Sobre la teoría cinéticomolecular y el calorcito

Ayer se me ocurrió que cuando dejas la cama y tu cuerpo la ha calentado levemente, y vuelves y sigue calentito, es porque las moléculas habían empezado a vibrar (asumiendo que sea un sólido) y aún no se había descargado toda la energía cinética que tenían, y con lo cual cuando llegas siguen vibrando pero un poco menos. Es por eso que se ha "perdido algo del calor que tú habías dejado" pero tampoco está fría.

En resumen, que "el calorcito" en realidad son las moléculas de la mantita vibrando.

A path of light, a path of darkness

It is the path of the few.

You cannot find it, it is only it who finds you, whether you like it or not; and when you find it, it is your duty to follow it, for so few are chosen that those who are must do it; and when you decide to follow it, you must listen very carefully, because the signs, which have always been there, are nearly invisible to the human consciousness: you will have to reject yourself, reject some of the things you believe in so firmly, you may even have to reject the path itself, in order to find the signs which will guide you through it.

There's no telling what's at the end, only that one woman every three generations is allowed to come back for a handful of days, though she cannot speak, nor draw, nor write; but her eyes, her eyes are said to hold all the truths of humanity and beyond.

It is said that the eyes of some returned have driven thousands into a hopeless search for enlightenment. The bodies of those who tried to follow them into the abyss were found in circles, with one flower in each hand and another one on the forehead.

So if the path of light, the path of darkness, the path of the few, is ever presented to you, follow it and you will know what to do, for you will have been chosen.

About the places that are memories

You are afraid to go there, that's the truth.

It is not that you are more comfortable here, or that it would take some effort to pack your things and get there, it is not even because you hace no friends there nowadays. It's because you are scared.

It is a place in your mind, where so many beautiful things happened, where you built so many lasting things, things that, even now, are present within you. But it is also a place only of memories, a place of the past, a place that holds all the good memories of the life of a person that you isn't you anymore. It is not a place where you can be in the present, for the you that fits there doesn't exist anymore. Furthermore, the person you used to be is still there, and you fear that if you go you might be absorbed, that you might disappear under the shadow of your past.

What can you find there, but something you rejected? What can you do there, if you did everything already? How can you even sleep there, when your mind will be filled with all the smells and the sights and the feelings that you swore to never let in again?

On the expectations of the being

I think what bothers me about them is probably the fact that they fit very smoothly into the different persons who I want to be, each one a different goal, with a different set of skills, with a different way to approach every aspect of life. Each one someone that I now know I will never be.

But I don't think that is going to be a problem. I think that maybe I cannot be any of the persons they are because I already am a someone, I already am myself, and being myself isn't necessarily bad. I'll have things to improve, for sure, but this way, I get to choose which traits to pick, which ones to discard, which one I am more comfortable with, which ones I feel there is something very wrong with.

Perspectivas

Sinceramente, creo que el verano que entra va a ser extraño. La cuarentena me ha hecho ver algo más claras unas cuantas cosas.

Llevo años haciéndome listas y listas de cosas que quiero hacer, cosas para las que en el momento de apuntarlas no tengo tiempo, pero confío en que lo tendré en el futuro. Y para eso son las vacaciones de verano, para quienes tenemos la suerte de poder tomárnoslas (con más o menos "tiempo libre").

Y siento, sé cada día con más certeza que tengo tal cantidad de cosas amontonadas que no voy a poder hacerlas todas. En cierto sentido, eso me apena un poco, porque parece que me estoy defraudando, que esas cosas son las que me permiten avanzar cultural e intelectualmente y que no voy a llegar a todas. Mirando la lista de libros me doy cuenta de que ni siquiera voy a llegar a un tercio de ellas.

Pero también supongo que está bien, ¿no? Quiero decir, si se acabaran las cosas que me interesan tendría un problema bastante grande, imagino. Pero aún así, me frustra un poco ver que me voy a quedar lejos, lejísimos de avanzar tanto como me gustaría.

