Living in the moment
How much time goes by without us realising?
The text about Alberto Caeiro brought me back to this paradox. It's a theme that seems to be this or that and always ends up being this and that, leaving me divided.
Throughout the day, my attention is pulled and pushed, back in time to relive a moment, and forward to ideas of what could be. It wanders incessantly through the list of unfinished projects and tasks. Sometimes it appears as a voice that observes what I'm thinking (or feeling), and investigates the how, why and what for. It's a curious but critical voice.
This voice often surfaces when I go on autopilot and forces me to pay attention, to notice what's in front of me, to feel my body in motion. Sometimes I ask myself, how much time has passed without me realising? How much time goes by without something pulling my attention back to the present moment?
They say it's important to live in the here and now, that only the present exists, the past is gone, and the future hasn't happened yet. What if I stay here, now, quietly at this terrace table, thinking about all of this? My attention isn't focused on the pigeon wandering around the tables or on that group of friends sitting on the grass in the sun; it's turned inward, travelling through the possibilities of what this text can be.
Could living in the moment mean making the text flow, word after word, without planning what I'm going to say next? Like text generators that calculate the probability of the next word from existing content? And if the text flows from something already in my head, is that living in the past? What if my mind knows where it's going, even if unconsciously, and the words are paving the way? Isn't that living in the future?
I often write from a question, looking for an answer. I'm a slow thinker; I need time to digest information and connect the dots. The more time I spend writing and rewriting a text, the more I peel away the superficial layers and uncover what is hidden beneath fear, shame, guilt and assumptions.
In this writing, the vision isn't clear yet, but the drawing emerges, it grows from a disquiet, a character or a situation.
The only fiction book I've ever written grew in this way: I began with a skeleton, handwritten, to give the characters time to develop, and when I reached the end, I went back to the beginning and rewrote, adding layer after layer until I said, I'm done.
But sometimes I have to stop, stand up and survey the horizon. This happens before I start writing and in the middle of the process, often between rewrites. From the top of the mast I can see the big picture, realise what needs to change, what's missing and what needs to be cut. It's from this vantage point that I follow each idea and each character throughout the text, feeling their voices and rhythm.
To write is to go backwards and forwards in time, real or imagined, and to stop in the now and let it fill up with words and ideas. In words, as in life. Maybe.
I return to my table on the terrace and realise this is not a moment I will remember. Or will I? If I do, it won't be because of the place or the lemonade; if I remember it, it will be because of these words, this search and the lingering doubt about how to stop in the now and savour that silence amid the noise of existence.
Maybe living in the moment doesn't mean striving to create perfect, instagram-worthy memories. Maybe it's about recognising and guiding our attention at every moment. Maybe it's facing that critical, curious voice and giving it time to learn to observe and react without judgement, letting it flow, but with a clear vision of a greater purpose.