Otra entrada más sobre el fin de año

Un año más se acerca a su fin. Muchas cosas importantes y dignas de mencionarse han acontecido a lo largo y ancho de nuestro planeta. Tantas y tan variadas que no vale la pena que las enuncie, especialmente cuando el recuento de todo lo que fueron estos 12 meses será evaluado concienzudamente por diversas agencias noticiosas. En primera instancia pensaba poner aquí algunos breves comentarios sobre porque para mí el 2010 fue un año bastante significativo; sin embargo me di cuenta que realmente no había necesidad de hacerlo.

Simplemente diré que el 2010 ha sido, muy probablemente, el mejor año de los 25 que he tenido la oportunidad de vivir. Jamás había viajado tanto como el 2010, jamás había experimentado tantas cosas nuevas como en el 2010 y, lo más importante, jamás había conocido tanta gente excepcional como en el 2010; eso sin dejar de lado a todas las grandes experiencias con mis amigos de toda la vida. En fin, digamos que el 2011 tiene unos zapatos muy grandes que llenar (“zapatos muuuy grandes”).

Aún así no podía quedarme sin realizar una pequeña entrada relacionada con el fin de año. A pesar de que las festividades de año nuevo pueden ser aún MÁS cliché que las de Navidad, siento que el significado que le damos a este día es mucho más variado. Es difícil, sin embargo, el pensar en año nuevo sin tener en cuenta los clásicos “propósitos” y ese amargo sabor que nos produce el observar que no hemos cumplido la mayoría de ellos.

Las listas de propósitos de fin de año me producen sentimientos fuertemente encontrados. Una parte mí me dice sin lugar a duda que son una estupidez; pero por otro lado me doy cuenta que gracias a ellos muchas personas que jamás lo harían se dan lo oportunidad de detenerse un poco y reflexionar sobre dónde están y a dónde quieren ir. Muchas veces eso es difícil de ver con propósitos superfluos como “voy a bajar de peso” o “mejoraré mis calificaciones”, entre otros; sin embargo si miramos con cuidado, incluso el más banal de los propósitos contiene un pequeño deseo de mejorar.

Que si la mejora es real, ilusoria o mal direccionada; eso es más complicado. Que si el siempre intentar mejorar es realmente deseable es todavía una cuestión más compleja. Lo único de lo que estoy más o menos seguro es el hecho de que los propósitos se hacen con una buena (aunque ligeramente egoísta) intención. La intención de mejorar nuestra vida, la intención de vivir mejor.

Y al final, aunque esto puede ser una terrible simplificación de ese hecho, creo que el tratar de alcanzar un mayor “índice” (comillas, comillas) de ese abstracto concepto de felicidad no puede ser tan malo. El problema, pienso yo, radica en que ese deseo es poco sincero. Año con año se hace millones de estas listas sin otro objetivo que cumplir con la tradición. Es, digamos, una salida fácil a esa pregunta: “¿qué es lo que realmente quiero de mi vida?”.

Gente atrapada en empleos que detestan, relaciones auto-destructivas que no encuentran cómo ni por qué terminar, y círculos de vertiginosos vicios que cada vez parecen más normales que perjudiciales. Ideales olvidados, sentimientos ignorados y ese terrible miedo de levantarnos un día y hacer lo que queremos antes de lo que en “teoría” debemos.

Es fácil decir todo esto; más el realizarlo es sumamente complicado. Una lista de propósitos de fin de año puede que no nos saque de nuestro vació existencial o de nuestro insoportable páramo desolado de emociones, ni de nuestra angustia asfixiante de que el tiempo se está terminando; pero creo que puede ser un buen inicio si se realiza con propiedad.

Waiting for the train... once more

I was going to write this just as another chapter in that weird novel that I may never finish; but then I realized I wasn’t going to be able to contain these feelings in an unread text. With that in mind I decided to “create” these lines just as another blog post. A few more of the hundreds of paragraphs that so few people will ever read. Thankfully the feeling of 2.0 sharing will let me extinguish this unusual angst.

