Agua salada

Ya no quiero ser mar,
aquel del que no se ve el fondo,
aquel en el que quieres nadar
atraída por su misterio,
por sus sombras y reflejos escurridizos.

Ya no quiero ser esas aguas embravecidas
fervientes en su deseo de alcanzar la luna,
incesantes y ruidosas, caóticas,
y que amenazan con ahogarte.

Ya no quiero ser ese ser
que de esperanza vive albergando el horizonte.
No quiero desvelarme con la luz de una sonrisa,
perderme en el momento en el que me dicen
que voy tarde, o que el amor se acaba.

Ya no quiero ser el mar, calmo o agitado,
en el que se hunde y remueve el pasado.

Yo quiero ser viento.
El viento que dirige las olas
y te deja regalos a los pies.
Te vacila cuando abres la ventana,
juega con tu pelo y el paraguas,
y siempre, te susurra siempre.

El viento del desierto, el viento del bosque,
el de las aventuras, el de las flores
y el del verano pasado.
El mismo viento que me da alas,
que me despierta, que me impulsa,
que me da libertad, me aisla,
me guarda de mis miedos
y me empuja hacia a ellos.

El viento que inspira, que inspiro,
el que me encuentra y no huye.
El del deseo, el del apetito,
el de la sed y el buen gusto,
El viento que nos deja sin aliento
y lo toma en el último momento.

Musing in corners

Why do people choose to stay silent when they have so many and such important things to tell?

A child lowers her head, cries silently and goes back to the end of the class. He closes the door to his office and looks out the window at a patch of sky. She finishes her turn and delays for some more minutes staring blankly at the mirror. I cut myself and got lost into any other world I could get as long as it wasn’t real.

Why don’t we talk openly about the invisible scars that we all have? Why do we hide and pretend everything is okay?

It’s easy. Nobody is challenged. There is no confrontation. The power rules do not change. And the truth is kept away.

While the outside is preserved, the inside splits and parts of ourselves get disconnected and thrown into a cold and barren space.

I almost lost my voice. I considered it seriously, to stop talking forever. To let it die. It was pretty useless already. But I knew it wouldn’t help me. I kept on failing to stick to friendships; I couldn’t give them what a friendship was made of at the time anyway. I envied them and I tried to sell what I had, but that wasn’t worth it. I was very good, but not outstanding. I was always smiling, and the days I wasn’t, they told me to. I had what I most notably needed, but I didn’t have what I wished for.

The weight of my disappointments and of the few times I felt betrayed as a child is as accessible to me as it was when it took place – only that I can’t yet do anything about it. I don’t understand why, they, who could have seen things clearly and understood, didn’t. What I wanted was someone that cared to listen to whatever I had to say and that didn’t side by someone else’s opinion. It didn’t happen. I was just a child.

I don’t understand why it took me so long to reach a point when I would be able to stand to look back and be honest. I don’t understand why they would be so little sympathetic. Only that I know why. Because we are all human.

There’s a pretence that we are not, though.

I started to fear that things would only be worse. I realised my dreams would never become true, that I would never have what I wanted. And I was afraid they would find out that I was still capable of smiling to them only because I cried on my own. I built walls; if they knew about my sadness it would just make things worse. I didn’t want them to tell me that I didn’t have any reason to feel that way (I did) and that everything was okay (it wasn’t). I couldn’t formulate my problems to myself, I had no words to describe them to anybody else. I was trapped. Nobody would understand. In the end I thought that it didn’t matter, because they were my problems and it was up to me to solve them.

I put up an act and went on with it. It worked well enough to the outside. It didn’t work for me, but I found ways to keep things under control. My attempts to reach out didn’t succeed. I tried to escape, to take control of my life, I considered taking it away, and then I decided to change myself because it was the only sensible thing to do, and I still wanted to have hope.

To convince yourself in order not to see the bullshit that surrounds you while focusing only on beauty is hard. “I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care.”  “Be loving. Be loving.” Aiming for a restricted set of emotions, while wondering what it feels like to genuinely love someone. What is love? What is love when you don’t feel or are too afraid to take your feelings seriously? Numbness. Delusion. Failure. Retraction. Delusion and numbness. And years that pass by. And a continuous loss of the self, of confidence and sense of direction.

But you keep on going, and one day, you open your eyes and things are better. You are getting close, finally. But you are not quite there yet. And the scars burn and bother and some still bleed.

