It turned out that what was broken was not my charger, it was my MacBook. The non-apple charger I was using fried some internals which might turn out to be an expensive repair. I will get a quote on Monday. I had an old MacBook Air lying around, a machine from 2011 which still works surprisingly well, and I’m using that to write at this moment.
In the last few days I’ve been preparing a short trip to Germany, and then my final flight back to Mexico. I feel a bit overwhelmed: there’s many things I must complete before making this final move. I feel compelled to write about problems of the present rather than insights about life, as a way of dealing with them, I guess.
But I’ll begin tomorrow. For today, I will share a forgotten dream I found on this old computer, written down on spring of 2017:
May 20, 2017. Last night I had a dream which told me to begin writing again.
I was in the house where I grew up in Puebla, Mexico. It was no longer my parents’ home, it was mine; and I had done some renovations to it. I was waiting for my mother to arrive, but I still hadn’t installed a doorbell (to this day it doesn’t have one—it never has). I went up a newly installed staircase to the rooftop to be able to see her coming.
I saw mom arrive as cheerful as always, with a large backpack on her back. She made a pause at the park in front of the house, looked up and turned around as if seeking something. “the house is here mom”—I shouted from the rooftop, thinking her memory was failing her. “I know darling”—she responded with a smile—“I’m just admiring the stars”. I looked up and was surprised that it was already dark, there seemed to be daylight just moments ago, and instead of the constellations there where dozens of stars the size of dwarf moons, hugged by clouds “those are some strange stars!” I exclaimed from the rooftop, “they look like pearls inside open oysters”. We admired the scene for some time, and then went inside.
“You should begin writing again”, my mother told me, as we entered the living room. “Mom, there’s no need now, I’m well established and I have no need to promote myself”. “But it was never about self-promotion, do you remember you used to lock yourself in your room to write when I organized family gatherings?”. I conceded. “Do you remember how much you wrote when you broke up with your girlfriend? You didn’t leave your room in a month”. Ah, I had forgotten about this too. “But I don’t see the point mom, what would I be escaping now?”. And so I woke up with this question in my mind.
Would writing be a form of escapism at this time? Was it ever a form of escapism? In former times, writing was a way of understanding design. I would go into seclusion not only to avoid socialization but from a desire to understand. Nowadays my obsession lies in attempting to understand more about myself. Perhaps by writing about it, the obsession will burn itself in the same way it burned design away.