Every now and then I feel like I need to share the innermost feelings that I experiment in the late hours of the night. The problem, as I’ve stated before in some other random rant, is that… it doesn’t matter how true or authentic these feelings are (or seem to be), I dread that someone might actually see behind them and discover who I am. This is really easy to explain, you’ll see. I can’t describe myself. Not thoroughly at least. And to think that someone may actually understand me better than I do is something that I fear… for all the wrong reasons perhaps; but that doesn’t change the situation.

I did this exercise once. I tried to expose my most deep and strongest emotions in a piece of paper while waiting for the train to come and take me to the next unknown location. The atmosphere was ideal. I was completely alone, with a few drinks in my body and a fine red pen in my pocket. I was far away from anyone who has ever really known me. I was, in a sense, freer than ever before. But even then… I just couldn’t express truly how I felt. The sole idea… the remote possibility that all those people responsible for these feelings could, for any given reason, read that paper and understand all those things that I couldn’t was overwhelming.

Even so, I tried to continue with the exercise. If the result wasn’t appropriate, I could always dispose of that piece of paper. So I started writing in red ink and cursive letter. That type of calligraphy was nothing more than a placebo. Even while doing this I tried to hide the content of this text as much as I could, and writing in cursive letter was the best that I could think of. It is pretty much the same thing that I’m doing right now. The best way to express all this and still keep it concealed would be to write in a mostly unknown and exotic language; but I know none, so I write in English in order to distance the text the most out of my reality. Same thing that I did back then when writing in cursive…

I think we can all agree that none of those techniques are really effective at all, but in my mind they help. The result of that strange afternoon of docks, old towns and local drinks was average at best. I wasn’t able to trick myself into really expressing what I felt at the moment. And right now I’m not really sure if I’ll be able to do so.

I have tried some other techniques, like written dialog with myself and a fictional interview with the image of a tourist guide that was stuck in my mind for quite a while. Both attempts were quite refreshing, but still too damn cryptic to be sincere expressions of my inner self. That afternoon in Gernika in which I was waiting for the train to come there was only one thing in my mind. And right now that same idea is haunting my writing.

The concept of it is rather simple and maybe that’s another reason why I feel the urge to conceal it. It is a bunch of feelings so common and mundane that I’m guessing most people have experienced similar things at one point or another in their life. This leads me to reinforce the fear that for some anonymous reader all this nonsense will be so crude and clear that my current feel of anxiety will seem dumb and unjustified. Maybe the problem lies in the fact that I cannot distance myself from these ideas far enough to examine them in the light of neutrality. For me the feelings are strong and their content is complex and meaningful. Perhaps is the veil of time that fogs my vision or it is simply the weight of immediate reality that makes the ideas seem huge and even transcendental.

If I start analyzing what it’s going through my mind right now, I could divide all these sentiments into two very broad categories. The first one is the always elusive question of what I want to do with my life and how I plan to do it. The second one is simpler, but trickier. And, being completely honest is the most interesting one as well. Why? Well, for starters, the second category has names in it, like real people names. Identifiers of persons that exist and have in one way or another interacted with me. That’s really vague, and perhaps that is for the best.

Continuing with our focus on the second category I will only say that it has to do with the idea of concepts and the treacherous but entertaining art of illusion. If there was a computer folder in my brain with all the information about these feelings, its name would probably be composed of one word only. That word could be picked from a group of several options, but in the end it would be one single word.

As you can see I’ve probably failed again. For one, I have spent more time that expected writing this short piece of nonsense, so these last paragraphs contain only a diluted sense of the original purpose of the text. I guess the only way to express something as mundane as personal reality would be through poetic language. That way it is possible to delude yourself into actually expressing that deep feeling without really revealing the banal deconstruction of it all. That is one way to do it I guess… but for me it is some sort of intellectual dishonesty… or something like that. I wouldn’t say I loathe poems, but maybe I do.

You see, when I say mundane, banal or real, I don’t mean to use those adjectives in their derogatory form. There is nothing more complex, beautiful and relevant than personal reality. The mistake is to think that reality is simply not enough. That is why I dislike poems (and maybe poets as well). In the end poetry is another way of expressing a feeling or idea… but if the language as itself is already too constrained, shrouding emotions in the veil of hyperbole and ambiguity seems a little like overkill to me. Maybe I just don't understand poetry like some people don't understand music. Is it because music is felt and not comprehended? Perhaps poetry is like that too.

Anyway… I’ll try this again some other day.