January 24, 2022 2:04 pm

Those who weave life with us

We tend to believe many things that are not true. Some are not even credible. Others are credible, but most unlikely. And we even have certainties and consensual, undisputed and indisputable convictions, which of course have nothing to do with what happens in the facts. That the sun rises. Or that it is enough to want something very much very much.

But it’s okay. We are human and it is in the alchemy of our contradictions and in the unpredictability of our nature that the miracle of genius or that of ideas occurs. The rest of the living beings, more linear and reasonable, free from the paradoxes of consciousness and its unbearable questions, move away from the fire. The human, about a million years ago, did the opposite. It was, burned and dominated the flaming demon. Ten thousand centuries later, we would boast of Prometheus, but not without subjecting him to a horrifying and eternal damnation.

Among the many fables that seal our behavior, there is one that is particularly harmful, because not only is it not questioned, but in most cases it is not even perceived. We all believe that in reality there may be gaps, empty spaces, places that await us or where we need to. In my opinion (and in my experience), this is not how life works. If we are missing something, whether or not we are aware of this deprivation, of this void, we are going to fill it, whether we realize it or not, with something else. With some new activity, with a relationship, with another relationship. In this, life is the twin sister of time, which we cannot stop. Not even for an instant, because an instant is also time.

We tend to believe a lot of things that are not, and the most infamous is that the other (whatever the other) is aware of our needs and desires. It’s the other way around. The other (whoever he is) is battling with his own torn plot, relocating the pieces in a puzzle of drives and fears, desires and ghosts, because it is not lawful for it to remain in what we call living a single hole, no matter how small and insignificant as it may seem, as we cannot skip a second or half a second.

We often wonder about the meaning of life. Another of our paradoxes, of course, because everything would indicate that the meaning of life is to wonder about the meaning of life; uroboric, at a minimum.

But, leaving philosophizing aside and going to something more pragmatic (which is where the meaning of life stops being a problem), we are all trying all the time that our lives are a nice tapestry and not a sorry rag. I know, in general we feel that our lives are full of holes and that those of others are divine and exotic genres, perfect, smooth, without a single weak point. A false thing, as one discovers when talking to people, a habit that I have had since I was little and that has taught me one of the most important lessons of all: never look at what your neighbor does. Never is never.

Did you see that the truth is within us? It is quite true. I would say that it is rather in the small domestic loom where, every day, we effortlessly weave life with our closest ones. If you spend your time looking at what others are doing, how they are doing, how green their grass is, how many followers they have, and thus, you are neglecting your own existential canvas.

But there is one more lesson, submerged underneath it. The loom never stops, whatever we do. The canvas is always complete, each thread in its place. That’s not the question. The question is how much of this fabric is our own work or the result of our being absent. I am not sure that we are architects of our destiny; not always and not all the time, in my opinion. However, we can weave more and pay more attention to those who weave with us. But yes, it is also very human to not see what we have in front of our own noses.


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