I like to hear the sharpener. I take pleasure in seeing the vendors and the pleasure of selling black artichokes or drunk cabbage. When I spot a sign with 1980s typography that says 'Bar Centro' or 'Bar Sport', I stop to observe the bustle that goes on there. But my knives are all from Ikea. I do all my shopping at the supermarket (including fresh produce). And I find it very difficult to drink a coffee that is roasted and without oat milk. I am a hypocrite.

I am stretched out, on the beach, half reading, half looking around me, catching other stories in passing. A mother emerges from among the beach umbrellas, almost crawling on the sand, struggling to reach the front line, laden with everything. She is accompanied by her twins. It's not entirely clear who is dragging whom. But she lies down, defeated, on the towel, which she hasn't even bothered to straighten when she took it out of the bag. She hasn't taken off her clothes either. And I can see her bikini through her white, Ibizan-style blouse. She's also wearing some denim shorts that she has no intention of taking off. And some black XXL sunglasses, where the expression I'd like to decipher is hidden. The twins don't move much from her side. They lie around her, adoring her, like in a Sorolla painting. They touch her hair, resting their little heads on different parts of their mother's body, also looking at the sea, in silence. After a period of rest, the two girls start to stir and liven up. They put on their swimsuits and go for a swim. The mother shows no sign of movement, let alone concern. The fact that she doesn't feel any unease seeing her six or seven-year-old daughters go to the sea alone makes me think she has already saved them from something much more dangerous. Whatever it is, it has devastated her. I feel like I am witnessing the conclusion of a crusade, as if this moment were the last chapter of a long story, the scene just before the final credits.

I don't need to make a list of 'things I'm grateful for today' to know what are the three or four things that matter to me, that make me happy. What would be the point of being grateful for them if, to be aware of them, I had to do journaling? I'd be pretty screwed. I wouldn't want to write them down either. When you write, it's as if you unburden yourself a bit of things, as if you release yourself from them. Why would I do it? Putting it in writing would be to distance myself a bit, to place them on a surface and materialize them, to see them outside of myself, to excise them from myself. And I already do that enough.

I find remnants in my home of things that are half-finished. Small daily failures. The leggings and the running top that have been hanging in the bathroom for two weeks, optimistic. The vinegar and the rice paper wrappers I bought at the Japanese week at Lidl, convinced I would make Goi Cuon, fresh Vietnamese rolls. The three books started on the bedside table. The analog camera that I proposed to myself – once a month – to learn to use once and for all. A table, which was more than a table, it was an investment to do a lot of work on and earn a lot of money. Versions of myself that I can't decide on. I want to be all of them at once out of cowardice, because I don't believe enough in any of them.

I am fascinated by symbols: minimal units of communication, which mean very specific things with very few resources. Language concentrates in them, acidic, explosive. My senses react to them like taste buds to monosodium glutamate. Pure stimulus. They are a mystery and our collective imaginary, the ultraviolet light that allows us to decipher them. Recognizing their meaning is addictive because it speaks to me of myself, reminds me of things I didn't know I knew and that help me interpret the world.

Marc comes to my 'functional' training class. At some point, 'functional' became a word to refer to a type of physical exercise and we all accepted it. It sounds strange to me. 'Functional' sounds to me like 'the minimum you can do to get by in life'. I'd like to know why it is, functional. Does it make you functional? I understand it does, that you get strong to be functional as a human being. Which is the reason I signed up for it. To have some strength, in the future, to be autonomous, control my sphincters and not defecate on myself after giving birth (if I ever do), for example, or to be able to carry milk cartons and not need the help of these children I will have given birth to. I don't know. I don't know why I think about it in terms of motherhood. The thing is, if I don't do anything about it, my musculature will start to detach more and more from my bones, until it becomes totally dysfunctional. Now I see it that way, in practical terms. But for a long time it wasn't like that: it was in aesthetic terms that I thought about it. And I feel sorry that Marc ends up experiencing the same thing.

