Sábado, 7.22 AM o "This is water, this is water"

Sábado. Madrugada. Salgo de un tibio capullo para entrar a otro, aún frío. Afuera apenas amanece. Y las palabras de David Foster Wallace, con las que me fui a dormir, aún resuenan en mi cabeza:

[T]here are all different kinds of freedom, and the kind that is most precious you will not hear much talked about in the great outside world of winning and achieving and displaying. The really important kind of freedom involves attention, and awareness, and discipline, and effort, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them, over and over, in myriad petty little unsexy ways, every day. That is real freedom. The alternative is unconsciousness, the default setting, the "rat race" - the constant gnawing sense of having had and lost some infinite thing.

El texto completo, indispensable, aquí.

Quiero regresar al capullo tibio: en éste hace demasiado frío.

Así el agua, así las cosas.