A look or a late reply or a joke and you are thrown out of balance again. Two hours to be ready to leave. The constant monitoring of your body, your words, your looks. Feeling fake because you are never at ease. Being afraid that they will accuse you of feeling superior, of pretending to be perfect, of being hypocritical and false. Preferring not to be seen. Fearing to be given reasons to raise your voice and then being accused to overreact. Shielding behind coldness and passivity, even if that feels constraining. Taking their words as simple politeness and fearing there won’t be a next time. Walking pass people while considering all the thoughts they might be having about yourself, about all the wrongs they might be able to notice. Do they realise how you hesitate when you walk? Do they notice the nervousness? Do they hate you already? I anticipate the disaster, although it is not as clear as those thoughts; I anticipate my loss, how I will feel when I fail. And I don’t want to expect things, to look forward to them, because I know that if they don’t turn up well my frustration will be exaggerated and no one will understand why I felt so bad about it. Maybe they won’t even notice and assume something else is wrong. I got so used to anticipating the worse hoping that if it was better than that I would be happy… but it didn’t work. Positive anticipation is necessary to enjoy. And it sucks, because it may not happen. And even though, it would be easier to face life if at least I had that, because I know it helps to keep the mood up.

Not seeing the point of living other than to finish what once started. And some people are actually excited about it! I could die today.   “I want to die,” is my natural answer to stress, “nothing matters, it’s okay if I die. I don’t want to live.” That’s how it continues, and that way I can focus. And I have thought like this for as long as I can remember, which means since I was a teenager.

I need pain to act. I tense up because that way I can have control over myself. I can stop emotions from going wild and out on their own.

They don’t love me. They will change their mind. They don’t care and they never will. They hate me. They don’t want me in their lives or they would tell me. Why should they like me? They have their own problems.

I know it is not reasonable, but I can’t shake those feelings yet.

I’ve been obsessed with body asymmetries, spending hours for weeks analysing, fearing they would notice or that they knew, thinking about a way to change them. I’ve felt guilt and shame for being unhappy, for despising my life. I’ve been angry too, so much it still boils sometimes. I’ve punished myself and learnt discipline by imitation, using self-criticism. I know it’s wrong, but that is what I was taught. I could also see how unfair people can be and I didn’t want to be caught by surprise by that. I put myself through it so that I would be ready, just in case… Because it would be the worst not to, to add weakness to failure. To admit that it is not possible to do everything on one’s own and become hopeless.

But because I know better, I’ve tried to change and to avoid making the same mistakes, not to do what I was done/did to myself. Of course, I don’t always succeed. I hold back a lot; partly because I’d abhor to act automatically and do and say what I hate.

I’ve been able to see and learn a little from the kindness and good will of others. I found that what I wanted did exist in the world, though in different places from the ones I had been. I don’t need to be so self-centred and self-conscious. Nobody is after me. I don’t have to be alone anymore. And I can find the words.

Things change. You reach a place when you can, at last, talk without fear. And be listened to. You are understood. You are accepted. You are safe.

And suddenly, there are more colours in your heart, not just the lingering black, the permanent grey and the wished-for white.

Shut up and pretend that it never happened. That it is false. That there aren’t stories pulling the threats of every walking soul just because they would rather forget them. Fear is still stronger than kindness, than empathy and sympathy.

Absence is not real. It is just another delusion, a lie in plain sight.

We are human. We yearn for connection.

No matter the price.

(But it does matter.)

What happens when a dream dies?

Does it make a sound,
like a tree falling down,
the rushing of the leaves,
the cracks of its bark hitting the earth

Is it like a scream,
muffled by a feathers’ pillow
in an empty house
full of white blankets

Does it smell like dry flowers
between the pages
of a notebook
never used

Are the dreams
never born
truly gone forever

And if they are,
does anybody know
where they go

Are the dreams that go away

a question mark left hanging in the air

Nadie como tú

“Acércate.”

Hay cosas que deben decirse muy bajito, al oído. A una orejita que vibre con el sonido de las palabras más buscadas, de aquellas deseadas y que crean adicción incluso antes de conocerlas de verdad. Esas son las que saben escuchar.

“Tengo un secreto que confesarte.”

Y está comprobado que contar secretos a las personas en las que confiamos es bueno para la salud y crea lazos más fuertes.

“Imagina mi voz susurrando.”

El silencio siempre antecede aquello importante, porque es difícil no anticipar el dolor, aquél que es infinito, inevitable e irreparable; el de la imaginación. El miedo fluye entre uno y otro, tira de mí y de ti.

“Niñita de ojos profundos. Mírame. ¿Sabes para qué es todo esto que ves? ¿Sabes para quién llenaron el mundo de personas con mil matices? ¿Y para quién construyeron maravillas incomprensibles? ¿Para quién inventaron el amor y la amistad, las sonrisas y los abrazos?”

Todo empezó en otro mundo. Vivía en una casa preciosa, luminosa, cálida, de dulces gestos y ojos entrecerrados. Pero a veces las sombras aparecían y el frío lo inundaba todo, apagaba las luces y ahogaba las voces. Me quedé sola encerrada. Pero no podía gritar. No sabía qué iba a pasar. Creía que había hecho algo malo, muy malo. Pero ni siquiera sabía el qué. No quería empeorarlo. Y aun así eso no era lo que me paralizaba. Solo pensaba que nunca nada podría ser como antes. Que el frío solo sería más intenso y que el sol se alejaría, y vería el mundo desaparecer lejos de mí. Y que si todo aquello que me era familiar volvía me haría sufrir. ¿Hay algo peor que descubrir el dolor y el odio en las manos de aquellos que te cuidaban y querían? No. Y cuando eres un niño puedes perderlo todo. Todo. Hasta los recuerdos y los viejos sentimientos que los acompañaban. Hasta los futuros esperanzadores. ¿Y entonces qué? Nada. Y horror.