Neus Canyelles said at the presentation of her latest book that she always carries a notebook with her to write down things that happen to her and then turn them into literature, as she does in Waiting roomsa. She didn't exactly say this herself, and I was surprised by her measured approach, her precise and well-proportioned words. Because she can say that she writes as if she were being "dictated" without sounding presumptuous. She can say that she can't explain how easy writing is for her, the complete lack of effort it requires, without seeming pretentious. You read her and, suddenly, you understand.

My friends don't know this, but sometimes I have an internal competition to see who has the better relationship. It's my secret vice, frivolously analyzing where my boyfriend and I are better and where we're worse, compared to everyone else. I'd like to say it's my way of taking the pulse of my relationship, of knowing what works and what doesn'tAlthough it really seems more like a reflex, an involuntary tic driven by the need for immediate gratification. A form of entertainment. And I'm sure we're not alone. Comparing ourselves is one of the things that makes us most human. Nothing makes us as fragile and rational as believing ourselves to be better or worse than someone else. We constitute ourselves in this exercise, in relation to others. Otherness ultimately defines us. That's why we need to understand it thoroughly.

We've had enough. Enough of this. clean look, with highlights baby lights, of traditional wivesFrom a return to mysticism and contemplation, to beige and the white Cloud Dancer. Enough of this nonsense. lattas, of bar, of playlists Pop Pilates Princess. Enough of that conservative stench that permeates everything and spreads like an odorless gas, slowly lulling us to sleep. Enough of this evangelization of good manners, of introspection, of the healthy routinesSilent and hangover-free.

The bus makes a sweeping turn of almost 180 degrees, and, as if showing it to me, offers a panoramic view of a vast open area filled with piles of earth, scrap metal, and machinery. This entire scene unexpectedly bursts into my gaze, lost in thought as I stare out the window. Is this the airport construction?I ask myself, elusive. I wish I hadn't asked myself this question. I don't want to know the answer. A pang of anguish shoots into the pit of my stomach. I try to look away, but the vehicle keeps circling, between merges and roundabouts, and there's no horizon to take refuge in. Everywhere I look, I see only powerlessness, unease, a legacy: a terminal that—if you'll excuse me—never ends; commercial planes, private planes, planes every minute; an army of neatly lined taxis; trolleysNorth Face suitcases, very tall people.

In general, there are two groups of people: those with whom we can simply be, and those with whom we necessarily have to do something. If you don't believe me, take a quick look at your friends and family (or even partners). The people with whom we always have to do something are those with whom—intentionally or not—we make plans, those with whom we always have something to do, making them feel somewhat incomplete. I have nothing against a friend who goes for a run, a friend who goes to the movies, or a parent who finds a shared hobby with their children to spend time together. But allow me to doubt that these are the people who truly know us.

Ever since enjoying routine became a privilege, they've made us hate it. "Back to routine": always negative, laden with regret. They've commercialized routine in favor of various gurus who promise to "say goodbye to it," as if solving a problem we didn't even know we had. Against routine, they've glorified the life of the digital nomad, the expat, working from the beach, weekend getaways. And, little by little, they've stripped it of its sacredness, its customary rituals, its everyday life, what happens to us all, the only things that unite us and make us equal: the coffee at the bar, the public transport card, the shopping cart. Routine is what makes us human, it's what makes us good people for a while. There's a touch of classism in the hatred of routine, in the resistance to being like a character from Tell me how it happenedThat is, a person who could be any one of us, interchangeable. There's a sense of superiority, of believing oneself less mortal than the rest, oblivious to the forces of nature.

There are many reasons why I admire my cousinDespite being four years younger than me, I feel it would be incredibly difficult to teach her anything. I'd be mortified to have to teach that amazing woman anything. At 26, she has the same survival instinct as a single, divorced mother of four. She seems to have been born with half her life already lived, as if adulthood arrived at 18. "It's a miracle I turned out so well," she always tells me, with that dark humor that came with her Brazilian leg. And it's true. I'd like to say I'd defend her against anything and anyone, but the truth is, she's never given me the chance. She's smart, quick-witted, and vibrant. Her life is like a "Mexican soap opera"—she also says—but she outruns the misfortunes. Perhaps that's why she's been blessed with a very small bust, but also with a sharp eye and a protective mind, which lead almost everyone to mistake her for something she's not and—quickly—realize it. In fact, my favorite photo in the world is one where we appear side by side – me, at 10 years old, and her, at 6 – with such a disproportionate level of physical development that next to her, I look like a giant, about to crush a dwarf.

