No dejando nada en el tintero de la vida. Conduzco por la pradera helada escuchando country. Tarareo "Bigger houses." Los ciervos me miran desde el lado de la carretera. El cielo blanco, árboles nevados. 

Charlo con una IA o con gente por una pantalla. Mi reloj tiene hora en varios husos temporales. Un águila vuela  sobre las montañas, las campanas de las vacas sorprendidas. Subo por la montaña jadeando. El futuro es ahora.

I found this beautiful stoic thought in L'Orfeo by Claudio Monteverdi. Orpheus has lost Eurydice. He despairs. The chorus of spirits sings,

Orfeo vinse l’Inferno, e vinto poi
Fù da gli affetti suoi.
Degno d’eterna gloria
Fia sol colui ch’avrà di sè vittoria.

Two versions of Il Ritorno di Ulisse in Patria, by Monteverdi. Most uninspiring. Later today, I found the version by Nikolaus Harnoncourt which I love. Art imitates life.

I was looking at photos of the small Castilian village where my father was born. He happily worked in another small village until I was three or so. We moved to a city at my mother's insistence, for our education.

Many years after, he told us stories about the time when he helped a man who could not afford to pay the vet to treat his pig, who had what sounds to me like sepsis, or the neighbour who could not repair a metal barrel.

At times I stop and think about my life, noting how in a way, it mirrors my father's. I don't see myself giving penicillin to a pig anytime soon though.

The Homeric pain of homecoming resonates with me. I find myself humming old Spanish Renaissance tunes as I go about my daily work in this green and pleasant land. In my dreams, a ray of Mediterranean sun caresses my arms, and lulls me to sleep. Birds sing in the garden, summer calls me home.

Endings are bittersweet. Looking at the sky, my head on my backpack on the grass, people around me. I did not feel well and thought, "I can't die in this foreign land, among strangers." Twenty five years is a long time, filled with the good and the bad. I am listening to Luis de Milán's "Fantasía número 3". The vihuela is such an old intimate Spanish instrument. My heart left years ago, my body is just following.

Bajo el mar la más pequeña bucea, menuda, con la instructora. Señala con el dedo un pulpo, sus ojos brillan tras la máscara y el regulador. Burbujas que ascienden hacia la superficie, flotamos todos ingrávidos sobre la arena del fondo.

Pedaleo escalones arriba, el canal a mi izquierda. Miro abajo y al frente al llegar, mis rodillas se empiezan a flexionar, los codos abiertos. Bajo a toda velocidad, vista al frente. La bici bota arriba y abajo. Aprieto los manillares, considerando que uno de los escenarios posibles es que me rompa la crisma o caiga al canal.
Noche. Mi bici eléctrica duerme al lado del radiador soñando que es una mountain bike.

Paseo con mi bici eléctrica entre los campos pronto por la mañana. A la derecha, un faisán con sus pequeños. Paro. Un perro me olisquea.
- Morning! Lovely day for a ride isn´t it?
Sonrío. Sólo es ahora.