And one day after another.
A logical train of thought, a sequence that seems utterly misplaced within these twirling crazy times in which all you’ve got to do is to anticipate, predict, foresee, foretell. In these times when you’ve got to prove how much you worth, your real weight, what’s your place and how deep you can print your steps. Beads of plumb instead of sleek, weightless cotton-like feathers. The blurred image of a youth lost amidst a claustophobic hall of mirrors. Is it? Are we too young for these too many plans we were taught to trace? Are we losing too much time trying to find a route on a map which is about to fray?
Then, sometimes I think to myself: “never mind.”
Never mind if you won’t be a doctor by thirty, never mind you spoke too much or too little in this or that occasion, never mind you drank too much in that party.
Never mind you don’t know how or what to do with what you call a career.
Never mind you don’t know yet how to go for your real career.
Never mind you feel like you haven’t quite got there.
Never mind if you feel like you wasted precious years trying to embrace the world and in the end you couldn’t make it.
Never mind about the things you think you know.
And the things you should know.
And the things you don’t know but pretend to know.
Never mind the things you really don’t know and don’t pretend to know.
Never mind the things you’ll never know.
Never mind about the people you lost.
Never mind about the people you love.
And the people you didn’t learn to love.
And the people you didn’t learn to see.
Never mind the people you secretly peep through the keyhole at the corner of your glasses.
Never mind the people you despise and those who despise you.
Never mind about the money you spent with you-don’t-know-what.
Never mind the sessions you missed at the gym.
Never mind the deadlines you overlapped.
Never mind the books you missed.
Never mind the parties you missed.
The extra chunks of chocolate you were too weak to avoid.
The cigarettes you shouldn’t have lit.
Never mind the glimpses of sanity you feel you have sometimes.
Never mind your writing skills or the total lack of them.
Never mind your poor French you never manage to get above the decency line.
Never mind your musical taste.
Never mind everything you’ve tried to anticipate, predict, foresee, foretell.
Can’t avoid thinking about what, then, would really mind.
Actually, maybe the things you can’t mind because they’re already history. Maybe all these “never minds” do mind – because they did at some point in the past. But, as people often say, the past is already past.
Maybe what really minds is to see each day, each hour, anew. Why feel encaged into an empty hall of mirrors if kaleidoscopes change shapes every time we shake them?
Maybe what really mind are the peepholes we leave open so light can go through. Otherwise we’d never see the weirdly beautiful arrangements and shapes plumb beads and feathers assume in this set of mirrors. Or maybe – quite maybe – it’s how we shake the kaleidoscope what really minds, after all.
Or maybe what really matters is to live one day after another.
And to take one step at a time.