Every week, when I sit down to write this section, I do so with the latest article still fresh, recently published. I share it, and my personal torture begins. We are healthy children of the internet and social media, so I can't help but measure my effort by clicks, messages, likesShares. I analyze my work through the eyes of others. And I make an effort to ensure this doesn't stifle my writing; that it doesn't dictate the rhythm of the keys in the next installment. I write each new article as if it should be the last. Every week, I start with a clean slate. And yet, I survive another week. Without remembering that the previous week was exactly the same.

On this straight, arrow-shaped line that is life, any invitation to stop and look back becomes a disturbing experience. We rush so fast toward the future that we forget it's with that same speed that we move away from the present and leave the past behind. And I no longer know if it's deliberate: to avoid having time to consider whether we've made a mistake, because we don't know exactly who we are or what we want, for fear of having taken the wrong shortcut at some point and not knowing how to retrace our steps. Or perhaps this is the only pace to get there. The fact is, at least for me, my relationship with time is becoming increasingly dysfunctional.

Being from Palma doesn't It's not easy at all. The worst part is that I spent half my life I used to think that being from Palma was the easiest thing in the world behind closed doors and the most complicated outside (if your world is Mallorca, of course). Until, luckily, a moment came when I grew up and, above all, started surrounding myself with people who weren't from Palma. Then they showed me that 1) I was living in a parallel reality, and 2) Being from Palma is only easy if you never leave Palma.

If everyone fulfills their balance sheets and goals ofNew YearIn 2026, we'll be lonelier than ever. "This year, I've decided to prioritize myself," "I want to take care of myself," "I've resolved to learn to say no." I listen in amazement to this litany of mantras that floods my own mind. feed From Instagram. 2025 has been the year of the word 'narcissism,' a concept that until recently was banished from our vocabulary and which has been a godsend for finding a substitute for 'toxic.' If in 2024 everything was toxic, in 2025 everything has been narcissistic. And this abuse of the term is starting to stink, especially on the part of those who decide to put themselves first, above all else.

New Year's Eve is quite a commotion. It has nothing to do with ChristmasThose of us who feel uncomfortable during this time of year do so for other reasons, not because we have to share a table with people we only see briefly every 12 months, all wearing the same winter clothes (What do their arms look like? Maybe they have a hideous tattoo and we don't even know it). It's a jarring pause that, at least for me, always catches me off guard. The whole year is right there, on December 31st. And yet, I still feel like I'm late (like with everything else in life, for that matter). It's a passive time: it does nothing, it simply runs out, marking a countdown. And, when it does, it suddenly gives retroactive importance to everything that's happened to you that year.

I'm hesitant to write about it. I'm not sure where this thread I want to pull will lead me: whether it will unravel everything or if it's just a loose end. I'm also hesitant because this topic has already been discussed enough. And quite well (my colleague Claudia Darder, in fact, reminded us that "We have the power to be happy", in a Substack publication on this subject).

I so longed for a family that cared for each other. For a while, I thought they did. And I played along with that charade. On Christmas Eve afternoon, I'd transform my godparents' living room into a bustling printing press. Postcards, wafer rolls, the dinner menu… The work piled up, and I, my own little head, would get stressed out watching the hours tick by and I still hadn't laminated the cards or the glue holding the glitter in place hadn't dried. I've always been a ridiculously compliant and diligent little doll, not very rebellious, but a terrible procrastinator. When it was time to sit down at the table, I'd get annoyed because no one expected me to place all the stationery I'd made, with personalized messages for each guest, under their plate. Until I got tired of it, or maybe I just grew up. I don't know which came first.