My dear Time

 

You asked me to live with you again, even if I didn't choose everything you give me. Your intention flatters me, but I doubt I can do it. I'm hurting. I see blood, but I can't find the wound. I bought glasses, bandages, and rubbing alcohol. What I adored about your company now barely trickles out. I decided to write to you as a form of exorcism, to better understand what I reject about you.

 

Time, you disorient me.

 

My friends speak ill of your presence. I noticed they're the same ones who used to flatter you. I'm starting to feel overwhelmed. Suddenly, the wind arrives and whispers that you heal the pain of absence. I want to kiss you without delay, and then I immediately regret it.

 

I don't think you realize that in these years you've accelerated your speed. You run. You run, and your skin burns me. Change bursts in beside you. You two, Time and Change, arrive together every day of the week, relentlessly. You appear, and I freeze. I don't want to judge your partner, but have you considered whether he's trustworthy? I'm not jealous. The dilemma that makes it difficult for me to respond to your request is that you, together, affect people I love. I suffer because of it; I'm still using my Band-Aid.

 

Frankly, my beloved Time, this facet of your personality brings out the worst in me. I struggle to accept that it's not always human. Many Mondays, fear advances and gives way to imagined control. I remain in darkness for hours.

 

Time, you don't choose.

 

You have a good relationship with the past, the present, and the future. I sense that's part of the dilemma. Sometimes the future demands something of me… You tell me, “Don't get a big head, the future doesn't know you.” Perhaps, but I feel it challenges me, and I speak to it. It's true he doesn't answer… Maybe he's a little deaf.

We're on good terms with the past, but we're not exactly allies. Sometimes I think we are… Then he confronts me with all his pedigree and, without any decorum, reopens wounds that seemed healed. Right then, the present peeks in, showing me in detail each of my limitations.

 

You have breakfast with the past, lunch with the present, and go out for drinks with the future, leaving me alone. You suggest I make friends with everyone and enjoy the present. I'm human, it's not that simple. I can't choose any of them. My preferences keep changing. The complaints surface on Tuesdays at four.

 

Time, you're egocentric.

 

You're the protagonist of every moment of the day and night. Even if it's not intentional, it's still a lot.

 

The wind told me that you created the colors of dawn so that I would realize that only through you can I heal my deep wounds. We're both friends with the wind, but don't use it; you could have been the one to explain things to me. Its function is to rearrange. Maybe when I need those colors, I'll fall asleep or forget to look at them. I trust the wind, but I'd rather you know that there are days when I only see shadows... And there are days when I see rainbows. They're just moments. I'd like to know if color itself is a degree of darkness or light. I think I'm going to choose light. This time I can choose what's good for me.

 

Suddenly it's Wednesday, and between dreams and nightmares, I think of you. You're there for the first cry and the goodbye. I wonder if you can be the cause of both. You dazzle me and frighten me. You don't know when to stop.

 

Sometimes, I'm like a pendulum, and you're dramatic. I even think you have no morals, and then I forgive you. The inevitable confuses me. Dancing a slow dance with you would be nice.

 

Time, you are relentless.

 

I remember. I don't always remember that I forget. My last decade… did it even happen? I don't expect an answer. Actually, I'm still the same person I was yesterday. Almost young. The issue is the edge, that overflowing. I need to confess something I haven't told you. You were able to teach me to look at others with affection, but I still haven't learned to include myself. I try. The truth is, I don't always like how I see myself when I look in your reflection. I pretend not to notice. I want to hug you, kiss you, but I cover myself and turn off the light.

 

Are this face, this neck, these arms, these legs mine? I don't recognize them. You bewitched them, and now they are different. Yet, they are mine, even though I reject their new traces. I'm surprised that they are unconditional. Suddenly, I feel guilty. And you, you keep insisting that I don't know how to see and that I'm becoming more beautiful every day. And yes, some Thursdays at noon I walk backward. But after a while I let my guard down, my heart swells, and I move forward.

