Pray to me

I am not a good person. I do nothing to alleviate hunger in the world, I did not save anyone from death (unless I count the time I saved my younger brother from drowning in a swimming pool when he was just over a year old, and it is possible that I also saved him from the curse of water because, as soon as I took him out, I went back inside and swam with him in my arms, taming him in the same liquid that could have killed him, my rare method of being intimate with the vehicle of annihilation), but every night When I go to sleep, I think of those who have not risen. In those who after the worst of the virus have not resuscitated. In which, although now everything is less ominous and less sad, they remain ominous and sad. In those who are confused and empty, without understanding or knowing what is happening, lazy and convalescing, as if they had lost a link,as if they don't know what or what time is made of. I think of those who lost jobs, houses, family members, but even more so in those who lost nothing and still wander in a world that no longer belongs to them, that does not want to see them because they are the uncomfortable hangover of a time that everyone wants to forget. The sign of the times is to move on, manage the

realizing that nothing has happened.

So every night, before I go to sleep, I think of the non-resurrected and wonder what they will feel like in the long days and long nights.

I think of their parched spirits, of whether they will hope to regain the moisture of life.

Then I look at the man I live with, a much better person than me, and I silently beg him: pray to me, pray to me just before.

Before I lose the desire, before the indifference burns me.

Pray for me to stay resurrected.

I do not believe in anything.

Only in him and in his faith, a bit strange, that under my layers of anger and unease there is something soft and human, perhaps relevant.

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Spain, in therapy

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