We are nothing completely. We are all halfway

PalmaI 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.

But nothing. I'm not getting rich. I'm not chasing a dream. I'm not sculpting my body. I'm not starting a family. We are nothing whole. We are everything halfway. I'm not betting on any of those things with which we were supposed to fill our existence, for which a full dedication was worth it for us. Instead, I have a hole in my chest that goes through me and makes gravity seem even denser. Instead, I have a constant tremor in my right eye and white hairs where no one prepares you to have them.

A few days ago, Neus Tur –who always asks pertinent questions– told me I had to write about the millennial existential crisis, that is, about our generation. I wondered if everything wasn't a product of this existential crisis: everything we think, say, write, do. And, at the same time, I found that this feeling of not being anything completely was one of the best expressions of this existential unease, of the constant doubt of not knowing who we are, like a patchwork. Until now, the only period of life with which I could compare my thirties is 10, 11, 12 years old, the moment when all the changes arrive suddenly after a long period of calm and childhood. My twenties were that, a respite. And now, as when we were going through adolescence, we realize that everything has become a bit more irreversible and that we are late to get a place.

This rush, useless, when time has already run out, is the existential crisis: the clumsy attempt to resolve a outcome that doesn't convince us. And the symptom of all this, the archetypes of people we try to fit into, like life rafts, to feel that we belong somewhere, that something defines us. A last resort to rely on. The running or crossfit team, the book club, cryptocurrencies, sacrificed motherhood or fatherhood. Let's think about it: isn't it a natural evolution of urban tribes? Before, we had to know if we were pijas, chonis, hippies or goths. Now, we need to unlock this new personality in which to invest our lives to provide ourselves with sufficiently solid results to know that, at least, we have that. To be content with who we are.

I, on the other hand, have chosen nothing. "I'm constantly trying to remind myself that 'okay, you have to go after your goals. But you have to take care of your mother. And you have to make sure your sisters are okay. You have to make sure you pay the bills. But you have to make sure you have a good time and that you have time for yourself, time for your friends.'" "And I just feel like I'm constantly being negligent with parts of my life," says Doechii (in English) in 'Bloom'

, from her album Alligator Bites Never Heal.

This is the infinite loop that the days have become, because nothing is ever covered enough. Sometimes, and if you're not careful, chronic dissatisfaction sets in, paralyzing insecurity. Fear of doing something wrong. As if there wasn't time for another failure. As if each time you were more vulnerable to disaster. Other times, if I manage to think about it so much to undo the loop, a disabling reality reaches me: we are not that important. And, if not, with a bit of luck, I find phrases like this one from Nadia Risueño, which are a punch in time: “Everything in life is about being loved. Not real food, not gym at 6 am, not skincare Korean, not being your own boss. Everything revolves around love. Everyone seeks a spark of affection. A shoulder to fall on.”

Above all, we need to be loved – to be allowed to be loved, I would say –. And, instead, we get lost trying to love ourselves, becoming Joachim Trier's The Worst Person in the World, with a self-awareness that is unbearable even for ourselves. I wonder if this unbridled search for self-love – as if it were the most valid thing – is not a contempt for the people who love us, whatever we are. And if it's not that, what I want to start caring about before the next failure.