Day: April 7, 2014

13

  By

And all this, to start again.

For the last time.

He glanced for the last time at the pile of boxes and packages that he had already packed. It seemed incredible the amount of shit that one could get to accumulate over the years. And he was not a collector at all: he did not buy books or music or movies… and even so, in the last five years he had accumulated a total of two large suitcases, ten cardboard boxes, a couple of guitars, an amp and a thirty-two inch television.

He realized at that moment that his life could be divided in approximately five year cycles. It felt that, even without changes being imposed, upon every five years he faced a revolution that shook him and left him crippled. Furthermore, these changes were almost always based on movement. Going from one place to another, changing residences was the norm. As if moving places would bring a real change. Despite understanding that it did not work that way, life took him to move in five-year intervals, so exact that it overwhelmed him. Not all the decisions had been good. Many of those changes had not contributed anything interesting but he did not regret them. None of them had ended up being a disaster. He had always liked to try and change, even if it was for worse, than standing still without risking anything and complaining constantly about everything. How he used to do fifteen years ago.

As everyone almost did.

The rain was tolling the window. An empty house expecting new tenants. Looking out the window that had accompanied him during the last three years he recalled his first day on the island. Just off the ferry, he realized that there was something special about this place . It was winter and it was cold, and even by the sea, it was snowing. But the snow did not fall. The snow was suspended in the air going up and down and up again. At that time, still twenty -seven years old, that floating snow seemed the perfect metaphor for his life. He saw the rain falling through the window, but did so with aplomb and a precision he had never seen before.

And all this, to start again.

For the last time.

Or maybe not.

13

  By

I tot plegat, per tornar a començar.

Per última vegada.

Va fer una darrera mirada a la pila de caixes i paquets que ja havia embalat. Li semblava mentida la quantitat de merda que es podia arribar a acumular amb els anys. I això que ell no era un col·leccionista de res: no comprava llibres, ni música, ni pel·lícules… i tot i així, en els últims cinc anys, havia acumulat un total de dues maletes grans a vessar, deu caixes de cartró, un parell de guitarres amb amplificador i una televisió de trenta-dues polzades.

Es va adonar en aquell moment que la seva vida es podia dividir en cicles d’uns cinc anys. Tenia la sensació que, tot i sense ser canvis forçats, cada lustre s’enfrontava a una gran revolució que el sacsejava i el deixava baldat. A més a més, gairebé tots aquests canvis eren sempre basats en el moviment. Anar d’un lloc a l’altre i canviar de residència era la norma. Com si un canvi de lloc hagués de reportar un canvi real. Tot i haver entès que no era pas així, la vida el duia a moure’s en intervals de cinc anys, tan exactes que l’aclaparaven. No totes aquelles decisions havien sigut bones. Molts d’aquells canvis no li havien aportat res de res però tampoc se’n penedia. Cap havia acabat sent desastrós. Sempre li havia semblat millor provar de canviar encara que fos a pitjor que no pas quedar-se quiet sense arriscar mai per res i queixar-se constantment de tot. Com havia fet tantes vegades feia quinze anys.

Com feia gairebé tothom.

La pluja repicava els vidres de la casa. Una casa que esperava, buida, als nous inquilins. Mirant per aquella finestra que l’havia acompanyat durant els últims temps va recordar el seu primer dia a l’illa. Només baixar del ferry es va adonar que aquell lloc tenia quelcom especial. Era hivern i feia fred i, tot i ser vora el mar, nevava. Però la neu no queia, quedava suspesa a l’aire i pujava i baixava i tornava a pujar. En aquells moments, encara amb vint-i-set anys, aquella neu que flotava li semblava la metàfora més perfecta de la seva vida. La pluja que ara veia caure a través de la finestra, però, ho feia amb un aplom i una precisió que no havia vist mai.

I tot plegat, per tornar a començar.

Per última vegada.

O potser no.