tengo deseos de revisar en este preciso instante. A pesar de mi intención de llenar este escrito de tropos, metáforas, metonimia y cualquier maquillaje retórico que disimule mi palurdez literaria, se impone mi necesidad de expresión cruda y dura.

¿Vorágine? Vorágine. Voragine, vorágine, vorágine, vorágine, vorágine. Cuando dices mucho una palabra parece perder el sentido por momentos. Así quisiera poder repetir mis sentimientos, una y otra vez, para sumir su sentido en el ojo de esa vorágine, vorágine, vorágine.

Pero no me resulta posible, están atrapados, justo entre el gaznate y el plexo solar (donde quiera que estén ambas partes). Entre un chakra y otro chakra. Aturdiendo los cinco séntidos y fuera del alcance del sexto (y el séptimo).

Y aún así, a pesar de estar atrapado, siento una extraña sensación. Es mejor sentir esto a no sentir nada. Y mientras lo escribo me arrepiento. Y me arrepiento de arrepentirme. Y recuerdo que el arrepentimiento es inadecuado.

Finalizo.

I have a little bit of a crush

So, there is no other way to define it. And yes, on the riptide of feelings that accompany this precise one, comes another. At least there is no denial like other times. On the positive side of things, well, it's a reminder that my heart is not hollow or petrified.

But that might be the other issue. As much as I know that my feelings toward the "person" (object sounds horrible) of my affection aren't possible, I still have them. That's a conflict. It is not possible to think clearly (of course hehehehehe). Nothing that can be solved by algorithms or logic. Only time? Only a miracle? What then? Who knows.

Leaving now. It's getting late.

Holding everything together.

So, maybe in some sense (or even in all sense), a phrase from certain writer thinker (I can't remember the exact words right now) it's true: we have a driving inner force to perseverate in our life. Maybe that's why I feel right now so baffled and tired. I might have neglected or overlooked at it for...what, years, lustrums, maybe a decade or so? Even thinking about it frightens me. And makes me sad about the time. But the same thinker said: "there's no use in regretting". (not the exact words again).

The point is (as I am trying to conclude in a crude manner) that you cannot expect the life to just "go on". Even for issues like feelings, sentiments, and so it is necessary an active participation. Conscious if you want to. Just my two cents. Not a medical or psychological advice. This opinion can even change through the years (or through the lectures). But right now, it seems to be the state of the affairs. Grabbing all the edges of your existence and directing them can be a very hard and demanding activity. And you cannot expect the world, the universe, the others, or God to do it by yourself.

Infatuation.

One problem with feelings is that they come at their own will. Somehow learning to identify them gives an advantage but there is always a question: what can you do with them?

Maybe just cope with them. But infatuation is a misleading one. You may feel excited about it, but you know it pushes your will towards someone that won't share your enthusiasm.

Anyway, this was just a quick post. I didnt' want to go to sleep with this in my chest.

Torrent.

Leaves aren't falling yet, but autumn is here now. But this new month has some strayed days from spring and summer, where you can be bathed by the bliss of the sun at noon and washed by cold rain drops at the evening.

Seasons are changing. Everything keeps changing. People changes, I guess. Even if it's a common idea to negate it, nothing is, nor can be permanent. Everyday I convince myself of that. Not even feelings, mind, or even some apparently stable mode of being.

Is this change slow paced or fast? Depends. But if I write about it now, is because I felt something different. A torrent. Or a stream. Flowing upon me. Somehow, I now I am the same, but at the same time, paradoxically, I have changed. Translocation might have helped to operate this changed. To isolate me in a pocket of reality and time, away from petty and big issues, bracketing the time while time were still flowing and meanwhile giving a chance to be. To open up. Could it be? Or is it just an illusion? If so, it feels so authentic, vivid as reality, even more.

If the mind and or spirit were conformed of gears and such mechanisms, some sort of adjustment would have been made. A slight variation, a difference that consolidates reality in such a different way. The mighty stream of feelings, with its overwhelming impact creates a new notion in my consciousness.

More than a week of contemplation of art, of giving some little pleasures, was a week of feeling. And to feel is always a challenge. A challenge to the stability of mental issues, to the stagnation and the fear, and to the denial of feeling itself. Feeling and being became a coherent duality to function: impossible to close one's eyes and negate its existence.

An unfolding of possibilities comes up with the recognition of the fact of feeling. It brings up the capacity to act. But, even if it is tautological, the capacity to feel in a broader sense, instead of holding back the sensation. This might be just a rambling, but sometimes, the right time, space, circumstance, recognition and, most important, the right connections may bring a change: of mind, of spirit, of heart. In my person, that change could be the possibility to let other to enter my life. Scary. Don't know if that is really what happened. Don't know it's permanent. Neither if it's real. Just that I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same.

End of rambling. Start of hope (don't care if hope is rejected by some thinkers).