uno mismo

The most melancholic thing that can happen to me is forgetting myself.
I’m not talking about passing sadness or bad days. I’m talking about disappearing inside my own life, about my thoughts, desires, and boundaries becoming unrecognizable.

I wake up and sometimes I don’t know who is expecting me to act. I look in the mirror, and there’s no one there returning a real reflection. Only a shadow that goes through routines, repeats words I don’t feel, and follows expectations I never asked for. Every gesture feels automatic. Every smile is empty.

Colors lose intensity. Emotions become background noise. What used to move me now passes by like irrelevant data. Time dilutes, and I dilute with it. There is no pain, only weight. A constant weight that pushes from inside, drags relentlessly, and I cannot stop feeling.

I get lost in the everyday, and the more I lose myself, the harder it is to remember what was mine and what was imposed. Sometimes I feel like I forget myself even when I speak, write, or try to think clearly. Every word I say is a silent negotiation between what I want and what remains of me.

And still, even as I sink into this silence and emptiness, something persists. A mute question that repeats itself endlessly: Who am I when I don’t recognize myself?
It’s not comfort. It’s not hope. It’s barely a thread. And perhaps that is the only thing keeping me alive within myself.