The old analogue ones

There was a time when the old were the young people of today. Fifty-somethings with singed manes, who barely ruffle their hair when a new year falls on them. But one day that's where we'll fall, into the hole. We'll be those analogue old people , who will go around clawing, a little disoriented, stunned, astonished like owls by so much digital nonsense.

We will be like those slightly brash Dutch polders, trying to cope, to fight against the onslaught of the sea, to endure the years as best we can, gritting our teeth until our jaws become dislocated. And suddenly, we will see how the cities change until we do not even recognize them, like those old people who shared classes with us. They fade away as if they were mist, oblivion, paths that no one walks on anymore. The days turn the page and so will they with us, without remedy, and perhaps even with a nipple of joy.

The commercial premises are being removed, they are no longer the gold mines of yesteryear and are instead dark houses with walls that are shrinking , that are no longer rooms. Suddenly, an ATM is embedded in the built-in cupboard, which in turn will have to be removed sooner or later, and make way for something else, or almost nothing. The banknotes will no longer be palpable, they will also become mental, virtual. We will no longer put lipstick on ourselves, up or down, or try to be immortal, we will roll around, clenching the scissors in our hands, as if our arms were scythes.

Suddenly, we try to make sense of this nonsense. We try to deal with this burning smell that fills our noses. Suddenly, our vision becomes a little blurry. You press the keys and the words come out like colts, they stop being tame. There is no one who can train them anymore, or get a hold of them. Our brains, young or old, we serve them on a platter, and there is virtual reality that devours them as if they were hazelnuts, plums, something very tasty, but without must.

Suddenly we find out that our minds can be replicated , edited, transferred, bought, sold, sold here and there in bulk, like very liquid oils, and others, a few, like first-class picúa. Dull beings, of low intensity, who try to get by with what is thrown at them, who try to bullfight those crazy lives they no longer have, who do not know how to face each other, with slaps on the tongue. That is what we are slowly becoming, hollow plums, that taste like little, when once they bathed, tasty, in the pomace.

But one day a book falls on you, like a slab. The alarms of a few pages sound, you open your cheeks, your eyes start to sparkle. You stop using crutches, and you immerse yourself fully in the devoured day, which burns and changes. You enter the delirium of the ashes. You enter a book that kicks you out of your hole, and so, turned into a nougat, you go shivering, like when the first lips, like when life didn't wear a collar and the heavens barked, like when kisses flew.

The rose window in your head warms up, the stained glass windows in your eyes light up. For one day, you stop dying.