Tolkien knew: Men have the gift of the gods, gods who planned a long journey for us, an imprecise journey that may not even have begun here. We are passengers on a flight, of which we do not know the final destination. This is our gift, the gift of lightness, just a brief look at everything, just the dazzling sunset that leaves consciousness blind and mute. I cannot know anything. I only intuit that the clouds surrounding Santa Fe and the emerald green of its nearby hills are today and perhaps never again. Today for me, without names, without explanation, or justification, just a gift. An agreement that we forget, that I forgot, that I want never to forget again: Nothing belongs to us, nothing. Kundera knows, our lives are the first rehearsals of an unknown debut. This is the unbearable lightness of being.
By Carmen Mariscal