Diario de un dolor de tarde de domingo

The day begins with the usual and routine transfer of the pharmacy, placing the newly arrived medicines in a world of drawers and shelves. A box of paracetamol slips from my partner's hands and falls to the floor. "Someone is thinking of me," she says. I look at her with disdain and I can't help but reply that this is as pretentious as it is stupid and that it only hides a reality: "you're clumsy". My partner gives me an indignant look and blurts out an "asshole" on the way to the bathroom. I know what this is where I live. That state that someone decided to distinguish with an exotic word, burnout, and that has eaten me whole. I live in it and it permeates everything. Abandoned to an existence that does not belong to me and unable to transform it. How capricious life can be when this, which seems to have become a tedious routine, suddenly asks you to reinvent yourself again; to review what one could have been, or was, and to heal the wounds of what is now, while giving you a good puff of guilt. With a scathing and mocking speech, Diary of a Sunday Afternoon Pain is nothing more than a pretended excuse, a firecracker chronicle that accompanies the process of basting a new existence. This is the diary of a latent pain; that he managed to fall asleep, content, and that now he returns to recover all those Sunday afternoons in which he wanted to disappear.