MANUEL A. ELÍAS

I do not think I am the only one who has lost count of how many times we have to go through the pain of loss. Sometimes not even holding on to memories is enough. Not because memory is fragile, but because remembering becomes a habit that calms but does not heal. It may help to turn the page, but it does not teach the full lesson.

It takes many losses, many turned pages to finally learn that lesson. They told me to live fully, but they did not tell me the risks and consequences of doing so. One would think there is no manual or time to practice, that we are forced to learn as we go.

Maybe what I lacked was tuning in with my surroundings. No agenda, no story, no concept. Only emotion and sensation. Like when the whole world blurs as I watch a sunset. Orange wraps around me, and even when I close my eyes to feel its warmth, I still see orange. But with my eyes closed, I tell myself, open them and look, because it is ending and it will not stay. And then, when I open my eyes again, I see the same sunset with an anticipatory nostalgia, because now I am aware that inevitably, what I have before me is fading, withering, dying even as I enjoy it.

That is when I realized nothing is written in stone, it is drawn in sand. I realized unconsciously that nothing lasts forever, that everything changes and therefore ends. We make silent truces with that abstract idea, but at the same time it is as real as it is present. You would think that is enough, but it is not. You can never be fully prepared for the moment loss becomes real.

I used to have a recurring dream, where I walked and walked to the end of the pier, feeling your presence closer each step, about to find you, about to see you again. But in the end I woke up to the same raw reality. You are not close. There is an ocean of memories between us. I only wanted to forget and stop feeling this emptiness that paradoxically was so heavy. Forgetting for me was impossible. All I could do was learn to live with absences, as normal as the shadow that follows me.

Understanding that loss is normal is part of the process. I already knew that, but I thought knowing it would lessen the pain. It does not work that way. So how does it work?

I do not know. I cannot draw, I cannot sing, I am limited even in writing. All I can do is keep looking at the light and use the moments that drive me to photograph details like visual sighs. No two sunsets are identical, no two snowflakes the same. They are unique without a doubt. But they all carry their ending inside their beauty, and trying to make them eternal was an illusion that trapped me in a heavy loop.

I moved from the anxiety of capturing the moment, because it would end sooner or later, to falling in love with the fleeting and its details. Even knowing it will not last, because there is depth in what is temporary too. I used to avoid it out of fear of losing it. Now I embrace it, even knowing it will hurt. Not because I am a masochist, but because that pain is also beautiful, and it is beautiful because it is real.

When I realized it was useless to fight against remembering you, your absence became lighter. It was as if resignation appeared like a scar, adding to the emotional map that was tattooed on me without my noticing. Little by little, I began to sail again, finally able to enjoy the fragility of moments with more people who will arrive and who, sooner or later, will also leave.

Sunsets end, snowflakes melt, flowers wither, letters are lost to oblivion, and even the deepest love changes, breaks, or fades. They were unique and will not repeat, yet it is worth choosing the experience. To enjoy the present and hold it in its true essence, fragile and temporary. To know when it is time to let go and release, with a smile that is both sweet and sad, because even if it was brief, it was authentic.

When autumn comes, we already know its warmth is deceptive. No matter how much it feels like an embrace, it will not last. The beauty that breathes with that faint cold carries sadness in the wind. The leaves fall, wither, and crunch under my strange and hurried steps. I slip my hands into my pockets as if accepting the slowness of this farewell that refuses to be final, gives me time to miss it even before it is gone.