Although it may seem otherwise – and more after a year and a half digging an existential hole in which to take refuge from a hostile situation – we are not depressed. We are not anxious, we are not stressed, nor are we simply tired of rowing to nowhere. What happens to us, psychologists say, is that we have languor. Namely, an emotional drain whose shaker is filled with a balanced mix of demotivation, lack of focus, and abandonment. And all of this we drink bareback, without a sad drop of vodka. That is why we have been wanting to go French for so many months, without goodbyes or fried bagpipes. And that is why we are dying to pack our bags quickly and send everything to take wind.
We are all languid. Also countries, and institutions. And if not, ask the European Commission and the Government of London, which have once again clashed their horns in a diplomatic crisis: Boris Johnson is reluctant to apply the Northern Ireland Protocol – essential for the border between this country and the Republic of Ireland remains open – and Brussels is trilling. At this point I don’t know who will be more depressed, if Maros Sefcovic -Vice President of the Commission- or David Frost -Johnson’s minister and henchman-, but because of the number of living dead they spend, the competition must be close . Anguished or not, I’m afraid long faces are still going to last a couple of newscasts. Well, just like the rest, you will tell me. And they will be right. But, if it depends on me, I choose the philosophy of Jeff Bezos, who is already auctioning places for his first space trip. Before dead than simple. And, above all, earlier in the stratosphere than languid.