These Words Are Born Where It Hurts
Today I write with
different hues —or perhaps the same ones, depending on how you see me—. The
soft sound of an accordion’s bellows escapes the studio speakers, dressing this
afternoon as it fades into night, cloaked in heavy, grey clouds that promise
rain.
I’ve taken my time to write these lines, but that does not lessen the weight of
the words or diminish the importance of the thoughts.
These past days have been a
bit difficult for me —I say it with the honesty and anonymity that places like
this offer, though not to seek compassion, but rather to recognize myself in
what I say—. Still, I confess I always find comfort in a Spanish playwright and
philosopher, perhaps you know him: Antonio Gala. There’s something in
him that resonates deeply within me.
“I have been vulnerable. I have been easy to wound... I have felt as deep wounds what others might not have even noticed.”
- ANTONIO GALA
When I read him, it feels
like meeting again that hidden childhood few know about, and many might glimpse
between the lines. Is it depression? Anxiety? A struggle to overcome the past
and getting lost in memories? Perhaps. I won’t lie: I don’t know. Many of us
don’t know why we are the way we are. We are shaped by experience, by the life
we’ve lived, by the touch of people and loves who come and go, by losses that
turn into memory, by dreams that still burn and sting when they become open,
flaming wounds. And yes, perhaps I say too much and ramble on, but isn’t that
what I write here for? That great man taught me that the soul can be stripped
bare, but only a few will see and understand the shedding of the armor.
I don’t mean to judge
anyone, nor to appear incapable of understanding those who come close to me —I
only show myself as I am. Raw, sometimes. Cynical, others. Always compassionate,
but often challenging. Perhaps that’s why I found such a kinship with Antonio
Gala, one I almost hesitate to accept for fear of disrespecting such a great
man.
If I disturb anyone, I
apologize in advance. That’s not my intent. But the truth of my words is mine
alone, and those who wish to pick them up are welcome to do so.
What Gala said is true:
wounds are not always visible. I’ve grown so used to the aches of the body that
I’m rarely caught off guard. The problem comes when the pain deepens and offers
no respite. These days, I write everything —and hide everything— from less
observant eyes. I keep silent because I choose to, because that’s how I carry
it: alone. Not for lack of company, nor for absence of those who love me, but
simply because I’ve decided so.
Why share it now, then? Why
bring it into the light before you, stranger who has seen and read me? Because perhaps you are going through the same. I don’t offer
thirty-second comfort, or a one-minute balm for your pain and despair. I don’t
deal in short reflections —mine are long-winded, drawn out, like those
accordion melodies playing now through my speakers. So yes, keep reading. There
are more lines to come.
A lot has happened in these
days. I kept it all to myself, locked it away in the treasure chest to use
later, to write. I don’t dress up paragraphs; they clothe themselves, and we’ll
see whether they do it well or not. I had that raw moment of recognition, when
reality strikes like a mallet against your chest: “What will happen to those I
lose along the way? What will I do when I see them leave and can no longer hear their voices? What
will I do the day I can no longer recall the tone of their lips that used to
calm my tearful nights? To whom will I turn to remember their words, when memory begins to fail?”
Gala once said:
“We are born with the roles of lover or beloved already assigned… In every relationship, in the end, there’s a devotee and a god, a master and a slave.”
“The lover gets the better press: they suffer, they risk; the beloved is left helpless when the lover goes, for they live through the other’s light.”
And so it is with those of
us who stay when others go, and cannot return because the breath no longer
leaves their lips —the same lips that once comforted us with words. There is no
greater truth than knowing we remain stranded while watching the ashes of those
who depart. That truth weighs heavily when people mean so much to me. It
affects me more than I like to admit —but the heart is the heart.
To you, dear stranger (or
perhaps not so much a stranger), who reads this: Know
that I still offer words —sometimes not the best, sometimes better. I don’t
offer short thoughts, but I do offer many words to speak to your soul. Not to
your eyes, not to your ears, not to your brain —the brain is for reasoning, for
coordinating the body’s chemistry, for keeping the machine running or breaking
it apart depending on your activity. Know this: I can hear you, even if you’re
only reading me. Know that I feel as you feel, live as you live, cry as you
cry… and fall to my knees on the floor, just as you do on those nights when
everything overflows.
You must know: you don’t
need consolation, you need presence. You need a voice to touch your shoulder
and say, “Go ahead, cry with full lungs where no one can see you —but then get
up.” And I’m not writing this to console you, not to offer the tired cliché of “fall
down, but rise stronger.” I’ll leave that to dime-store dramas.
Rise because you’re still
alive. While there’s breath in your lungs, you must live —but truly live. If
you must survive for now, so be it. But know that surviving too, gets
exhausting. If my words ring hollow, I understand.
Truly, I do. Not everything we read sinks in. But reality is what it is.
“I’m not a pessimist. I’m a well-informed optimist.”
- ANTONIO GALA
That’s what my guide —Gala—
once said. And I am not a pessimist either. I’m a relentless optimist who sees
the world through clear lenses —not rose-tinted, not gray. If you wish to
isolate yourself, go ahead —that’s your right. If you wish to leave us behind,
like the lover leaves the beloved, that too is your right. It’s your journey.
But at least, let me walk with you for a while. Let these words hold you, as
I’ve found refuge in the words of others.
If anything I’ve written
here has helped in any way, then I’ve held your hand as you said goodbye. That’s
an honor —and it will remain one.
But don’t expect me to
offer pity. I’ve never been that way, though many perceive my nature as
compassionate, understanding, and empathetic. Still, don’t confuse that with
pity. I don’t offer alms. I offer words —freely given, and perhaps worthless to
many. This little space I’ve built from nothing, from the need to hear myself —
is now yours. It’s not the best, but hey —at least you’re not paying rent
[laughter].
Take whatever reflection
you like from these paragraphs —it’s yours. It’s a piece of my inner self I’ve
offered. Do with it what you will.
Special dedication:
To all those friends who arrived unannounced, whom I met without meaning to, who wish to leave while I want to stay behind to remember them. To those faceless friends who remain in my memory, and whose voices alone are a comfort to my tears.
Comentarios
Publicar un comentario