lunes, 18 de enero de 2016

Waiting for Godot - Samuel Beckett


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A nice homage would be to write nothing.


That is what I wrote this afternoon. Before that, a friend told me to write something. He was so sure that I could. I am never sure about what I can or cannot do. But he thought so. That was nice.

Nothing much happened after that, until another kind friend paid this review a visit and said "to wait". And "if he does not show up tomorrow..." Well, what is to be done then? There are messengers that assured me he would come. I will keep waiting. Contemplating the same places, the same scenarios, over and over, until I can predict the entire world. Never neglect the little things of life.

And then I think. And then, some more. Do I really want to keep waiting?
I wonder if I even have that choice.

Then, a beautiful woman with a quick mind that could leave you staring at your shoes, utterly perplexed, came along. She told me that I comprehended an author with finesse. I thanked her, of course. But... did I? In the middle of this constant—and often tiresome—analysis that I cannot escape from, can I even begin to grasp the concept of anything at all?
There is meaning, somewhere. But I fear it will keep evading our presence until... Ah. Choose the metaphor you like. This is getting alarming.

A couple of minutes later, another lovely woman said that this was clever. I am not sure of that since I believe Goodreads would delete this in a heartbeat. But, oh well. Nothing to be done.

The second I finished writing this, a third woman, equally stunning and of enviable wits, appeared. This good friend that I so admire, asked me something like "Can we keep waiting even when he makes an appearance?" And that made me ponder. Are we prepared for such a visit? Us, simple mortals, are we ready to face that kind of revelation? We are still waiting by that tree. Still complaining about so much waiting. But I wouldn't know what to do if... I may be mistaken, though. I have the feeling I thought about this yesterday. Not sure what day is today but I definitely thought about this... yesterday. God. Either I forget immediately or I never forget.

I was about to leave when another kind man approached and left a lovely comment about the quality of this review. I often disagree but that is how my head functions. And it is always nice to read that, so I thanked him. It's the normal thing.

After some time—do not know how much time since I can never measure it—another friend stopped by. He was asking when to read a certain book. He was not waiting for Godot, he was waiting for the right time. Oh. That might just be him...
No. Ah, yes. Time. That unforgiving time that refuses to stop. Time flows, always. Always the minutes. Always the decades. Even if we remain in the same place, with the same glance, the same companionship: ourselves. I would like that friend to read this book as soon as possible. But I do not own the proper words to convince him. Hell, I do not own any word. They own me; a powerless captive. So, I think, I believe, I cannot say much.
We wait... A diversion comes along and what do we do? We let it go to waste. Come, let's go to work! In an instant all will vanish and we'll be alone once more, in the midst of nothingness!
Or worse, we won't be here at all.
...you have to decide, my friend.

Later, another friend came along and said that this review was his favorite of the year so far. And I thought that was a lovely compliment. The problem is that I kept thinking. And analyzing. And in further reflection I said to myself, “okay, I know I cannot measure time, I know that I am not sure if I am still living a yesterday or I am already living my tomorrow because this permanent sense of ennui that fills each day makes me forget everything, but I am aware that the year has just started.” And here we are, standing on this immense world with a myriad of possibilities and its inexorable absurdity haunting us everyday—an absurdity that allows anything to happen—so the fact that this review full of nonsense is someone's favorite of the year that has just begun, made me think. A better one might be written tomorrow. Or in a minute. And then, that's it. Ah. Stop thinking. All I know is that the hours are long, under these conditions. ... Let us not waste our time in idle discourse! I will make sure to say this as soon as I see this friend. Because days will pass and time will pass and things must be said.
...the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more. But that endless process does not apply to our ephemeral nature.

"Lovely musings", another friend wrote a couple of minutes ago. But when you think about it, there's nothing much to do, really. We are always looking for something new. Something else. Nothing much for me to find. It'd pass the time, they say. I haven't met anyone yet with the ability of breaking that vicious circle. We are here to spend time... And watch the sky as it changes its colors. A constant feeling of another day done with. We want to move, we say we'll go, we stay right here, like a not so lucky man with a rope around his neck.
Honestly. One is not master of one's mood.

As I was about to conclude with this illogical ode to the absurd, this dull melody that echoes the unpredictable nature of things and the tiresome search for what we are not meant to know, two more friends came along. The first one claimed to have seen him, the reason of it all. Apparently, he was trying to remember something. And at a cafe, no less! Whereas some of us are part of this useless but inevitable seek of meaning in life, trying to fill the gaps with something that might embody some source of comfort rather than simply embrace such absurdity of existence, hope for nothing and achieve a sense of freedom—if not freedom itself—Godot is passing the time at a cafe, completely unaware of our existence and our strong desire to meet him, as we see our days go by. Days that no longer perceive a different color. ...habit is a great deadener.
The last friend recommended me to watch the play that introduced me to these people that were waiting for Godot. And then mentioned another one. I cannot think of a better ending to this preposterous review. To postpone for a while this awfully exhausting search for meaning and enjoy another play that will probably make me think of that search almost immediately.
Human nature, my friend.

To be continued.
If you write.

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