Moving Day

 Today's moving day... and lately it's been nightmare after nightmare. Barely sleeping and not at all happy, I tend to attach and almost imprison myself to the blurry memories of old. Memories that soon will entirely vanish, I think... for there's no more space in this life that I have to store them or the guts to bear them.

It's moving day but it's also an anniversary. A dream called "Music" once became my entire life, burning so deeply and hot that it made lava run through my veins. Had to juggle too many things at the same time to hide myself from a dangerous world or become dangerous... and did it all the same.

At this point, the world has finally forgotten me whole but the many scars and so little inspiration I left behind may not be healed but at least surpassed with the life that went on and on and on. Not for me and yes, at the same time.

The day that I cherished the most was both the dream and the start of the end. That's my anniversary. The highest of highs and the unraveling of so many changes that changed it all. Bone deep. And I remember it all: the smiles, the faces, the music flowing in the air with all the nutrients to keep you alive for a thousand years; the gasp, and the crying. A discourse that many never understood from me and tried to love against the odds, and the unfathomable passion to create and destroy, all the same.

Ten years have passed and for the first time in the last six of them, I dare to speak, to feel and think about it again. Not enough fuel in my heart would bring me to a time before the time, to the place I was there before it all happened again: the crowd, the bumping heart, the claps, the love... there's not enough fuel in my heart, anyway. And then, I remembered (ironically) the first and last thing. The first piece I ever learned, all those 20-something years ago... and the last thing I can still play without a score. "Linda (vals)". I know at least 3 people who will grunt but for all the hate the world used to hate me, none will ever surpass a thousand times more than I hated myself for every one of those.

I've lived 37 of your years on this planet someone so creatively called "Earth", yet for me, each day was a lifetime to survive. Now I lived and died every day in my mind and heart for millennia, endured the impossible, and was reborn again in the morning, sometimes. Other times I ended up dead for longer and still went out. None of the times my wish to die entirely was granted. And here I "am".

I don't know if I was able to call myself a musician before but I know I no longer am. If the future holds for me that word again, as well as many others that I kept in the deepest parts of my very essence, I don't know. I can only remember the waltz. The impossible was my every day and I seemed to make it happen with so many to thank for. And in the end, there's only a waltz to play and pray for that never leaves me, with my dearest, longest, and only companion, the one that I attached myself to when life happened, and loved me back when I never deserved it, my guitar.

¡Feliz Día del Músico!

Behind the mask

 You may never understand, acknowledge or empathize with who I am because of what's behind your mask.

For so many times I showed my real face to you with clear skies and the darkest clouds covering my eyes, in a silly attempt to connect with the wrong outlet.

I peaked behind your mask and saw what was in there and kept our life together going no matter the ugly or the hard or the beauty of it. Of who you are.

And loved you...

Difficult word, that is... love. You fantasize with a country without hunger or disease, war or death; with green pastures and joyful songs in every straight street or corner. Nothing but. You see the pastures but there's life ongoing and the ants and bees and butterflies bother skin and bones. 

And sometimes there's more... and rainbows only appear after the hurricane. The winds that lifted you in all the skips and hopes became that very storm you were afraid of. 

There's beauty in all of it... but you don't want the work from morn to dusk. The task is due but there's a new mask to wear for the day... and in the night there's a feast in all desires. 

But no talk of sadness that comes with love. Of loss and emptiness. Ergo, you were the very mask that prevents that happiness.

You won't know me or understand my words. Not until you remove the mask to see all the rainbows that you missed when I was pouring love as it was infinite.

Half-a-life

I apologize in advance because it is very well possible that you don't want to read me anymore, that you are tired enough to get to know me and what you know is tiresome and hurtful already, what else can be known? what "secrets" could be darker? how can I find more ways to "hurt you" in this stupid process of learning to "live together"? It has to be in English so I can get detached a little bit from what I'm about to tell you… you may think you know it but you were not prepared to know it yet to understand it and you may not be prepared now. You may need to understand it for history is repeating itself and I've tried to avoid it with all my strength for which I have none left while you played a key role to make it happen without knowing or willing to.

