In soul, body, and spirit. Three words that have shattered the lives of millions around the world. Three words that spread like a plague, like an epidemic caused by a highly contagious virus. Three words that have led me astray: I am not a damned human being made of soul, body, and spirit; I am a damned human being made of time—that cursed abstract word we are all made of. Just ask the dying whether we are made of time or not. How they would wish to prolong their agony just a little longer, to see if a miracle happens and they’re cured of the disease that’s killing them mercilessly, second by second.
Time passes so quickly that we can only count it in seconds, because we can’t count less than a second. And to think there are milliseconds—time divided by a thousand.
And I spent my whole life caring for the soul, the body, and the spirit; but I ignored time: I never cared for it, never protected it. I took it for granted, as if it were eternal, when in reality each day is one step closer to my death, to my role as a bad actor in this miserable comedy called life. That comedy where there are bad, average, good, and very good actors.
As time goes by, I learn of those who have gone ahead of me to the final destination. To console themselves, I’ve heard some say that the souls of the departed wander through the universe. What proof do they have of that? None. The only proof they have is the financial transaction for charging the grieving patient the price of consolation for the loss of their loved one—who, by the way, endured unpleasant moments in life, but now that they’re inert, it’s as if death purified them and separated them from all the bad they did and all the bad done to them. So, as the human gospel goes: there are no bad dead.
You notice your time is running out by looking into your eyes, how the lines contour and begin to color with the hue of death. I begin to see the two gaping holes that shelter these eyes, already tired of witnessing so much human misery: morning, afternoon, and night; every day of the year. Even asleep, one doesn’t escape time, because dreams also have a beginning and an end.
There are those who try to deceive time by masking the damage it causes to our bodies and minds.
The mind—another concept as abstract as time.
So how can one live well, if every day we think about the mind and time? Aren’t babies happy precisely because they don’t think about mind or time? They simply enjoy life until the age when time knocks on their door and presents itself, impassive. And then comes the mind: that tangle of thoughts that can drive you to madness.
Just as someone dying slowly from a terminal illness wonders how much time they have left and wishes, therefore, to put things in order before their departure, the mentally ill person is similarly inclined to organize their surroundings as a subconscious way of putting at least their external world in order, since their internal world is a complete mess.
And for those who are neither terminally ill nor suffering from mental disorders, there’s also a comforting phrase for their emotional discomforts: time heals everything. So says popular wisdom, although my experience tells me that time ruins everything. I’m convinced that in the days to come, time will bring me more misfortunes than pleasant moments. Pains so intense that not even the greatest joy could outweigh them.
So, for your own good, don’t get attached to anything or anyone, because everything will disappear one day.
Well, I’m off, because my time to write this has come to an end…
