Sushi

   Just when she was about to do it, a man passing pulled her back. Natalya tripped on her feet and landed on her behind, just at the feet of her so-called savior. But she didn’t see him as his savior; he was just an old fool meddling in things that were not of his interest. She got on her feet and just then the train stopped in front of them. She gave one last look of hate to the old man, who seemed to be oblivious to it, and boarded the train. It was peak time and everyone seemed to be too close from one another but she didn’t mind. She walked to one of the windows and just stood there the rest of the trip, staring at the tunnel walls passing by. She had been so close to do what she had imagined for days, and then the man had stopped her and she didn’t even knew why.

 Her foot had not even left the ground, she hadn’t begun to walk and he had pulled her back. Did he already know what Natalya wanted to do or did he just act on instinct? She didn’t care at all. It had been so close and now that it hadn’t happened she didn’t knew if she had to be grateful or not. She felt strangely alive, even there, in such a bleak part of town. In the following stop, she got out of the train and walked to the surface with one idea on her mind. She walked pretty fast, remembering a place where she had been pretty happy some time ago. Natalya wanted some of that happiness now, as she could really use it. She didn’t have to walk a lot. The restaurant only had a few costumers and the waitress recognized her from the last time.

 Natalya sat on a table by the window and decided to have anything she wanted, never mind the price or the amount. She needed to feel better and maybe food was the way to do it. As she waited for the dishes, the woman looked at the window. But instead of looking at the exterior, she found herself in there. Her face was still young but her body was older, as if the two parts that formed her being, body and soul, had decided at one point to age differently. Her eyes were sad and her mouth had always been arched in a way that always seemed to be sad too. Thankfully, the nice waitress came back with her drink. She was seeing the reasons why she had decided to kill herself and she just wasn’t ready to do that, to confront herself right now.

 For the next hour, all that she did was eating. The restaurant served Japanese food mostly but it also had some dishes from other parts of Asia. The waitress commented that one of the cooks was from India, so he had the idea to make rice and curry as a companion to every dish. Natalya thought that was a clever idea and asked the waitress to thank him for his idea. Surprisingly, he came out of the kitchen after the waitress had disappeared and shook Natalya’s hand. She was a bit surprised but she smiled and thanked him again anyway. He left with a clear sense of pride and that was good enough to make her day a better one.

 When the waitress came with the bill, Natalya asked her to sit down. The woman, a young Japanese girl, started to speak rapidly. She thought that her client was going to demand an explanation of her bill or have some criticisms about the food or even complain about the cook. But the truth was that Natalya just wanted to speak to her. She asked her where she was from, how old she was and, at last, her name. Misako was only twenty-four years old and had been born right in the city, her parents been immigrants that left Japan because his father wanted to have a restaurant and there was too much competition in Tokyo. So they emigrated to be more successful. Before paying, Natalya asked Misako if they could have a drink before leaving and Misako said she had to ask, as she was still working.

 They waited until the restaurant was closed to talk and then Natalya found out that the young woman had a life that fascinated her. The fact that she had lived all of her life in the restaurant and knew how to make every dish in the menu was outstanding. Misako clarified that she never cooked for the restaurant but that she tried the recipes at home to check on her skills but she ate it all alone as she was too scared to tell her father that she cooked. She explained that he had an education thought for her: she had already finished law school and now wanted her to get the following degree, for which they were saving. But she had no courage to tell her parents that she didn’t wanted anything to do with law.

 They drank a couple of Asahi beers each, until they all stepped out of the restaurant. Natalya got to meet the Japanese cook, a very private man who only raised his hand to say “Bye”. She also shook hands again with the Indian one, who was still very happy to have his ideas praised. Then, she met Misako’s brother Kenzo, who worked at the cash register. He was younger than her and was visibly sleepy. She realized it was better to let them go to their home. Before doing so however, she gave Misako her number and her email, in order for them to be in contact. She told her that she would come again anyway but that it was necessary for her to guarantee that they would keep on speaking.

