What’s up?

How are you doing?
—It’ll pass.
—There’s a hurry,
—It’s okay
—It’s all right.

—What’s up?
—Not much.

Yes, many things, but I’m not telling you. I don’t want to explain everything, I don’t have time, you wouldn’t understand, and then, you probably have a lot to say that you don’t want to say, because I wouldn’t understand it, especially if I said it like that, out of context. Anyway, if we started talking about ourselves, we couldn’t start our day, the whole week would be busy repeating everything and rewriting our respective lives. And then there are the others who would like to join our conversation. Perhaps the entire planet would stop a little bit and, in the end, start working again, killing each other in misunderstandings. We lack words, our words are clumsy, betray us by trying to translate the labyrinths nowadays as best we can. We may be condemned to keep silent or to leave it to the artists to paint the life we should live.

It seems that only at the moment of death does everything come back to us, quickly, in a magic trick of the brain. Then there would be only the regrets that rush to, at least once in their lives, clearly express their pain, there would also be the happiness that wants to have fun one last time and prove to us that it was worth living for.

How are you doing? How are you? It’s all right, of course, but there is nothing more than the secret gestures repeated over and over. There’s nothing but our little happiness walking around with its veil of sorrows. All this will pass and tell us every day makes us always die a little bit. But we can live fully because our history remains alive in this unknown grey.

How are you doing? How are you? What’s up?