Thinking about death - not in a filial or final sense, but as a process - is more constant the more you wear down.
That idea that assaults you after a long period of sleeplessness, bottles, smoked and fucked; the flow of the body through hedonism that makes you reflect on the STD's and the self-atropels that your parents urged you to take care of.
Then, you put into perspective the years you've been holding red glasses and other people's lips: “If I keep going like this, where will I get to? How long will it take to have this or stop having that?”
Live fast, die young“ seems to you an axiom that is better heard as a song title than as a mantra; it depresses you to think of the 27-year-old club and it depresses you even more to think of so many commercials for rejuvenating creams.
Then there are the flashbacks: from the first beer at 16 to the current twinge of the raw or from the first punch in high school to what caused you to get pins in your tibia.
Then you think of that “healthy living” phrase, which is usually touted with a smiling, athletic, fair-skinned guy or gal or couple. And in the back a wooded landscape or a bunch of vegetables or bottles of water.
You ask yourself, “Will it be worth the effort?” Going to the gym instead of the bar and ordering a juice instead of a Jim Beam. And you think yes, it's a matter of making up your mind. You go to sleep with that thought, so you set your alarm for 6 am.
The next day you wake up at almost noon and go to the refrigerator for a can with the name of the king of the jungle on it. Back in bed, you recap out loud, “What happened last night?”.
While you remember so many ideas that now seem stupid to you, you take a sip of your drink. You laugh because you know that tomorrow or in the new year, you will have the chance to have a fresh start...if you don't die first.
Photography by Martin Canova
I write in cheap notebooks and in media such as Milenio, Nexos and Yaconic. Fond of forests and panthers.