I'm too lazy to think about that tomorrow the world ends. I've got too much to do. Whether Maya are right (Who am I to rebatirles?), at least we must thank have warned in time, enough to put some things in order before the abyss opens beneath our feet. Other, however, remain pending forever. And that's, precisely, what haunts me in these final hours.
I do not want to face the last trip, the only one for which we do not get ticket, not to feel that joy in my shoes to tread in unknown places, far from routine strangling enthusiasm. I find it a chore to get out of here without walking the glacier Baltoro, en el Karakorum; without seeing with my own eyes the Antarctica; without admiring the Northern Lights; not go into the Great North, or in the deserts of Mali Timbuktu carrying, or streams of Chimborazo; without seeing the union of the two Niles in Khartoum or navigate the Congo, the Niger and Amazon; not to turn Spain the market… Dreams that have sustained me in the dark, illusions that have been feeding on the books, on maps that fuel efforts and do not let the last embers off.
I do not want to face the last trip, the only one for which we do not get ticket, not to feel that joy in my shoes to tread in unknown places
"After a long century, time the evil back… The earth will be blood crazed, disease, hunger, War and Revolution ". Nostradamus prophesied the end of Western civilization after the tumultuous twentieth century. And here we. Hoping someone down the blind. But, real, there's no hurry.
Review some of the symptoms as a prelude prophesied cataclysm: the Holy See will leave the Vatican; 's successor Juan Pablo II die in the Mount Aventine; he Antichrist will be born in Asia, son of a Buddhist monk; an air attack France; the ruin of Israel; the conquest of Spain by Muslims; Chinese invasion of Europe; the burning of Rome and the assassination of the late Pope. The truth, except the Chinese landing on the Old Continent (Pacific, but conquers After), I see that others have been fulfilled wishes. Maybe the Mayans also have missed the forecast…
Is there no more bags waiting in the storeroom redemption of wonder? Not even fatalism dotted duermevelas the imminence of a great trip?
But, course, not only overwhelm me places I have left to visit, but, and almost the same intensity, those who wanted to return. Those to whom you turn away has cost and with whom, in the end, land have put through resorting to deception rescued: "I will return". All those promises intimate I now come up as boomerangs uncomfortable I can not even want to dodge.
Is there no more bags waiting in the storeroom redemption of wonder? Not even fatalism dotted duermevelas the imminence of a great trip? And the sweet sound of the door closing behind you when, past, hope to open other doors that only reach to imagine? Where will go from the tattered illusions? And these awakenings perplexing disconcerting places? At what point will undo the dreams? Perhaps the Mayans, After the, not properly calculated the date…
If tomorrow the world ends I want the gift of another sunset in the Serengeti, of a sunrise over to the foot of Everest Rongbuk
If tomorrow the world ends I want the gift of another sunset in the Serengeti, of a sunrise over to the foot of Everest Rongbuk; I do not give to feel again the overwhelming loneliness of the Patagonia ni the unos seconds, that's enough, against Garganta del Diablo; I want to climb for the last time Oroel to say goodbye to my father and explore the highlands of Ethiopia, succumb again to the beauty of the Grand Canyon and wake up with the same enthusiasm in New York listening to Sinatra; cross the Charles Bridge; look at Asia from the Bosphorus; engulf me through the jungle of Bwindi; leisurely browse market Stone Town and recall the excitement of that first trip to Mexico. In order, so much…
A decade ago, the century was accompanied by another catastrophic prediction, This computer dye: the "Year 2000". Computers, told us, would not be able to recognize the change of digits and the hard drive of our civilization would go to hell. They spent hundreds of millions of pesetas to prevent this catastrophe computer, were written thousands of pages on which we came over. Clockwise When they were about to turn of the century, computer clan gasped and glanced at their computers. It was not anything at all. What if the Mayans were wrong also?
We are not required to fulfill all those dreams outstanding but, at least, try. For routine finds out that we have not dropped their guard
We obligados to live hurry, no time just to absorb setbacks and satisfactions, these impostors to which Kipling advised to pay with indifference. Only travel redeem us that transience. Prepare them, live them and, for some, write (that is at least VaP. philosophy). Thanks to the old Mayan prophecy, at least we retrained on what we have done and how much remains to be done. We are not required to fulfill all those dreams outstanding but, at least, try. For routine finds out that we have not dropped their guard and, occasionally, we are able to let go a swipe. And to boot a smile to our shoes. If tomorrow the world ends.