 As she walked home, Misako realized she had been maybe too desperate but at this point of her life she didn’t really care. And that was because she was indeed desperate for friends, attention, love and anything in between. Maybe the only way to make friends was to just improvise in a moment such as the one in the restaurant. When she got home, she got into bed thinking of her insecurities but she decided not to do a thing about them. After all, it was them that had almost pushed her over the edge, literally. She was going to make one final effort to be a happy person and Misako would be her first friend to help her do exactly that.

 As she walked up very early for the office, a place she hated more than anything, Natalya got a text from Misako telling her that she had an idea she wanted to discuss with her. Thrilled to know her new friend’s idea, she answered the text right back, on her way to the office. Sad for her, she only got the response once she had started working on the most boring papers ever. Natalya was a teacher on the department of philosophy and the truth was that she hated philosophy and all the pretentious people that populated the campus. They were so filled with hot air; she thought they could fly to Europe and back. She hated that place where everyone tried so hard to be considered smart and unique when, and she had realized this long ago, no one was really special or unique. We are all the same kind of pretenders, of fakes.

 Or maybe not… Now that she had the way of friendship so close, Natalya thought that maybe she had been wrong about people and some of them could actually be real and interesting. Misako was exactly that and she was relieved to get a call from her at lunch. The proposal involved the two of them, and whoever else that wanted to join, cooking Japanese dishes in order to learn more and surprise her parents with a feast in the future.  Natalya thought that was a great idea and proposed they do it in her house. Misako said maybe a cousin of hers would join and that she could bring any friend or family member she wanted, as learning was more fun in groups.

 Unfortunately, Natalya had no one she could ask to come to their first attempt of a class. Many women worked in faculty but they weren’t her friends and she knew it would be weird to ask them, so she didn’t. As for family, she had lost that a long time ago. The following Friday, Misako showed up with her brother, her cousin and an aunt. She had brought every ingredient and when Natalya tried to pay her for the class, she said she had done enough by providing them with a place to practice. In just an hour, they were already rolling sushi and frying tempura. Natalya was a bit clumsy but they all had fun and joked around. They put on music and even danced as they put all the finished dishes together.

 When it was time to eat, they all enjoyed every single piece of food. Besides, Natalya realized the aunt and the cousin were just as nice as Misako, telling her about ancient Japanese tradition when eating and various other dishes they could try to make in the future. That made her happy and she decided to join the following Sunday at the market, to buy fish and eel and crab to make more dishes. Before she even knew it, they were all friends. They shared their thoughts, laughed together and even care for each other. When they felt it was time, they held a great feast at Misako’s home, with traditional decorations and all details taken care of.

 She was delighted to meet Misako’s parents, who were just the nicest couple in the world. They were older than her but wiser without a doubt. The father did not budge, the mother was obviously eager to know what it was all about. When the food came out, they all ate in silence. At the end of the meal, the father spoke in a harsh Japanese, which the aunt translated for Natalya. The father asked two things: where had Misako learned all of this and who was the woman that had joined him. Natalya felt out of place and insecure for a moment but then Misako put her hand on her shoulders and told her parents she had been the friend she needed. She explained how she learned by watching the cook at the restaurant and how she practiced in secret.

The father did not say a word for some time until he asked for everyone to raise a glass for his daughter, and her brilliant future. Misako cried in joy and Natalya felt she had found more than friends: she had found a family.

La mente

   Al comienzo creyó que estaba enloqueciendo, que había imaginado cosas que después afectaban su vida de forma directa. Pero entonces parecía que no había imaginado nada y que todo era verdad. El problema era que esa verdad tampoco era completamente probable y parecía algo salido de la imaginación de alguien. Cuando empezó todo, eran cosas pequeñas que daban indicaciones, así que nunca se fijó mucho en ellas. Afectaciones ligeras a los objetos a su alrededor o incluso algunos que desaparecían del todo para volver a aparecer meses después como si nada. Como no se daba cuenta de los cambios en el momento, no había manera de que se enterara lo mucho que estaban cambiando las cosas a su alrededor y de lo mucho que seguirían cambiando.

