For days, months, time, nothing is the same. Perhaps it would be appropriate to say since the pandemic became a reality and its consequences inevitable. Collateral damage, that is, fear, confrontation, disappointment, uncertainty. The consequences of something as unexpected as it is unwanted. Loss of work, hugs, smiles. Distance, caution, the cooling of relationships, imperative loneliness.

For days, months, time, nothing is the same. And I write these lines without knowing what must be going on when they are published. Even without knowing if they will be published, so much is the insecurity of a world at war, full of unbridled ambitions, entrenched nationalisms, murky business and perverse enrichment. From a world that for centuries began its gradual but undoubted return to a new feudal organization.

For days, months, time, nothing is the same and many people I talk to find it harder than before to find meaning in things. And maybe that's why last week, in the midst of thinking about these issues, I remembered Beckett's work Waiting for Godot. And I looked it up on the net and found a theatrical version of 1978, made for and by Spanish Radio and Television, and I realized how different the dreams of this society were then, just arrived at democracy, who relied on the investment of public money in the good of all through art and culture, that is, through curiosity and effort. And I saw the theatrical version I was referring to, and I wondered if Beckett, who wrote it, was in a language other than his own; There is also a universal message in this fact - a few years after the hopeless barbarism of World War II, if Beckett, I say, should not call Godot in the sense of things, which is expected and never arrives, which is it waits and escapes, especially when humanity loses its illusion and therefore the north. When humanity moves away from freedom, equality, fraternity, and so on, it is betrayed.