My Diagnosis Is Simple, I'm a Lost Cause

As Julio Cortazar once wrote, “My diagnosis is simple, I’m a lost cause.”

Surely you’re also a lost cause because you feel deeply, and sometimes you cry without knowing why. Maybe both us are fascinated by people that spread emotions with their energy.

Surely you also like people that vibrate, and it’s likely that you like to work so that your reality is even better than your dreams.

We’re lost causes because sometimes we get angry for no reason and the world comes crashing down when things don’t go our way. There’s no hope for us because you don’t manage to count to ten like the experts tell you to before exploding.

I’m a lost cause (and so are you) because I’m not capable of eating five meals a day, sleeping eight hours a night or thinking about myself before I think about anyone else. I’m constantly waiting for “that person” to spend time with me.

I’m a lost cause (and surely so are you), because I’m not always able to “let go and say goodbye” to the things that hurt me. It’s not that I like to cling to things or that I’m incapable. I simply hold out hope that “miracles”can happen. I can’t help it. I’m that irrational, though I try not to be (surely the same thing happens to you).

I’m a lost cause because I fully believe that the things that don’t come easy to us are the most worthwhile, and I know that I have to rile up the courage to keep moving forward.

I like to wear a smile every morning, but I understand that it’s not always necessary, that sadness is also good for me and that when my body wants to cry, I should shut down or disconnect for a while.

I don’t like when people tell me what to do, how I should be, when to be sad, or how I should feel.

I’m hopeless because I like to listen to the little battles of other people, scrutinizing their faces and evaluating their expressions. I’m a lost cause because I can’t stand to be lied to, but I understand that sometimes people do it.

I’m a lost cause because I don’t like white or black! Because I’m more into gray, pink, blue and yellow. I don’t have a favorite color because they all say something that excites me.

I’m also a lost cause because I know that I can get riled up remembering my first love and I’m sure that that doesn’t make me incapable of loving with immense insanity the person who’s currently in my life now.

I’m a lost cause because in my life I have PEOPLE and people. In capital letters and in lower case letters. Because yes, I’m sure that in love there’s a hierarchy, or that there’s at least a certain type of love for every single person in the world.

I’m a lost cause because sometimes I criticize and am incoherent. I’m hopeless because I think that love is worthwhile in this hurried world, because I know that there are cardinal points and that I can lose my north over any silly thing.

I’m also not afraid to admit that I’m terrified of heartbreak. That sometimes I’m scared of loneliness and that I shed tears when I think that one day I might lose someone.

We’re authentic in diversity

I’m hopeless when my quirks say everything about me, when I fall in love with the genuine, the childish and the unexpected. They say I shouldn’t, that “I’m too old for…”

And I respond that I’m not too old for anything, that I simply have accumulated youth and that I will live my life how I wish until it comes to its end.

Because I know that old age is a type of “spirit”, not a stage of life. Getting older is inevitable, but I have decided that I’m hopeless and that I’ll be a beacon as long as I possibly can.

Although I should know that being a lost cause isn’t easy, more than anything because treasuring memories is sometimes painful. It’s complicated to justify that I’ve spent entire months of the calendar doing the same thing every day and feeling similar things.

Seeing the time change on my cellphone, setting 20 alarms, sending the same messages and making promises to myself that won’t ever come true…

Then I tell myself that next week I’ll be ready for everything to change. But when I really think about it, I realize that those 20 alarms and those same messages aren’t what define me or what writes my story.

I write my own story, with my periods, commas, exclamation and question marks, my capital letters. That’s what gives me no other choice but to be MYSELF, again with capital letters and determination.

I’m hopeless, and surely you are too due to another handful of reasons. Because each of us has a thousand stories and hundreds of scars. That’s what makes us authentic and special, being a lost cause in private while we are ourselves with so much and so little in common.