Saturday, September 18, 2004

I am thinking. I repeat it to myself, over and over again, everyday, because it's importance never ceases to amaze me. Each day that you live is worth recording, each day has a fragment of truth, of the whole that is life, of the whole that is human history.

So I'll try to start, because I half-woke up today in this half existance that is my family's hometown. Because nothing ever seems to happen here that carries the urgency of real life, it moves slowly, like a dream, very like the motions of the living but not quite. And so it is here that the gaze turns inward and that I hear every memory, every tidbit of information about the people who gave me life.

One of my mother's old friends called today, it has been fifteen years since my mother saw her last, at her daughter's birthday party. A daughter that might be my age today. My mother went to Europe for the first time with this woman. She is most likely talking to her as I write.

There is something important there, in every word spoken here, that I relegate to memory with every trip. I have been reading "Ensayo sobre la ceguera" by José Saramago, Nobel Prize winner. And maybe it is these awkward mental notes that might eventually make a novel worth the chance.

I am roleplaying over messenger and I seem to have lost the thread of this entry... I'll try tomorrow. It's getting late.

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