Buenas noches...

I don't usually write a note for the end of the year. In fact, I used to spend the mornings of this day thinking about what I would do at night, creating representations of what could happen or simply invading my body of memories.

I have, as it were, memories in the bedroom. Today, this morning, I woke up without thinking much, but I felt the magazine full. I feel that a tear, no matter how shy it drowns in my eye, will start a faint river down my cheeks.

I remember and it hurts. I guess it's normal. In fact, what one is cured of in psychoanalysis is the disease of remembering. But this is different. I treasure the love that was in those days. I fondly long for those hours of preparation, the heat at the end of the year, the laughter in another shared language and thoughts of other common ones. A little chilly, but nothing hotter than vegetables roasted on a Chinese grill. Rare mixtures between east and west that unfold, thanks to love, for each of our senses.

Flows of affection, attention and difference included in a package that nobody asked for, but are delighted to receive.

New year arrives in a few hours. It's still sunny. I just planted some seeds. I thought that maybe, housing so much power, they would require a lot of water. But just in time, prudent, I pushed the water away. I tend to think that from the smallest and most insignificant, the huge will come out. From an accidental grimace comes a candy, a dinner, a bed devoid of order. Perhaps they are the advantages of living a pessimistic reality, any tiny change, accident, is received with the marvelous arms of an instinctual imagination.

I miss not being too much in my memories. Remembering holds tight to the canvases on which one can only paint over. Like an automaton that stops and begins to paint what is already dry, using the lines, colors and signs that were already there to start something obscene, ridiculous, new. You have to be very professional in the art of museum visits so as not to end up mixing the archaic with the ultramodern. And I personally am not the best at it. User level.

Therefore, making an account of the past does not add anything there but here. It is to the living beings, to our present states, that my atrocities on the mnemic are directed.

It is you who are reading this, I miss you dearly. Things were, just as we knew how to carry them. The events, even with their margins, gave us enough space to show us the affection that we never lacked, although we always wanted more. Synchronic dyssynchrony, a paradox that was sustained by the beautiful moments of harmony that you and I know well. The absolutes just touch. Massive plays in which all narcissism lost its essence to surrender to a mere blurred reflection of silent promises whispered with each caress of the wind in your eyes when dedicating to me a landscape of which I only capture the echo of its diaphanous being. Vehemence for a stupidity that is nothing more than a residual effect of dissatisfaction and thousands of years of evolution that take their toll. Like a messy Haiku the days were divided into three: elevation, stability, and descent. Three notes, three empty chords on which to coordinate our deafness and good eyesight. Bamboo reeds in the middle of a European forest. Remains of Stonehenge in a koi tank.

Under the auspices of a network of dream traders I remember how little my creations allow me. Laughter, plans, gaits and regrets come to me. Things walk and we walk with them. The truth was too important to just spend an afternoon in front of the lake. Long I passed, surely, over the concrete and singular. I can only universalize, but I'm doing well.

Nor did I think of extending this further, there. You know who you are. The best, as always, of the spark of having met us and the massive displays of our interlocking constellations. A warm and close, even at a distance, to be there.

See you soon, memories of these end of the year.