 A veces había lagunas mentales y eso le molestaba. Era como si se la pasara bebiendo todas las noches cuando casi nunca lo hacía. Y esas veces, muy pocas, en las que salía a tomar algo, siempre recordaba todo. Las lagunas iban acompañadas de pesadillas, de despertarse tarde en la madrugada de un golpe por el miedo a que todo lo que había visto en su mente se convirtiese en realidad. Se sentaba en la cama cubierto de sudor y tratando de recuperar el aliento, como si hubiese luchado con una criatura enorme. Se masajeaba el cuerpo para relajarlo y solo después de varios minutos podía volver a recostarse y tratar de dormir. A veces lo lograba pero muchas otras simplemente se quedaba mirando al vacío toda la noche, sin dormir un solo segundo.

 Entonces, las cosas se pusieron más raras. En sus sueños o pesadillas (no importaba que fueran) empezó a ver objetos flotar, a verse a si mismo flotando sobre la ciudad y a sentir su cuerpo más allá de lo que nunca lo había sentido. Lo más curioso es que esto último fue algo que se pasó del sueño a la realidad. Un día después de ducharse, se dio cuenta que podía sentir la sangre por su cuerpo, sus neuronas muriendo y su piel regenerándose lentamente. Podía sentirlo todo y era inquietante, como si miles de pequeños organismos gobernaran su cuerpo y no fuese él el maestro del lugar. Acudió a médicos pero le aseguraron que no tenía nada malo, que debía descansar.

 Pero descansar no servía de nada cuando era precisamente durmiendo cuando tenía más sueños extraños, más sentimientos raros contra todo lo que lo rodeaba. Al dormir, y de esto también se dio cuenta rápidamente, estaba completamente consciente de que dormía y en que posición y como. Era horrible estar dormido y saberlo y casi poder controlar el sueño a voluntad. Con el tiempo lo podía controlar por completo pero eso le molestaba puesto que ya no era un sueño sino que era un escenario completamente construido por él sin la magia de los sueños normales que son improvisados, siempre sorpresivos.

 Desde que empezó todo había pasado un año completo cuando algo más concreto lo sobresaltó más allá de lo que nada más lo había hecho. Un día, cuando despertó, se dio cuenta que su cama de hecho flotaba unos centímetros por encima del suelo. Solo fueron unos segundos, pues sintió la cama caer esa pequeña altura y todo pasó antes de que estuviera totalmente despierto. Nunca supo como probarlo, como probárselo a si mismo, pero estaba seguro que la cama había flotado. De hecho, estaba seguro de que había muchas más cosas raras pasando a su alrededor pero no quería descontrolarse pues todo era muy ambiguo y no quería que la gente lo tomara por loco. Necesitaba pruebas de que, de hecho, no estaba enloqueciendo.

 Lo primero que se le ocurrió fue grabarse a si mismo durmiendo pero eso no resultó en nada. O la cámara no capturaba ningún hecho extraño o se apagaba en la mitad de la noche y no había manera de saber si algo había pasado o no. Dejó de lado sus responsabilidades y se obsesionó gravemente consigo mismo, con su situación mental y con esas supuestas cosas que pasaban a su alrededor que nadie más podía explicar. Por todo esto su vida empezó a cambiar y, la verdad, fue para lo peor. Estaba tan ocupado pensando en tonterías, que dejó a un lado las cosas que sí estaban allí y que sí necesitaban de su atención constante y de su ingenio e interés. Él ya no estaba.