As you know, my parents split while I was very young. I was two. With that, for me, the child came across a lot of different things, frustrating and difficult to digest. Not even a skilled psychiatrist will know for sure or understand the consequences until it's too late because what you feel is unique, although it looks like any other thing in the world. How unique? The many a burden no one notices, unaware of your battles until you lose. You never win. The hurting smiles, the tiresome happy, and the constant questioning about life, its meaning, its importance… and what is love. It all hurts because your battle was not with the couple, the mom and the dad, and it wasn't even your battle. But now it is and you debate to understand the world with only half a heart, one leg, one arm, and one eye. You become a half-being wandering the streets. 

The rest of the world would not matter and there is no love so grand that suffice. There is so much struggle within and not enough good answers to make anything of that. Why are you happy? Why are you sad? Why are you not here? Why have you come? How little time we spend together and we need to meet again: to get to know the stranger, to accommodate, to listen to the blurry face talk in riddles, to dress the ugly with pearls… and try to make up a wound so hurting that bleeds every single day.

My father disappeared for so many years. For me it was decades but I think it was about 4 years. And I never got him back as he never had his son to raise. And it is not only bitterness or angriness or silliness as you may think. It's a burden, as I said before. You love the concept, the figure but it never fits. And I had other role models, of course… my mother had my sister's father for her but I still had no father and yet another blurry figure in the making. Then, you met another partial figure that I came to cherish a lot but it was still a half-father, half-nothing. Very early I had to rely on my grandfather also: a grand figure, far from any mortal. A sort of godly man so versed and skillful. Yet, another half figure in the unmixable mix of things to try to understand. 

But the worst was my own father when I tried to compare or fit or fix or entertain the idea of what a father is without knowing him and knowing all these other half-nothings, borrowed, like fake limbs attached to the ghost limb, not to the body. And learn to walk, then learn to love me. How can I love myself when half my life is missing? how can I fathom the idea of who am I with half the information? If I must fight all the time against that figure so essential to be recognized and loved and understood and cared for and visited, why is it not here to do those things and put the burden on my shoulders? That's only half the story.

You think, as you said, you've noticed some "things" in their behavior. As they are trying to be happy they are constantly angry with everything, even themselves. And they love with a love so magnificent that they will hurt you in many ways yet still be there to make you happy and let you try. That's only half the story but not even the tip of the iceberg for the real thing.

And my mother, she tried. Tried with all her heart to hide the disappointment, the hate. She became a warrior that "works it all", almighty and ever sapient. Silently resilient with a strong and happy life, so it seems, yet absent for the jobs taking its tolls. The caregivers, the extended family, the friends... more and more half figures that don't mix and never relate. Everybody gives their best for the happiness they think we needed yet are ignorant of what world was built inside.

The doubts, the yelling, the punches, and the solitude. All the darkness out in daylight, with hints that everybody knew but it's not for them to go to war with it, just to throw some silly tips and movements and very "wise" words to stood up and overcome it, to make a whole life out of nothing or half a nothing with some weak happiness, easily turned to stone.

But the father's side tries. On top of their absence, he puts money to be responsible and now he can't be hated. Instead of days, we put vacations in which we try to know each other but we don't like each other, really. We try to be friends but we are strangers. And when the father-son comes into the plate it is rejected. Why a craving for something becomes rejection? why if you try so hard, it starts to hurt more? What happens with all the love that is supposed to be there yet it vanishes at the moment of intention? The grunts, the wants to see, the discomfort… the food that I don't like or don't eat or can't, the feeling when you're hurt but there's not a known figure to reach to, the loneliness; the running hugs, the tears of joy, the kisses, the sleeping together, the learning and the valuable moments… the life that seems to be complete just for a moment and the second after is destroyed. Minute by minute repeating itself. Question after question trying to be answered without saying, without tackling the ugly truth, the tiredness, and then the yelling. The demands for answers, the wrong answers, the right and awful answers… there's never a good answer, an answer "enough" to make it all stop. Not even in denial. Not even making up a life so grand and far and precious that will overcome this feeling: half a life, well lived or not, it doesn't matter.

And it's equally terrifying from every side, but not for the side that never cares or never tries or is not aware of what is happening. Even today, in all of this understanding that my life has brought to my door, with all preparedness and extra knowledge, with my own kids too… there is not one second of my life where I can be not scared or crippled in fear and doubt and anger, that is not pain or sadness and solitude, an immense aching for love.

