Today at six in the afternoon I died by own decision. The cold gripped my spine, and as my flesh fell on the concrete of the plaza I was finally able to understand. Dying is not so bad. It is a simple process, stimulating, somewhat tortuous but I recommend it. After the pain caused by the second in which you travel your life placing in the balance, one by one, meritorious actions, you realize that they are just a pinch of salt, you plant in front of the coffin to hear the rosary of comments and definitions of What they thought known and not so much, about who you were. I just remembered an old poem of my adolescence:
I am a hidden ghost,
I'm empty of love in the night,
Asleep forgetting at dawn,
Tired of walking naked
I am a stupid ghost
Carved in soft sadness
Murmur of old holidays
I remember the coldness
I am the shadow that walks
With hands covered in salt
The eyes; Dark bowls
The soul; another one
I am a battered corpse
Wet in the city
Hump as a souvenir
Of a sad humanity
I am the void that cries
I am the same loneliness
I'm the one who's broken to pieces
I am the mirror, no more.
After the rapid and countless succession of emotions before the certainty of my own extinction, anger, fear, doubt, joy, and finally peace; The inevitable process of reflection began. A detailed analysis of the way forward, what actions I should have taken, so that when I stood in front of the boat of Charon (An old grumpy man with a cane, who insists on charging to leave him to one side of the river of The dead), I would not regret and cross the Styx free of fear and with a clear conscience.
I think it is at this point that I must clarify that what I narrate is not a fable, nor delusions of a madman, much less the desire for a pen to poetize or fiction. Reason why I must stop to draw your attention to the unquestionable fact of my disappearance today at six o'clock in the middle of a poor square, full of children and indigents. I know it, and even if it does not appear reflected in any newspaper, or there is a grave that certifies it, I still feel in my soul the sword that by my own decision I buried in the middle of my chest
I go on ... You might think that at that moment one can ask the rigorous questions Who am I? Why me? What was it all worth? And an innumerable etcetera. You really know the answer to all those questions flat and simple. Death is like a happy little box comes with the included toy, although it is not always the one you want. The answers are so vulgarly sincere; That are not understood, like those toys.
Well, yes, who am I? It responds with a word so equal to the one I have so often pronounced without tone or sound, but so different in content, substance and body. So distant from the I of five and fifty-nine today. It infuriates me so that I am reduced to a monosyllable, which I can no longer pronounce, for having said it for the last time, it ceased to exist, it became a museum relic. That binomial of letters that guaranteed my existence happened from the moment I pronounce it, it ceased to be, it was transformed perhaps, but ultimately it was not the same and "I" was no longer me
I do not remember who was the one who said "One is what he thinks" however, I can confirm this maxim. Conscience “Conciencia” according to the Royal Academy of the Spanish language is: "Property of the human spirit to recognize itself in its essential attributes and in all the modifications that it undergoes in itself" well, more than a property is a state, I do not know if mental or Spiritual, or each of these bodies have the possibility of consciousness, what if it is true is that only experiencing a deep moment of knowledge can understand what it is and even more what it means.
In that old little square of the San Martín avenue of Caracas asking me incessantly Why? I came to the conclusion that I had to go to the end to look for an answer, and it is chilling to think that every day action carries with it the mark of a funeral, which is far from being personal only, is collective.
We strive to: get food, dress, protect ourselves from the elements and multiply what viruses, but in few or no time we worry about making a high of reflection and self knowledge, as a society we exist to maintain a utopia that maybe only a few Take advantage It is therefore imperative, the pause, to weigh our own steps to assume the correct value of what that ephemeral "I" means and to put the capital letters with their respective filling. Our language (as an expression of our identity) takes the height that it should, so that as a collective we can give a coherent sense to this square and its indigents, to die with our boots on and try, as far as possible, to guarantee us durability. It is not permissible to continue walking like zombies, I lived at six, is unforgivable every step irreflexive, every drop of sweat only out of necessity or automatism.
It is here that I hope that Plato's idea that the soul endures is true, that paradise is fulfilled, but like most religions, I think that a careful and measured life, regulated by the pursuit of happiness, is necessary. "CONSCIOUS" because otherwise we could pass by (happiness) just like the person next door, or the unparalleled sensation of breathing.
Consciousness has several meanings, all valid and interrelated. They have to be experienced and practiced. But ruling life with this path is not easy! It must become a moment of enlightenment in a habit, which gives it mortality every second so that the next can live with all the force of the here and now. I will make my effort from six to one in the afternoon. However, I know that change would be glorious if it were collective, that as a city we became aware of "who" we are, what it means to be a city and citizens; Even if, as a country, continent or planet, we become aware that we are citizens of the world, that we are a huge "I" and not bits of myself, that my brother is not such, nor my neighbor, nor my teacher, .
How important it would then be for everyone to die, so that no one else dies in Iraq, Syria, Venezuela or nowhere.
I see the square now, six and a minute, the girl almost naked, the old lady in the cafe, the man with no roof or clothes, the woman with the skin of worms, the couple next door, the bank man, the nurse The dog that barks, the statue that cries, the pigeon that passes, my soul hurts, it hurts to know, to understand that those who suffer are not them, but "I" that I fall into the concrete
PLEASE: IF THIS REFLECTION LIKE YOU