 Eventualmente lo echaron del trabajo y los pocos amigos que tenía dejaron de hablarle. Su familia era escasa entonces no era de sorprender que no lo buscaran mucho. Y aparte de ellos no había nadie que se interesara por él así que por los siguientes meses se la pasó encerrado en su apartamento. No comía por días seguidos y después recordaba que tenía hambre y pedía a domicilio lo que era más loco aún pues el olor en su casa alarmaba bastante a los repartidores. Algunos incluso se negaba a ir por miedo. Otros en cambio iban porque el loco nunca pedía el cambio así que las comisiones eran muchos mejores que en otros sitios.

 Se dejó crecer el pelo y la barba y no tocaba agua ni por equivocación. Vivía solo para hacer cálculos e imaginarse las posibilidades, para plantear que podría haber pasado y que era lo que tenía en su mente. Se preguntaba si más personas vivían con eso adentro, con ese miedo de que todo cambiase lentamente y de golpe estuviesen en un mundo donde su capacidad de controlar era casi nula. Su obsesión con lo que pasaba le impedía muchas veces dormir, lo que era contraproducente pues muchas de las cosas que le pasaban ocurrían durante el sueño. Pero es que ya no podía dormir, ya no estaba tranquilo cerrando los ojos y dejándose ir, o al menos no era como antes. Ahora le daba miedo.

 Un día, en el que por fin había podido quedarse dormido, los despertaron de golpe. Por un momento pensó que era un sueño particularmente violente pero se dio cuenta pronto que todo era real. Unos cuatro hombres vestidos de blanco entraron en su casa, tumbando la puerta principal, y se dirigieron directamente hacia él. Por supuesto, él peleó. Los rasguñó con sus largas uñas y les dio patadas y puños a la vez que gritaba y les rogaba que dejaran de tocarlo, pues de nuevo sentía todo al triple y el tacto de otros lo volvía loco. Le inyectaron algo y eso lo aflojó lo suficiente para que lo sacaran. Antes de desmayarse por completo logró ver algunos vecinos que lo miraban con lástima y a los policías que habían acompañado la operación. Luego, todo se puso negro.

 Cuando despertó, ya no había razón alguna para seguir luchando. Tenía puesta la clásica camisa de fuerza y estaba tumbado en un espacio blanco con poca luz. La única luz que entraba era la de la luna y de la ciudad por una ventana pequeña. La habitación no tenía cama sino que estaba toda acolchonada, incluso alrededor de la taza del baño. Había una mesa también y nada más. Algunas lagrimas salieron de sus ojos  y se dio cuenta de que hasta allí había llegado su vida. Ya no había vuelta atrás, ya no habría manera de recuperar nada de lo que hubiese tenido en el pasado. Todo eso había muerto ahora y lo único que le quedaba era si mismo. E incluso él sabía que eso no era mucho.

 Al otro día, le quitaron la camisa y pudo deambular a sus anchas por el lugar. No tenía entonces ganas de pelear con nadie ni de gritar. Le hacían pruebas pero él las ignoraba, tratando de concentrar su atención en cosas menos importante que le hicieran pasar el tiempo para no enloquecerse de verdad. Jugaba cartas con otros pacientes, veía televisión y trataba de disfrutar la asquerosa comida del lugar. Cuando tenía su cita asignada con el psiquiatra o con el médico, procuraba nunca decir ni una palabra pues no quería que le dieran más tiempo en semejante lugar por una respuesta mal hecha. Así que por meses, no dijo una sola palabra a nadie, prefiriendo su propia tranquilidad.

 Aparte de ese aislamiento impuesto por sí mismo, los doctores no veían que hubiese algo verdaderamente mal con él. Era un hombre joven y sano que simplemente había tenido una crisis existencial, cosa que existía y que era muy común. Así que le dieron un mes más en el sitio y al cabo de ese tiempo retornaría a casa y tratarían de ayudarlo para conseguir un trabajo y alejarse del estrés que seguramente lo habían hecho caer tan bajo. Cuando estuvieron todos de acuerdo, se dirigieron a la habitación del joven para informarle la decisión. Cuando abrieron, sin embargo, solo hubo gritos de horror.

