Living while living: Monologue of a woman who knows

12:45 a.m. on some night already lived long ago

My daughters are asleep. Everything is ready to begin a new day—after, of course, a well-deserved rest. Yet, I am not sleepy.

I walk to the minibar in my living room and take one of those wide, round glasses I like so much, drop in thick cubes of ice that will soften the taste of my exquisite, warm Legendario rum. And there I go, ready to lose myself in memories or simply to drift through perceptions and thoughts, accompanied by my inseparable dog and my hot, thrilling delights.

I recline—without fully lying down—on a summer divan that, brave as it is, still stands despite the daily use we give it. I’m lucky enough to see a small piece of sky from my patio, a slice that always enchants me with its nightly surprises. I wrap my shoulders with my Canary poncho; it’s spring, and the chill of the night gnaws at me, joined by the glacial silence of my tormented soul. I take a long, warm sip, enjoying it slowly as I gaze into the bright darkness. There is beauty, too, in admiring the lost nights—alone and in silence. For it is in such nights that only you can wander, unseen, through forbidden journeys, lustful moments, sleeping memories, and silent mental orgasms that barely graze your delicate skin—without anyone judging you or pointing an ignorant finger. Nights like these are also made for loving yourself, forgiving yourself for what was lived poorly, or for what, out of fear or the torture of others, you never dared to experience. Yes, these are rich nights—nights made for trembling with oneself.

I inhale the unknown scent of the night and breathe deeply. I take another delicious, warm sip. I bite my lower lip, imagining a libidinous moment with the one I secretly desire—without him even knowing it. I touch my face, my neck; I feel my hands tremble from so many kinds of cold. I caress a body that tonight is mine, only mine… and I breathe. I close my eyes and watch through my inner gaze—without thought, without fear, without judgment, without limits. Only then do I come alive and begin to reflect.

How many jobs I’ve done just to survive—how many! Gravedigger of souls more than of bodies, writer, psychologist, saleswoman, reporter, cleaner, small business owner, beautician, farmer, telemarketer, even once a makeup artist for the dead—so many, all born of the same mistake the system imposes on us to survive in a society enslaved by dogmas and archaic paradigms, plunging its servants into a globalized, mismanaged economy.

Thousands of lying boleros heard at the counter of a tavern filled with bohemians and lonely lovers in the middle of some sleepless dawn. Too many fugitives afraid of love.

Endless moments lost to hostility and meaningless games. So many drinks taken alone, tasting the bitter flavor of disappointment. Too much hypocrisy in lovers’ beds—those who know only monotony and heartbreak, unaware of the true elixir of well-made love.

And what can I say of those shots of liquor drunk in despair—to intoxicate the soul before it realizes it’s about to be branded once more by betrayal? What can I say of those landscapes etched into tear-soaked eyes? So many mistakes clinging like barnacles to our trembling hearts.

So much hunger and desolation—hunger mixed with despair. So many starving souls wandering alleys that lead nowhere. And how can I not mention those cemeteries filled with frustrated artists, untimely sages, lonely dreamers—souls too afraid to leap, who let slip the only truth that foretells triumph: fighting for a dream. So many eternal winters, murderers of spring, of summer, of autumn. And that poor madman locked behind cold, gloomy walls simply for thinking, for being “different.”

There have been so many rainy days that soak the soul more than the skin—stormy days conspiring with memories that take form in the living fire of a hearth that warms a cold room, yet never the body. Too many living romances buried in the prose of beautiful poets.

So much, and so many things! Life is so intense, and at the same time so fleeting, that without realizing it—in a fragile blink—we inhale that first breath almost in unison with the last.

I open my eyes and gaze at the shining ceiling full of celestial bodies. I embrace myself tightly. I look at my dog, Perla, who watches me with delight. I shift slightly on the lounger and stroke her grateful little face—she, always so faithful, so full of love.

I drink the last drop of rum and continue staring into the dark nothingness that mirrors my thoughts, worshipping life itself.

And I wonder: Despite all existential agony, is it truly worth living poorly—or simply not living at all? It is a grave mistake to live poorly or not to live. Life itself offers, each day, a million reasons that justify our existence. I know my body will one day die, but tonight—more than ever—I will redeem myself and shout:

“I choose, even if it costs me my life, to live… living.”

With deepest love: Yirka Gonzalez