VIDA INTERIOR

There often come days when I open the door of myself and suddenly, there it is the meaning of my life. Inside, everything is coherent, perfect, systematic. Outside, I am afraid all the time because I have learned to be. The good go up, the bad go down, my mother used to say about the order of things. I haven't seen her pray since.

I am a steppe wolf, free from paradigms. Am I free? I don't learn languages because almost all humans understand each other. Something restrains us, something always constructs us. Nevertheless, I am addicted to meanings, and my psychology is as complex as that of villains. I am also given to the inevitable paradoxes of living on this earth. Likewise, to the nostalgia of knowing myself to be strange, to the love and hate I feel for her. Carrot cakes are exquisite to me. Why do I never eat them?

It could be said that some had already created the future and that others trailed in their wake. I have discovered, through the writings of a man who is now dust, several ingenious things I agree with, with whom I share an intellectual kinship. I met a woman who loves in the past. That is why, despite my naivety, I learned early on that time does not exist and that anything I say can become the truth.

I walk through Havana at night to observe the gallery of life and to perpetrate my composition of light and shadow. My house is my world. I have furnished its architecture with the memories of others, that catalog of objects so hard to throw away or keep, which, to my dismay, I continue adapting to each circumstance. My family in the shadows, being intimate, is almost like everyone else's. I have been able to see the interiors, and the energy is so strong that I cannot confine it within my rational perspective.

Is it strangeness or science? I do not wrestle with immortal antinomies. Let those who can create meanings say what they will; perhaps they will say it is art. I only want to take a picture of my inner life. I want them to see a chaotic enumeration: the order of my things.