 Él estaba sentado con las piernas cruzadas, casi como un practicante muy dedicado de la meditación. Pero era seguro que ellos no podían hacer que una carta, el control remoto de la televisión y una pelota pequeña flotaran sobre sus cabezas. Era él quien lo controlaba todo. Pero entonces los dejo caer y fue entonces que la puerta se desencajó de golpe y salió volando a un lado. Él caminó con paciencia, retirando una a una las puertas y demás obstáculos, hasta que estuvo afuera. Y allí, después de inhalar el aire puro de la noche, se elevó sobre los sorprendidos loqueros, y nunca más lo volvieron a ver. Muchos dicen que eso nunca pasó y otros que él hizo que todos olvidaran. Nunca se sabrá a ciencia cierta y la verdad es que no es necesario saberlo.  nico que le quedaba era si mismo. ue hubiese tenido en el pasado. Todo eso hab La habitacinthacia o donde su capacidad de contro

Secret of the woods

   The last day they saw each other, they didn’t say a word. They just stared and finally left, each own his or hers on way. They were six people and they had all been there as the war had happened. They had been useful servants, slaves if you will. They had done everything they were ordered and even then the ones that ruled over that place had beaten them with sticks or solid rods. Everyone was cruel and sick during the war and the secret that they all shared was proof of that. When it happened, they all shared that moment but they never really spoke about it. First, because there was no time to do so and, second, because it was extremely hard for them to do it. The war then pressed on and reached its desired end; they were liberated one morning and found themselves to be free.

 Clara was the youngest of the group and the first one to leave that horrible place. She noticed, as she left in a truck filled with liberated people, how the surrounding forest was still dark and scary and how it had no life inside of it. It had been rendered lifeless by the atrocities of war. Eventually, Clara made it to the nearest town and there she desired to get to a port and then away from that forsaken continent. But she never got to do it because she had no money. She decided to work in the town, doing small chores all over. It was doing so that she met a nice young man, a baker, and she fell in love. They eventually married and had a very large and happy family. She was almost seventy years old when she received a phone call, one she never thought she would get.

 Robert, the youngest man, left in the following truck. Its destination was another place like the one he had come from, which made him sick. He vomited several times and made the soldiers think he was sick with something. They left him in a provisional hospital, not too far from there. He wasn’t sick, just nervous and scared. In the hospital, one of the doctors asked him for help, as nurses were very scarce. Eventually, Bob followed the medicine man to a big city in the south and there he paid Robert’s studies to become a doctor. The man turned to be a second father who loved Robert as his own son had died months earlier in battle. Bob turned himself into a great doctor, getting the call too after one of his lectures.

 The oldest was Irina, a woman that didn’t say a word and that left the place by foot. She was not that older but she had seen more of life than Clara and Robert. She was hunted by the violent deaths of her family, which she couldn’t forget. Feet bleeding, she collapsed and was rescued by a group of women, who nursed her back to health. They were also escaping violence, so she joined them. The group eventually settled in the east and became of the first feminist groups of the area. They were adamant in their convictions and Irina proved to be a real fighter. She did good things for women all over the region and was in a frail state when she got her call.

 Next was Alexander, who was the first one that talked publicly about the atrocities he had seen. He became a renowned writer after been able to travel abroad and reunite with his family. He was member of an aristocratic family who had disowned him but now that everything had change, they recognized him again and even more as his fame grew larger. Alexander published books about the war, all very successful. He did novels, and documentaries and short stories. He even sold his rights to make movies about the subject. By the time he was an older man, he was one of the richest persons on that side of the world. Privately, he had grown tired of the subject but as it was his life, he couldn’t drop it. His call caught him in the middle of the night.

