Veracruz at night

Wednesday, January 25, 2023

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With increasing frequency, the recurring dream.

I find it hard to describe, partly because of my mediocre storytelling skills and also because what lingers from the dream after waking is a deep, contemplative feeling of loneliness, of helplessness.

It’s night, and it seems to have rained—the black asphalt has become a mirror, reflecting every light from the signs, the streetlamps, the throng of cars confined to the avenue, all desperate to go to the same place. The ground is an inert mirror.

And there’s the cold too, the icy wind trying to drive us back into our homes. The street is a terrible place, and the illuminated shop windows feel so comforting.

Everyone is barely a blur on the city’s mirror, and the city itself is enormous; the roar of engines deafens you. It’s absurd to think of oneself, and yet there I am, thinking of myself—terrified by loneliness and by freedom and by the insignificance of my reflection. I’m a child, and I’ve lost my parents in the crowd; there’s no hand to guide me and help me grasp my situation. I must choose a path, but I’m paralyzed—the possibilities are endless, and I can’t see a single one.

Loneliness is an icy stab that sometimes wakes me in the dead of night.