Breathe
By Marilú Acosta
We have the habit of talking to the dead. We tell them about our day or talk to them when a relevant event happens to us. We ask them for advice, help or protection. We also complain about their absence. We are angry at their abandonment and we talk to them with the desire that they answer us and also with the fear that they will do so. In the cemeteries and in the niches of the urns, what prevails is silence. We speak because sound chases away mourning.
We also write on social networks or messaging services. We are reassured to imagine that the dead still have a digital life. We wait in a chat for confirmation of the message received and long to see the color change or the read label. We look for a like on our posts to imagine that we have received a reply.
Death feels like oblivion. He hasn't called me, he must have forgotten. We haven't seen each other, we forgot to coincide. He must already be in his room, oh no, I forgot he already died. Our brain does not have the tools, nor the capacity to understand death. It does not conceive of never, nor does it understand forever; it is talking about infinity and for the brain, everything has limits. The dead cease to have a body, to be in three dimensions. What if they only change dimensions? We could then listen to the dead.