 Marissa was the only one that had been transferred from a proper prison camp. She had seen other atrocities and when she was transferred she thought she would have a better life but she didn’t. After the liberation, she had to be institutionalized because of her mental state. She received shock therapy for several months and was even the subject of several dissertations about paranoia. She was finally released to a resting home when she was a woman in her forties. She had no skills and had been permanently damaged but that didn’t stop people at the home to make her clean floors and bathrooms, use her as many had used her before. Then, one morning, someone came and took her away.

 To complete the group, there was Louis. He had been a musician but after the war his fingers were not the same ones. He couldn’t play anything and he did not have any other skills. He tried finding a job as a waiter or as a chauffeur, but he would always ruin it by having awful breakdowns that involved hitting himself repeatedly. His guilt always showed itself to others, and it couldn’t be controlled. He was violent and unpredictable so, when one day he shot himself in the head, no one really made a fuss about it. So many people that had been liberated were committing suicide, so it wasn’t a real shock. When they called Louis, trying to locate him, the news hit hard and deep.

 The person who called was Clara. She had started to contact everyone else for one simple reason and that was because she had received a call by a state officer who was investigating the events that took place in that place in the woods all those years ago. They had identified her as a resident for some time, as well as some others. They wanted to talk to them in order to know exactly what went on there because there were these rumors and it was necessary to know if they were true. Clara just hung up, asking her husband never to pick it up again. When the government came to her doorstep, she chased them away.

 For her, it was too much. Her children and husband didn’t understand, but for Clara it was all a disaster. She was an older woman now, someone who had already done what she had to do, and someone that was already planning to come to terms with her existence as a human being. Clara was almost ready to meet her maker and she had no intention to face the human justice. That was when she had the idea to track all of the people that had been there with her, in those basements with rooms with no windows or proper lighting. She looked for them and after some time she had called them all. They had all agreed to meet, no questions asked, in the town where she lived.

 It was fun, at least for a while, to see how different everyone was. Clara had been a housewife all of her life so she did an effort to look good. She was the one who picked up Clara and, with the help of her husband, nursed her back to a better health in order to be more aware of the world. But Marissa was gone and would rather play with the dogs than talk to those people she didn’t know anymore. Bob and Alex looked fantastic. They were all so dapper and successful in their respective fields. But once there, once they got all together, they went back to being young and simple. Irina walked slow and needed to be waited and helped. But her demeanor was strong and resilient, having struggled all of her life for others. They reunited and, once again, just stared.

 But those empty looks turned into tears and hugs and kisses. They had never done that while at the woods, they had never shared a moment of love because love had been outlawed. They only law, the only real thing there was violence and cruelty and they had been poisoned by it. They talked about their lives and about how everything had changed but had stayed the same in some parts. They also spoke about Louis and Marissa was the first one to smile when hearing his name. She had helped him once and they were the only friends in existence in that awful place. They went there and the cold wind that greeted them made all the memories come back.

 The place was now a museum with a park. A young woman came to them as asked if they wanted to take a tour of the place but they told her they knew it too well. They each told the story of how they had gotten there and how they had gotten out of it. They also confessed to have helped to the killing of several people, including children. The place was used as a testing site for several weapons: biological, chemical and radioactive.  They also tortured them with other experiments and them, who were prisoners, were made to watch and help. If they didn’t, they died. So they did. That place had been hell and now they had liberated themselves from it, in order to leave it there forever.

Rutinas matutinas

   Recuerdo que era horrible despertarse hacia las cinco de la mañana. Siempre pensé que era casi un castigo divino el hecho de hacer semejante cosa con un niño, despertarlo a una hora en la que muchos adultos ni siquiera estaban conscientes y a la que los animales tampoco respondían muy bien que digamos. El frío instantáneo al despertar, la gana de quedarse cinco minutos en la cama o el hecho de hacerlo todo medio dormido era un ritual bastante extraño, como si todo se tratase de algo que había que hacer por obligación y porque no había más remedio. Y de hecho así era, porque había que ir al colegio, no era algo muy opcional, incluso cuando estaba enfermo. Mis padres no veían muy bien que se faltara a la escuela un solo día, así fuese el ultimo antes de vacaciones o uno atrapado entre dos días festivos.

