Misanthropy
One Friday you are giving your first kiss in the bottle, between good cheap Spanish wine and Italian techno from the eighties and the following Friday you are watching an old movie, with omeprazole and an Enantium to calm your back pain.
Time passes quickly and more for those people who, like me, have a good memory.
The signs are more evident every year. You hate Christmas more, you try to be alone, the hangovers are getting worse and that half an hour before going to bed, when you read a book, is usually, more and more, the best time from Monday to Thursday. Friends are balding and have children. Friends are talking more and more about daycare and less and less about sex. You are terribly lazy to get to places where they don't play decent music (although that's something I've always had to struggle with), football keeps getting dimmer and nothing happens if you miss one game, two, twenty seven... You hate the cultural phenomena of youth, you marvel at the looks teenagers wear, and you listen to more and more old music and less and less new music. When you go shopping for clothes, you seek comfort before fashion. Embarrassment in front of others increases, but what they think, you don't care. And as you show yourself more at war than ever against the shitty world we live in, you finally make your peace with yourself. And even with your parents.
Everything I say may seem terrible to many, but it seems wonderful to me. It has been many years since I woke up thinking, "what are you doing with your life?" And not because it is clear to me now, but because I already know that life has meaning precisely because it does not. And that existential limbo, far from terrifying me, seems as comfortable and endearing as a wooden cabin with a fireplace lit in the middle of a polar blizzard and as promising and seductive as the kiss I gave it that night, between good cheap Spanish wine and techno Italian from the eighties.