These frenetic and strange days we suffer a few big dramas and many small dramas. The former — the dead, the sick, the positives, the upheavals of lives and estates — are looped on the news. The seconds, intimate, invisible and without reflection in the gross inner product, are the processions that we carry inside. I think of those who long to touch and be touched and will not be able to be touched for an indefinite period of time. I am not talking, not only, about what they are thinking. I speak of the physical contact of others that makes us feel alive. Of those prisoners who await face-to-face confrontation with their own like lithium that allows them to stay sane. Of those couples who cannot take their hands off themselves, self-committed to a one-meter restraining order that, for that matter, becomes a world. Of those old men living in their residences with the double phantom of loneliness and fear while strangers clean them with a mask and latex gloves. I am not talking about civility, responsibility, or sense of state. That's what the news is already talking about. I speak of how the soul will touch us not touching us until further orders.
It will be true that everything is told and sung. That this was the methacrylate wall that does not let us smell or touch Kiko Veneno. Not touching you and spending all day with you on Radio Futura. The exterminating angel of Buñuel who distresses us, scares us and does not let us go out with all the doors open. And all this, while outside, a glorious spring breaks out with millions of adolescents expelled from classrooms living in their own flesh, the struggle between the social mandate of not touching and the hormonal one of eating kisses. It is early to know what love is like in the times of the coronavirus. Whether there will be an explosion of onanism or an end of the world birth peak. The difficult thing, if the alert lasts forever, will be to decide if living without touching us is life.
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