 La rutina era la misma siempre: primero despertarse a esa hora tan horrible. Cuando era pequeño era mi mamá la que me despertaba, actuando como mi despertador. Ya después yo fui poniendo una alarma que a veces escuchaba y otras no. Pasó varias veces que se nos hacía tarde, que el bus no se demoraba en pasar y que solo tenía tiempo de vestirnos y ya. No era lo mejor puesto que a mi no bañarme siempre me ha parecido difícil porque me siento físicamente sucio por horas después. Siento como si no hubiese salido de la cama. Es que la cama tenía mucho poder. Por eso seguido en el bus del colegio me quedaba dormido y solo me despertaba una vez en el colegio, para mi completo desagrado.

 Después de ducharme dormido, porque el agua no ayudaba en nada, me ponía la ropa lentamente: la ropa interior, las medias, el pantalón y así. Todo con una ceremonia que terminaba con mi mamá viniendo para decirme que apurara porque no tenía tanto tiempo y porque ya llegaba el bus. Esto era muchas veces un mentira que mi madre usaba para acelerar el paso. El resultado era siempre variado, nunca siempre el mismo. Después de cambiarme y tomar la maleta, había que desayunar. Siempre era algo simple como tostadas con mermelada o cereal con leche. Nunca comíamos nada demasiado complejo. Primero porque a mi mamá cocinar tan temprano no le gustaba pero también porque no había tiempo de tanta cosa.

 A mi me daba igual porque nunca me cabía mucha comida. Sigue siendo lo mismo de hecho. Y el desayuno, a pesar de ser pequeño, también lo comía con ceremonia, tratando de alejar al sueño de mi mente, muchas veces sin éxito. Mi hermano muchas veces estaba tan dormido que su cara quedaba a milímetros de su cereal. Normalmente teníamos unos pocos minutos más para cepillarnos los dientes y luego llegaba el bus. A veces se demoraba pero normalmente era bastante puntual. Había que bajar corriendo y sentir decenas de ojos cuando uno se subía y tomaba asiento. El de al lado mío siempre se demoraba en ocuparse.

 En la universidad, la rutina cambió sustancialmente. Ya le horario no era rígido, no era el mismo todos los días. Había algunas veces que de nuevo tenía que despertar a las cinco de la mañana pero normalmente era más tarde. Eso sí, nunca modifiqué el tiempo que me daba para hacer lo que tenía que hacer antes de salir: siempre era una hora, a veces con algunos minutos de más. Lo calculé así por la sencilla razón de tener más minutos de sueño. Lo primero para mi era poder dormir a gusto porque así me despertaba con más energía y disposición. Eso sí, no servía de mucho porque empecé a dormir hasta tarde, costumbre que todavía tengo y seguramente no dejaré.

 En ese momento la rutina era la misma pero variaba por la hora del día. Me encantaba cuando solo tenía una clase en la tarde. Hubo semestres en los que almorzaba en casa o al menos desayunaba rápidamente teniendo a mi madre ya despierta. Los días en los que ella era mi despertador habían pasado y me tocaba a mi despertarme todos los días. A eso me acostumbré rápidamente y descubrí mi sensibilidad a esos sonidos. Hay gente que no oye las alarmas y tiene que levantarse con movimiento pero a mi en cambio nunca me gustó que me sacudieran para despertarme. Era demasiado violento para mi gusto.

 De pronto el cambio más significativo entonces era que me despertaba para ir a un sitio que yo había elegido para aprender de algo que yo quería aprender. No era el colegio en el que a veces la primera clase del día era matemáticas. Eso era una combinación mortal. Pero en la universidad ya no había matemáticas ni nada demasiado críptico para que yo lo entendiese. Así que muchas veces despertarse era un gusto y yo lo hacía con un ritmo envidiable, creo yo, pues sabía usar el tiempo de la manera más eficiente posible. Además que ahí empecé a aprovechar ese tiempo del desayuno para también ver televisión o algo en internet, pues así podía relajarme aún más antes de clase.

