Distances

Havana from La Cabaña

They say that one must take some distance to weigh, to value, to put in order each and every one of one's thoughts in moments when they tend to create certain emptiness or martyrdom.

I would then be like that lady, the city standing still in the distance, and my head full of clouds that, I don't know if you notice, look as if they want to get out of the landscape.

Distances may seem painful, however, they are there to remind us that our actions have brought them about to a greater or lesser extent. And who knows, maybe it's just that we have to accept what we sometimes struggle with: we live in a dual world. Reality-Mirror and we are inside that mirror. There, says my mentor, things happen instantaneously, not so on the other side where every action of ours, even what we think, or dream, can take X amount of time to become a reality.

Because the world of matter is slow. The one we live in every day is too fast to assimilate, and in this process we may end up disconnected from our purpose which would be to stay focused and always active in being our best version now; in taking advantage of every contingency and seeing them, invariably, as something that in the end will put you on that path you fervently seek to walk.

City, I belong to you, I said one day in a poem. And it is true, I belong to her because we are both one.

Morro Castle

Sometimes I have not been able to turn on the lights in my house, and I know that it is hard for those who are looking for me to find me. This is something that I repeat to myself every time and I try to make some glimmer, even if it is faint, emerge from the depths of my being. I am not perfect and that is why I work not in search of perfection, but at least to achieve a state in which life in the mirror is meaningful. It is the only way for the other side to shine.

But returning to the initial theme, without departing from the light of the lighthouse, that is, from my own light, there are distances that, although small, are immense, especially in love, although it is capable of resisting them as it can also resist time and silence.

Then there is no choice but to turn to Shakespeare when he says:

It is not love, the one that transforms with change, or recedes with distance.

That landscape that I observe -remember- is myself. I am made of breeze, of blue and salt. It is late and I can no longer say much more about the distance, but I have put in my mind the desire that between this small point that I am and the stopped city there is only a straight line, until we can touch each other.