A hubbub of birds in my window. I guess they sing happily and festively. It would be advisable to let myself be infected by those songs, but I don’t even try. My mood is not for enjoyment. I sense that at this moment a kind of fatigue emotional—a certain tedium—that makes me unable to completely put together what I could write or be writing. I have no mood to write nothing. Although up to this point I have already written three hundred and ninety-eight characters and around eighty-four words—eighty-seven to be exact—which already make up the seventh line of what could be taken as the approach—the first outline—of what is supposed to be the content of the present text. If there is any, and as long as there is no problem in assuming that it can be taken as such. Well, my objective, being here typing this and that, is not to propose anything: neither theoretical framework nor thesis nor antithesis nor hypothesis nor manifesto of any kind. No, I simply try to complete the sheet that I require to consider the task completed. This means that I write only so as not to leave the space assigned for this purpose blank, so what is written here may not have any use or meaning and may be lost in nothingness. If nothingness exists. Personally, I’m not very sure about it, I think of it as a crack in itself—I don’t know whether to call it doubt—and it’s what makes me type these words. In principle, I assume that nothing can also be writeable. In this sense I write. It doesn’t matter that, as usual, what I write is not what I want to write. In any case, it comforts me a little to know that in Culiacan —I’m out of that city now—this Sunday people took to the streets to demonstrate against the violence that affects us all, because in this universe everything connects with everything and the flight of a butterfly in India can cause a hurricane anywhere. another part of the world. That is, nothing and everything can be the front and back of a blank page that invites you to write on it.
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#scriptural #nothingness