Tonight I noticed the melancholy of the weather presenter.

I wonder if anyone else has noticed it.

I confess that the bullets and shots throughout the broadcast passed before my indifference without killing it: I mixed them with a plate of meat and vegetables, with a glass of apple juice, so between forkfuls, I saw a revolution, some hostages, a speech justifying a war, and I changed the channel at dessert to watch the ads from other channels.

Advertising never deceives me, because I like to watch it closely. I’m a viewer of so much advertising, and that has caused the opposite effect that the advertiser expects.

So.

I went back to the end of the news, now without bullets or speeches, and I saw the presenter’s melancholy, holding a stick and pointing without looking at the map, to the place where it will rain on all of us tomorrow, or where the wind will strip us of the past, or where the fog will seep into our eyes, ears, pores, and thus we’ll have to start the day cloudy.

The depth of her eyes, with a certain melancholy, reminds me of a photo of you I saw the other day, as if it were one of those lakes she caresses on the map, you sitting, perhaps on a ferry to nowhere, wearing only a denim jacket, and braids carefully tied, which convey the tranquility of autumn.

Oh, yes, sorry, I got distracted by your gaze.

She talked about the harshness of winter, its extended time, as if something were dying, clinging to that rod as if she wanted to perform magic on the geography and precipitation across the country.

Change everything.

Bury us in snow, bathe us in rain, cloud us. Torture us with thunder and lightning (Fortunately, that doesn’t happen here in Lima.).

People say that one recognizes oneself in the pupils of the other.

I noticed the melancholy of the weather girl because these days I have a magnifying glass in my eyes and, in general, my senses are bare, standing and lined up, like you in that photo.

These days, it happens to me that I can hear an ant crying trapped in the grass that I see growing rapidly. (The grass smells like green ink, and when it grows, it bleeds emeralds, making the noise that two vinyl records would make when rubbed against each other)

I hear Misha’s little feet running on my bed, while she looks at me, surely wondering when I’ll go outside, to that world where the cold wind and the hurried life await me.

And so today my back starts to hurt after 10 pm.

WHAT DO WE DO, HEART!

(I call my head heart because I love it), now we have to calm that monster that will accompany us all our lives.

We have to feed it Diclofenac 50mg + Paracetamol 500mg.

Maybe I should have gone out a few minutes earlier, but empathy overwhelmed me with the sad girl from the news.

Here there are no 24-hour pharmacies nearby, and no one gives advice, not even the pharmacists. I didn’t find any open.

So, one tries to cure back pain with alternative medicine.

– Chamomile (doesn’t work)
– Some Netflix series (is a palliative, you stop watching it and it still hurts)
– Raspberry candy (gives you more back pain and headache because you need about 20 to start laughing)
– Chocolate (helps, but it’s a double-edged sword)

Nothing works, and you think that back pain should be like this girl’s forecasts, with a schedule and even winter hours. That way, you live prepared and know where to position yourself. (Like when we were taught as children that when an earthquake happens, in addition to screaming like mad, we had to find a safe place where the school wouldn’t fall on us).

But I don’t know when my back will hurt, nor when the alarm will go off.

As some advisors say, “One has to know their body.”

(To mine, they still haven’t introduced it to me)

Then there are worse advisors who say, “One has to know their soul,” or “One has to know oneself.”

Boo.

So if I know my soul, it surely tells me the movie I’ll see before I die. If I know myself, then why go outside?

Those things.

(And here, the one writing to you starts to cry from pain)

(I close the laptop)

No! It’s just a little lie! (maybe not)

Like kaleidoscopes and stereograms.

Superimposed little things.