No name are going to be mentioned. However, I have noticed that some accounts are no more than vanity windows for people to show how good their homes are. While some of them are quite interesting to see, but my desire to see the people behind them is nil.
And I remembered what I was about to write when my mind went into a blank.
Nieve came and looked at me with those inquisitive eyes of his. He climbed and settled on my lap, all the time looking into my eyes. Then, he stretched and got comfortable to doze. Soon, Kit and Spring, who were watching on the floor, followed him and settled on my side.
I just let the moment go by, my mind flying from traces of years long gone, that palpitating moment, for to immerse into the years to come.
I do not even remember taking this photograph of Gatita. She must have been no older than a year, then. I found it when browsing thru my archives, although I was specifically looking for photographs of her.
It has been said, and written, that photographs became memories, taking over their texture, their depth. However, this is not the case in here, with this particular cat. I have no more than a handful of photographs of her, but the memories are, after forty years, still strong. I had not even remembered this particular image, I vaguely, looking at it, remember taking it. It brings no memories. The gentle bite of my knee, her looking at me from the top of the stairs as I left for work in the morning, scenes than there are embedded in my memory. They are of now.
Although it can be said that, because of the fact I had so little images of her allowed for the texture of memories to come forward. If this is the case, then the argument becomes circular: I have no memory at all of this photograph (therefore it did not becomes a memory), yet the memories I have of her are because there are no, or very little, photographic records of her.
Four words, thirteen characters, said by a sixteen year old girl. Yet, those characters are at the heart of the zeitgeist of our age. No one seems to be hearing anyone else, at least in public life, if not in the privacy of our homes. The malaise of our times, our blindness, our deafness. Our collective suicide.