 

Time, you change my focus.

​

Who would have thought that adapting to reality would take so much of me? My energy falters, and my agility becomes disoriented. I witness the metamorphosis of my abilities. Surely, for new capacities to emerge, others must take secondary roles. It doesn't seem fair, but my opinion doesn't matter. The garment of agility is now ambivalence. I no longer reject it as before; I accept it, I incorporate it into my daily life. It came hand in hand with a certain appreciation for porosity. And compassion is the new dress of energy. This brand-new aptitude appears accompanied by soft, unpredictable tears whenever I feel pain. I feel sorry for people and animals who act badly. Do they act badly? I hope it's compassion and not madness. The positive thing about the trance of tears is that when they run dry, they provoke an inner silence that invites a smile, and there you're right, the noise fades.

Ambivalence and compassion are linked to resilience. The three of them are brave and get along well with the present, the past, and the future. My dear Time, I understand that you are the one who introduced me to them, and I am glad that this is so. They nourish my heart on sunny days.

 

Time, you hold particles of infinity.

 

Just as your passage reveals folds within folds, I offer games and labyrinths. I have good news for you: today my heart began its waxing phase. It remembers and shines. It brings me images of people we saw together and draws me closer to you and to the bloodless past. I close my eyes, my heart trembles, and the memories return, gently but without warning.

 

First come those ladies with giant hands and white hair. The compassionate one and the distrustful one—do you remember them? They stare at me, and I feel them. I think they return to point something out to me. Could it be the arrival of ambivalence? You say that every person contains doses of distrust and compassion.

 

I swim again in my memory and hear sounds, fragments of laughter and shouts of children running in the yard to perform their ritual. What a privilege all that we experienced together, my dear Time. Do you remember the gaze of that fisherman in his dwelling? It's true we didn't see his face, but his whole body looked at us. He was powerful. Although he didn't utter a word, we knew the sea was his ally, as play is mine. He wasn't afraid of the sirens' song. The wind and he pause my memory.

 

Suddenly, my heart lights up, the wind recedes, and another image slips in. The silence gives way to the droplets. Bold and wildly beautiful. They live in the past and the present. Alone or together in the web woven by the spider. You and I always look for them at dawn and dusk. And I photograph them. Is it a portrait, even though the droplets don't know they are being photographed? In any case, perhaps I'll find some answer there. It's Friday, and today I wore my glasses again. I'm calm, and I miss you.

 

Time, the seconds tick by.

 

There are days when my limitations intensify and expand. I get lost. Old wounds return, but disguised as new conflicts. My heart and brain don't agree because they don't realize it's actually the same wound in a different form. It becomes disoriented, deflates, fragments, splinters. However, it's a permeable muscle: it touches love, redoubles its strength, and heals. These are just moments. The heart can recover.

 

This super-organ pumps blood. And that blood, the miraculous red blood, oxygenates us. The heart makes noise, has rhythm, dances, and draws its mark on a divine canvas. This year I discovered something that moves me: it seems the heart can not only recover but also nourish the soul. I need you to know that my heart beats differently when it sees you. It's Saturday, and I'm singing.

​

Time, we are asymmetrical.

 

I need to write you this letter because, slowly, I am letting go of what hurts me, accepting reality and appreciating the immensity I adore in you. You broaden my perspective and bring new things, some I don't choose and others I desire and need, all at once. You are always in this world; yours is magical. Mine is mysterious; I am the one who is just passing through.

 

I will try not to argue with the future, although it doesn't listen to me anyway. I accept that you will continue moving at your pace and I at mine. My dear Time, I would like us to try to live together. I feel a caress. I don't know if it's yours or mine, but it doesn't matter. Thank you, thank you for what I can do today.

 

Through these words, I give you the color red, my humanity, and I ask you a favor. Without further games, testimonies, or laments, I beg you to remind me every now and then that, whatever the cost, I don't want to last, I just want to keep learning to live.