Querría arreglar unas cuantas cosas que hay rotas por mi casa, limpiar unas ventanas que nunca se limpian, leer unos cuarenta libros (no shit here), completar cuatro o cinco videojuegos, ver películas, quedar, quedar mucho para compensar este año tan largo y extraño, acabar los Inktobers que tengo empezados, hacer activismo, hacerme una (otra) baraja de Magic, ir a trabajar a un santuario...

¿Cómo priorizar? Habrá que pensarlo.

Hirudinea

Se ha metido bajo tu piel.
¿Tú lo sabías? ¿Te importó? ¿Lo permitiste, quizá por una corazonada?
Le miraste, le tocaste, le respiraste y, en ese momento, tú dejaste de ser tú, solo tú, para pasar a ser tú, tú con ella dentro.
Ahora no piensas en otra cosa, o, mejor dicho, sigues pensando sobre todo lo demás, pero, todo ese tiempo, ella está ahí. Te mira en silencio desde detrás de tus globos oculares, te escucha desde detrás de tus oídos y tú no puedes, no quieres hacer nada. Probablemente lo más fácil sea dejarse llevar, dejarse rodear, invadir y conquistar, como meciéndote con las olas, sin remar, solo flotando.
¿A dónde os llevará esto? ¿Quiere ella ir a algún sitio?
¿Por qué se ha introducido en ti? ¿Necesitaba estar completa o solo va a alimentarse y dejar una cáscara vacía? Ese es el pensamiento que te aterra.

Self confinement in the head of Timothy. Timothy in the red room. The red room in the blue house

Timmy lay under the table, pondering... He knew he wasn't himself anymore. But who was he? What had happened to him? Was he now the person he had wanted to be? Had his wish somehow been granted? And what were the consequences of that?

Who was he now? Was that better than being no one at all?

Trying to go out of his world was harder every passing day, and each attempt was less and less successful. All of this was reinforced by his new mental rules: now he could only speak exactly three and a half sentences per day, and look at exactly five people in the eye, and consider the idea touching thirty-five different objects at most, of which then he could pick only twenty (which, if you think about it, is an extremely low upper limit for someone who intends to live, eat more than one meal a day, maintain a certain, even if small, amount of hygiene and perhaps, enjoy reading for a bit, if you take into account the fact that different pages counted as different objects, which of course he did).

Was he getting closer to his goal? Did that mean the world, the real world, would grow further and further away from him?

Was it worth it? In this world, he wasn't anyone, but still, was it a world he could afford to wave goodbye to? Maybe if he could count on— No. That would never haver worked, as much as the six of them had tried.
And so he was alone in the pursue of something more, of something better, but in that same pursuing he was leaving this world, trying to walk above the mist of the night, always finding small reasons to carry on, but never actually sure that he was right.

Timmy wasn't Timmy anymore, that's the only thing he knew.

Cumpleaños

La cama hecha, el escritorio vacío, los juguetes ordenados. Ni un calcetín sin su par, ni un pantalón fuera de su sitio en la percha, en el armario.

La persiana subida, la luz iluminando su cuarto.

Piensas que jamás será feliz lejos del mar, pero tú no eres quién para decidir eso, ni quieres serlo. Te sientas con cuidado en el borde de la cama, intentando no mover esa maldita colcha que siempre se cae hacia un lado, y recuerdas las tardes de risas, las mañanas de agobios y prisas.

Suena el teléfono a lo lejos. Te levantas. No tocas nada. Cierras la puerta con cuidado.

¿La vaca que ríe?

En primer lugar, confirmar que cada vez tengo más dejado el blog. Me sabe mal, pero es como van yendo las cosas y en este momento es así. Aunque con cuatro o cinco visitas al mes, tampoco es que sea ningún gran problema.

Y en segundo lugar, qué rabia ver los carteles de La vaca que ríe por ahí. No, ninguna vaca se ríe mientras está siendo inseminada artificialmente, ni cuando le sacan la leche, ni cuando le salen úlceras, ni cuando le arrebatan al ternero, ni cuando entra al matadero. La vaca no se ríe ni un poquito.

Ya sé que es una técnica publicitaria para transmitir una buena sensación a los consumidores y alejarlos de la verdad, pero qué rabia.