Lost and founds..

I wrote to console my sister like I said I would. Then I called home and Isabel answered promptly. It’s funny how sinister she is read here and how gullible she really is in the world out there. When amateurs are asked to draw, their face drawings resemble their own likeness… something similar occurs when reading characters or situations illustrated on verbal form. We must be able to relate in someway to the words in front of us. Language guards a certain quality of echoing its epoch. Even science fiction (wrongly translated in Spanish as "Ciencia Ficcion", when it should be something more like "Ciencia Cientifica", as noted by Borges)has reality at its infrastructure. Things among themselves are more similar than they seemed. Morality and justice are sentiments born out of the necessity to live in peace as a society. So, in the end, while drawing the world around me I am really drawing a reflection so well known: my own.
Most of us meet alcohol around the same time as we start becoming aware of the opposite sex. Both used to only leave us hangovers. We’d go out and divorce in no time, respect our parents, and raise our children without murmuring a word. It seems that whether we go and destroy on the outdoors, or stay home and create within, we are somewhat disappointed at the inner outcome. How nice it would be to get home and sleep in between two gorgeous girls. As a matter of fact, in my life, I have done so. Once even I slept with three different girls on a same bed. This all seems so monotonous to me. Get up, eat, go to work, come home and sleep. I guess I’m pacing myself, since I’m not really in a rush to get anywhere by now. But there are nonetheless deadlines I must meet. I think it’s lucky of me being able to recover the writings I had lost. Didn’t I say anything about it before? It all happened so suddenly: one day, yesterday, I open my document files and find nothing more than the two conversations I had on the same morning of that particular day, and no sign of my writings. I went bizarre. I looked in the recycle bin, and nothing. Finally, I got help from Vangelis’ father, Winnie. Islanders tend to be so exotic with their names sometimes. The rarest name of all I ever heard in Spanish translates exactly into “welcome” (Bienvenido). Now that I remember that particular anecdote, I lost a writing that had a scene in which a guy by that name was being made fun of. I’ve lost so much time, and so many well written things, and ideas, that I think I might have never stopped to consider the possibility if everything that occurs to me, the way I see things and life, is ever out of date or boring. I have been boring and this is the worst I’ve ever been when it comes to words (these very words you are reading are boredom to me), but perfectionism could be more harmful than it seems. I am not implying that we should do away with our pursuit of excellence. But sometimes we should remember that no matter how well something is written or done, there’s always a way to better it or top it. So relax, have a smoke, and vegetate… now that the words are right where I left what else is left of me but to continue being wasteful and love it. In the moment we lose something, a desire to possess it overwhelms us. This experience I had with my writings seemed a little like the one experienced with girls in someway. You think you want something so bad but only until you have it.