Life didn't promise so much

“They didn't deceive me… I wanted to believe something else.”

Life doesn't unfold as a coherent narrative. It's more like a scattered list of scenes that didn't ask permission to stay. Moments that accumulate without order, without hierarchy, without promise of meaning. A Sunday alone on a couch. A tequila night that cures nothing. A caress not born of love, but of habit or the fear of sleeping alone. All of that is also living.

We were taught to believe that experience is organized, that years build something akin to an upward trajectory. But reality is less kind: life fragments. A bit of quick sex to boast about, a kiss in front of the mirror to rehearse a better version of oneself, a betrayal you didn't expect, a pride you wave because it's the only thing they haven't taken from you yet. And still, we continue.

There are loves that arrive only to teach you to suffer well. With elegance. With dignity. Loves that were not meant to stay, but to leave a precise mark. There are friends who become enemies and enemies who justify your success. There are hospitals with jelly desserts that taste of defeat and survival at the same time. All of that also counts.

We live surrounded by objects that seem trivial, but carry a brutal symbolic power: a condom that expires unused, a paper airplane, mom's comb with glitter, a buttonless shirt, a notebook with equations you never solved. Small relics of what we were trying to be.

And meanwhile, the body insists. It insists on desiring, on falling, on getting up. On making mistakes. On finding excuses. On going on diets that don't last. On promising new beginnings every January. On believing there's still time. But time commits to no one.

We have a whole life to live it… and an unsettling knack for wasting it. We have religion for faith, songs to cry to, dreams of grandeur before bed, and a double personality to survive the next day. We have certainties that last minutes and thousands of "maybes" that are never resolved.

The real lesson is not in what we gain, but in what we lose without realizing it. In the wooden trains we stopped looking at. In the stones we no longer throw into the river. In the goodbyes we couldn't say better. In the relationships we maintained when there was no longer a choice, only inertia. Everything ends. Not as a threat, but as a reminder.

And perhaps that is the only possible wisdom: to understand that every scene —the shame in a motel, the kiss on a street corner, the shared solitude, the raised trophy, the bicycle fall— is valuable precisely because it doesn't repeat itself.

Remembering that we must die is not morbid. It is urgent. Because wasting, sooner or later, takes its toll. And life—with all its chaos, its incomplete eroticism, its accidental beauty—does not wait for us to be ready to understand it.