para sentir algo

Does autumn’s brevity mean something after all? Is it a lesson in the fire of the soul, the art of being present and the gentle breeze of letting go? Or is this simply how it feels to grow old?

The end of summer snuck up on me quietly and decisively. Every year it’s the same song: one day it’s people running around with their tops off under the scorching sun, and the next it’s lines of burrito-wrapped silhouettes with scrunching faces against the unyielding drizzle. I thought that, with time, I would get better at predicting the turn of the year — that brief consolation of autumn before the impending dip. But no. Perro viejo no aprende truco nuevo. An old dog does not learn new tricks. If anything, my seasonal compass is getting worse. It feels like I’m stuck in this quarterly breakup loop, and its predictability does little to soften the blow. It has me wondering if old habits ever die while starring in my own Groundhog Day cameo titled: my seasonal blues.

un atardecer en Madrid

It is what it is, I guess. Here we go again: eating out with the boys, having a laugh while brushing over what we really feel. Mau is dissecting the latest entry in the Mario Kart series, explaining how this game is actually better than the previous ones, glancing over at me as if this will make me jump back into that rabbit hole. He knows I retired after the 2022 incident when I lost every single race in our local tournament. No amount of red shells or divine intervention could save me that day. Fred is aware of the incident, having won said tournament three years in a row before meeting Sofi and deciding to give life more meaning. They just got back from holiday announcing their engagement, which is the whole point of today, but somehow we digressed.

Surrounded by my favourite people at one of my favourite spots in this remote land, I can’t help but stare at the now gold-coated leaves clinging to their branches for dear life, before slowly falling, ever so gracefully, to the ground. It’s as if they shine their brightest right as they are met with destiny. And all of them do. Eventually, all of us do too. Then, I remember Dylan Thomas:

“Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

the end of the world

Does autumn’s brevity mean something after all? Is it a lesson in the fire of the soul, the art of being present and the gentle breeze of letting go. Or is this simply how it feels to grow old? There’s something to it and the more I breathe, the more I see the universal cycles that surround me. Maybe I finally appreciate the beauty of change, of whispering goodbye and embracing what comes next.

What else can I do? My people taught me to put on a good face and carry on. Buena cara al mal tiempo. Your best face to face the worst weather. And I try, I do. I’m like that big orange in the sky, trying to shine bright despite the clouds that steal my light. My people knew there were better days ahead, and even when those days never came, hope prevailed and still kindles away. Porque esta vida solo es una. That’s my favourite chorus. And, what’s the point of not making the most of the little time we have here? Porque todo cambia y todo pasa.

I look straight at the shroud of grey that looms on the horizon and still trust the process. And yet my brain chemistry today is only blue. Azul. How long until it’s only sticks on the trees once more? Until the magic winks again? I close my eyes, and then a spark arrives, dropping me back into the real world. Our food is here, it’s rush hour and the restaurant is swamped. Julian Casablancas sings in the background:

“Life is too short but I will live for you.”

everlasting light

In front of me, a masterpiece: four perfectly done tortillas de maíz azul with sliced pastor cooked to perfection, crowned with the mandatory piña, cilantro y cebolla. Con un poco de limón. And what follows is a surgical decision to select one of the four homemade salsas dancing in front of me.

Today is not the day for the go-to green salsa, no. It’s too mild, too normal, and too safe. To the far right, nearly untouched, una salsa de habanero rojo. What is it that abuelo used to say? Si no pica, no sabe, mijo. If it doesn’t sting, it doesn’t taste, son. A wise man, mi abuelo — a lonely, strange man as well — but I miss him nonetheless. I dreamt about him yesterday, even though it’s been years since he passed away. I wonder what he would say to all of this.

“Are you sure you didn’t put enough salsa?” says Fred in his victoriously dry and cheerful tone.

I smile picking up my first of the day saying “Anything to feel something, man,” before biting into joy, a lingering sting from the red salsa swelling my upper lip.

The laughter returns.
The dip feels lighter. Lo que sea para sentir algo.

sombras de verano