I do not believe in metaphysics, nor in magic, nor in alchemy; nor do I believe that the universe listens like a cosmic Pachamama, awaiting with its hammer to judge our destiny. Rather, I believe that we are victims of the thousand decisions we make each day, of their consequences, of the materialization of our words, our actions, our desires. But we do not accept the simplicity of objectivity; there must be something more, we tell ourselves in introspection, and we fill ourselves with anxiety and uncertainty when the answer to our frustrations and problems lies in how we react to everything we touch.
It corrodes our hearts to think that we are alone, and we traverse life in disguises because we do not believe ourselves worthy of our own dignity, of being loved, desired, compensated for our very essence. Then we are trapped by the narrative we navigate, and in the reality of an unadorned face we become vulnerable; the prison of our mind assaults us, the one that does not believe in luck, the one that feels we will never be enough. But enough for what, for whom, for what reason? At some point, this life finds us destroyed, because one day we decided it was better to pretend we could be more than we are.
The fear of loneliness collides, explodes, and destroys our spirit, hanging from the wing of a bird that left us in mid-flight because we were not who we should have been. The masks dissolved, the rain erased the footprints of our passage, and in the end, we are left facing the relentless reflection in a mirror that strikes us with courage and strips our nakedness bare. Why didn't I love her as she is, why didn't they love me as I am? Perhaps it would have been so if you hadn't had to invent a destiny you hadn't lived, and in the web of fictional stories you wove to be more interesting, you discovered that in the end you had to invent someone who never existed, and the fear of loneliness left you alone.
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