“Para ti. Todo es para ti. Para que rías, para que llores, para que grites, para que lo descubras una y otra vez. Para que no te aburras, o sí. Para que camines y escojas adónde vas. Para que seas tú. Para que no te avergüence ser frágil como las telarañas, transparente como la rosada o tierna como los cachorritos. Todo es para ti.”

No hay razones que puedan hacerme entender el porqué. Ni de lo que me es más cercano, ni de lo que conozco mejor. Pero tengo una convicción. In the mists of despair, I cling to my one and only thing: willpower.  And I say to myself: I don’t care. I’ll make things better. That’s all that matters. Make something better. I cannot give up, so I will do whatever. I’ll make things better. Do whatever, but do something.

“No hay nadie como tú.”

Y hay días en los que ¡como me gustaría creerlo! Pero no lo veo. Y pienso que se equivocan, que lo dicen para reconfortarme, pero no es verdad. Yo lo sé mejor. Yo estoy aquí dentro y puedo verlo. No hay nada especial y si desapareciera podrían soportarlo. Al final, no les importaría. O puede que sí, pero aún así…todo continuaría igual.

“Todo esto es para ti, porque tu valor es infinito. Como el mismísimo universo. Y tú te empeñas en perseguir esto y aquello. Nunca verás como todo lo que quieres gira a tu alrededor, pero así funciona la verdadera ley de la atracción.  Tú no lo verás, pero el mundo sí, porque este es el que es atraído por ti. Y él necesita de ti. Necesitamos de ti.”

Acéptate. Toma responsabilidad por tu vida y como la vives. Sé fuerte, hazlo lo mejor que puedas. Ayúdales, esfuérzate más.

–No, no, no. No. Así no.–

Cuídame, respétame, ayúdame, quiéreme, dame tiempo. Déjame levantar primero. Dame ánimos, muchos ánimos, pero no me presiones más. Agárrame si me caigo, pero déjame caminar sin tu mano. Espérame. Pero cerca. Lo haré. Poco a poco. A mi manera. Por mí misma, pero con buena ayuda.

Di que sí.

“Niñita de ojos bonitos, créeme. Tu vida es mi regalo al mundo. Y el mundo mi regalo para ti. Toma lo que quieras. Es todo tuyo. Porque no hay nadie como tú. Y nunca lo habrá. Tu ausencia sería irreparable, incluso si solo te apartaras un poco. Así que…

Si sientes que te escurres, cierra los ojos, respira y agárrate a lo que puedas. Pero no te sueltes. Nosotros te subiremos, siempre.”

Singing along

Melodies, playing backwards while you keep on moving forward. It’s strange, but this is the way it sometimes goes. As the most recent memories sink in and fade beyond the horizon, residual feelings lick the borders of my mind’s eye and bring throw-away bottles with them.
The past.
Each one seems to come from farther away. Their fragrance remains in the air for some time, and then it’s gone.
And an older one slips through.
And backwards the record goes, until it ends.

Blinking

Love… What is love? Is the measure of love loss? Is the measure of love meaning? Is the measure of love pain? Is the measure of love pleasure? Is love any different from life? Are these two things a team? Maybe the same thing. They so often seem the same…

A dance. Solo or with a partner. As beautiful as one can imagine it, make it, stage it. As intense as the energy you put in it. As passionate as the moves You and I invent, combined. As unique as Me. As unique as Us. As unique as all of us, plus one. Not strictly making a whole, not strictly putting things together, not strictly different from non-love or non-life… Just a sense of togetherness that doesn’t change anything, but changes everything. Because change is an individual’s perception, temporal, and always relative. And so is isolation and everything else…perception, but not reality.

It’s a paradox.

You have to disappear to be present.

999 wishes

To spend my life looking at the moon.
To waste time counting stars.
To aspire to become a better someone.
To build dreams.
To wander looking for you.
To put everything in order.
To find the right place where to live my life.
To stumble upon a chosen family.
To feel whole, happy, relaxed and free. And loved.
And all that for what?
So that when I open my real eyes, when my voice grows strong enough and fears cannot blur my vision, I realise…
-that I love the sun -that I prefer to get to know someone’s wrinkles – that a judgemental me will never be “better” -that reality offers enough opportunities to thrive -that you would find me -that chaos is more beautiful -that I own the world I inhabit -that if you open the door there is someone standing on the other side -that self-analysis divides consciousness -and that emotions are the results of decisions, the ones we took and the ones we didn’t -that the only prison is the limits established by my body -that I have plenty for me and them.
That the struggle was unnecessary, but a lesson nonetheless.