 Los desayuno seguían siendo pequeños pero, como dije antes, esto es porque me quedé así. Los grandes desayunos con muchos panes y huevo y caldos y bebidas calientes, eran para los sábados y los domingos. Entre semana todo eso me hubiera caído como una patada y más si tenía que levantarme temprano. En la universidad yo hacía mis desayunos y aunque sí comía mucho huevo, la verdad era que no había nada más ligero que eso y a la vez más completo. Después era cepillarme los dientes e irme a tomar el transporte. Entre que salía de casa y llegaba a la universidad, pasaban tal vez cuarenta minutos, considerando que eran dos transportes lo que tenían que tomar.

 Por dos años, aunque eso terminó hace un mes o un poco más, tuve la fortuna o el infortunio de no tener responsabilidad alguna con nada. Es decir que no  tenía clases a las que ir ni tenía un trabajo al que responder. No había nada porque no conseguía nada. Entonces la rutina de entre semana cambió a su modo más relajado que nunca. Ya no importaba dormir hasta tarde pues podía levantarme casi a la hora que quisiera al otro día. Al menos al comienzo fue así. No era poco común que me acostara a las casi tres de la mañana y al otro día despertara casi al mediodía. De raro no tenía nada y siendo ya adulto nadie me decía nada. La rutina entonces se diluyó bastante pues no había como modificarla de verdad. Así que yo solo hacía lo que tenía que hacer.

 Dejé de bañarme después de despertarme para poner el desayuno primero o comer algo antes del almuerzo, porque no tenía ya mucho sentido comer mucho a dos horas de comer la mejor comida del día. Hubo muchos días en los que simplemente comía un pan o algo de pastelería o solo el jugo de naranja y con eso duraba lo que tenía que durar hasta la hora del almuerzo. No era lo mejor pero así era. Después me duchaba y podía durar el doble de antes cambiándome, ya no porque me estuviese durmiendo sino porque hacer que las cosas se demoren más es una técnica muy obvia para hacer que los días tengan algo más de peso, si es que se le puede llamar así.

 Ya después, cuando empecé a escribir, me puse una hora para despertarme con alarma incluida. Me despertaba minutos antes de las nueve de la mañana, me demoraba una hora o una hora y media escribiendo y luego me premiaba a mi mismo con el desayuno que podía variar de solo cereal a un sándwich de gran tamaño o de pronto algo especial que hubiésemos comprado en el supermercado y que vendría bien a esa hora. Empecé a darle una estructura a mi rutina de la mañana, y de todo el día de hecho, porque me di cuenta que me faltaba esas líneas, esos muros en mi vida para sentirme menos perdido y más coherente a la hora de decidir o de pensar que hacer en el futuro próximo.

 Hoy en día, de nuevo, mi rutina cambia según el día aunque son variaciones pequeñas. A veces desayuno a las diez y media, a veces una hora más tarde. Duermo más o menos dependiendo de mi nivel de cansancio y, en ocasiones, del nivel de alcohol. Me ducho hacia el mediodía porque no le veo la urgencia a hacerlo antes y hago mi almuerzo a la hora que lo comía en casa que era hacia las dos y media de la tarde. El resto del día lo ocupan las clases o mi esfuerzo por rellenar las horas caminando y conociendo cosas que no sé muy bien que son. Todo va cambiando en todo caso y seguramente tendré otra rutina de estas en unos años y otra más en otros años más.

 En todo caso creo que necesito la estructura de una rutina diaria y no creo que haya nada malo con eso. Solo que, al parecer, no soy muy bueno a la hora de hacer las cosas tan libremente.