Happiness of living

This pandemic thing is going on so long that my mind is beginning to believe that this is life and there is no other nor will there be.

I am fascinated by the narrative capacity of our psyche, the fact that, in the absence of tangible elements to glimpse the beginning of the end and the return to what we call normality, it adapts and begins to consider that this is how things are and that is how they always were.

But this story that my brain tells me so that I put aside the hope of waking up one day without masks, without deaths or pain, without the collapse of the health system or isolation, is struggling with another undercurrent that floods me and resists: that of the hope.

I get the feeling that even if the pandemic ends, the world will never be the same again.

That the virus has brought about much deeper changes than our traumatized minds can admit.

Be that as it may, the ones who will not be like before are us.

In my case, the virus has made me understand things that in other circumstances would have required years of experience.

What I miss most about the world of yesterday, the one before covid, is the joy of living that permeated so many moments despite the difficulties.

The important things, said Mercè Rodoreda, are the ones that don't seem so.

That we are social beings means that we need to be with others in body and soul, touch, smell, look and be felt also by other human beings.

None of this occurs in virtual relationships or in hypnotic screens in which the image of the other is already born dead.

The coldness of the vitreous surface has nothing to do with the joy of living, which resides in our materiality, what we now call the body and which seems to be separated from consciousness.

The optimistic vital impulse resides in the uncovered faces and the carefree attitude,

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