I’m alive, and the monotonous sound of the respirator, of the machines that control me, lets me know that my heart has not stopped. I don’t know when or how I got here. My watch stopped in my mind, and I stopped seeing time pass in that object that situates me in the moment and that, for now, I do not miss. The sounds of my house, my work, my street, the bar where I have 
coffee or beer, have remained on a hard disk that I do not know if I will retrieve. The virus knocked everything out of control, and separated me from those I love. What used come to me through the media remotely about how people were in the same situation that I am now, is my reality at this moment. Like so many things in life, you think that it will never happen to you.
I realize that there are people who are taking care of me; I can’t see them clearly, and it’s like being in a spaceship, where you only see their eyes through their safety goggles and the screens that protect them from me, just like what I use at work. I am a danger, but a danger that requires their attention and, I believe, much tender care, even if they didn’t know me before. I don’t know their names, nor does their voice reach me clearly – although always without demands – and I don’t understand what they’re saying to me. I let myself be attended to. I can’t move and nor do I even wish to move a finger. Continue Reading →