Learn to Love You

In a tiny two hundred years old bottle, there is a message. The message, written in an ancient and highly complex language arrived on the shore after who knows how long of floating away. The paper is still intact but the ink is barely visible. With extreme caution, taken from the glassy cavern that protected it from harm, the letter found inside is more than just a save me note or a hidden treasure. Don't get me wrong, its contents are extremely valuable to me, yet it still is no treasure for the hungry or the store. 

To the best of my ability, I decipher its meaning. And eager to show you this story, this log in my diary I made for you and for my afterlife. It goes as I think it should, from their hearts to mine, and from mine to yours.

"Dearest of all,

So many songs unsung and others sunk in tears of joy and dread have paved my time here. Yet all of them are dedicated to you and you only. For for the first time we saw each other we never knew what came, what comes... and for the next thousand times we closed our eyes next to each other, the world was too harsh or wide to embrace ourselves.

I had too many words when I should have remained silent and the echo of your silence still resonates thunderous between my rip cage. There used to be a heart to fill it, but now its silhouette leaves a perfect amplifier to quake my innermost intentions. 

Even when my heart skips a beat, that second of silence is full of purpose... and for that I'm tired.

In silence now I remember your face. A sudden rush of blood to every part of this fragile body is the answer. Yet, I still don't recognize ourselves in the vague memories of turmoil. I remember your sweet voice yet it blurs my vision. And your arms and breast where I rested my heavy and loud head are still as needed as for the firstborn their mothers or for the homeless, shelter.

There is no time since we departed in which I stopped learning. Learning to love you in and through the distance and overcome what's not, and what can't. In the making of this journey, through the tides, against the odds, there is much I still need to learn. Learn to love you through the distance and beyond for what's to come and what won't.

And in silence, I can only throw this bottle through the air into the ocean of existence, just to try to reach you when we, me and you, will be prepared to learn to love me too."

This log may contain only that letter and I have no more context to add. When you see it, if you feel related even just for a millisecond, don't forget to raise a prayer for the life and love that was shared with you today.

Bucket List

The typewriter starts to sound again. All its rustiness and dirt are being removed by the slow movement of thoughts that are trying to take the leap towards the paper, for the first time in years. Many have died, tragically, in the past few months and many others have been accumulating in this sort of cemetery that my brain has come to form around my whole existence, heavily guarded by the twins, loneliness and grim, in which all hopes are put on.

I’m running towards death…

In essence we all are. Some try to escape it, others just walk down the path slowly. I’m just running towards it the same way one may run to embrace a loved one. I’m in love with the concept of dying a peaceful death instead of living this painful life I’m married to. I’ll cheat life with death every day the same way I’ve been trying to prolong my destiny to achieve a thing or two. Not necessary.

...where I belong.

How long would it be to be long gone? I don’t dream of victory over death or over life anymore. I’m just filling up my bucket list. So much has been checked in 36 years but now’s the time to stop adding to the list. The neverending story of desire, success and failure. I managed to become almost everything I wanted to be… I also managed to be the opposite of the same. I fought through wind and hail, got caught up in many a storm, and learned to plane, to spread my wings, even broke and with starving heart, body and soul.

I’ve become more than I expected…

In the thousands of years that I lived in just the current time I’m living, I saw the many faces god and most of the time appeared before the peoples of the world with a grave face or even a smile… changed voices, acted surprised when I knew the answer before the question was made… went from nothing to everything in a second and then, crashed ominously against my own, to die time and again, a thousand times too.

...and it’s more than enough.

What is to be expected when I’m gone? We don’t even know what being gone means… gone where? How can I keep imagining the sadness I might sow and grow into the hearts of the people that is not even here by my side? I know a thousand people that may still remember me but how? The time has come to settle and become quiet for once in a lifetime in which many would hit me in my mouth just to shut up… how many have already erased my face and name and life from theirs? I know a bunch that already did and they were the closest to my heart. They are wise as everyone else that did it… I’m just obsolete.

The thoughts that were rushing are now silent again. Many words were killed before they were posted. The painting in the wall stopped staring to the poor old writer while mourning the many words that never made it. Now, it’s just about finishing the bucket list of useless things that'll put a smile and die a peaceful death with all the words we never said.