i write my death on paper so i can feel alive
Sunday, June 27, 2010
She was fed up. If you had asked her with what in particular, she wouldn’t be able to give you the specifics. Whether it was a flaw on her part or if really was just that inconsequential, who knows. What we do know is that she had hit her breaking point and was done with it all. Done with her job, her so-called boyfriend, her family, she had just decided that she was done with life.
She walked up the steps of the tallest building she knew, slowly, calmly. Like I said, the specifics don’t really matter. It’s the same old story. She climbed the mountain towards nirvana, decided. Once she reached the top she took off her coat. She suddenly felt too warm. She walked towards the edge of the building and looked down at all the little people-ants. She could have been there for an eternity, it certainly felt like a lifetime. In reality, it could have been a mere seconds, minutes, hours, days, years, many lifetimes. Seasons could have passed without her acknowledging them. Her mind was set.
She braced herself, but then again maybe she didn’t. It’s not something you automatically know how to brace yourself for. But she braced herself as best she could, and jumped. Suddenly she had the grace of a ballerina and the agility of an acrobat that she never had in her life. She flew and twisted herself, her arms down to her sides and her head pointed downwards she flew like a projectile. Suddenly she was aware again. Time slowed down for her as if she was the only thing that mattered, she was the only one that had ever mattered. She realized just how vivid colors were and how beautiful everything was. She felt the tiniest breeze through each strand of hair, she saw each particle of dust as it moved, gently, quickly, out of her way, and she felt the air, the oxygen, the smog, everything as she breathed it in and made her lungs expand.
Then suddenly it came. It didn’t cause her any pain and somehow, somewhere in the back of her mind, she was grateful for it. But she felt it. She had twisted her body and aimed herself straight down for a reason, she wanted it over quickly. But she wasn’t prepared for the sensations that occurred. There may have not been any pain, but she felt everything. She felt her skull crack open and the jagged edges slam into her soft cushiony brain. She felt her entire face explode from the fall. She felt her arms and legs slap around without feeling, without bones. Maybe it was just at which the speed she moved, there surely had to be bones. Just as quickly as it came, it was gone.
She was gone. Like being born, like coming into existence, she was gone. Just as the world existed before her, it continued without her. Maybe some miniscule part of it missed her, but it was far too small and the world lived in a much grander scale to truly acknowledge her. She had come, done her part and had gone just as fluidly, effortlessly.
The point was that it was over.
She walked up the steps of the tallest building she knew, slowly, calmly. Like I said, the specifics don’t really matter. It’s the same old story. She climbed the mountain towards nirvana, decided. Once she reached the top she took off her coat. She suddenly felt too warm. She walked towards the edge of the building and looked down at all the little people-ants. She could have been there for an eternity, it certainly felt like a lifetime. In reality, it could have been a mere seconds, minutes, hours, days, years, many lifetimes. Seasons could have passed without her acknowledging them. Her mind was set.
She braced herself, but then again maybe she didn’t. It’s not something you automatically know how to brace yourself for. But she braced herself as best she could, and jumped. Suddenly she had the grace of a ballerina and the agility of an acrobat that she never had in her life. She flew and twisted herself, her arms down to her sides and her head pointed downwards she flew like a projectile. Suddenly she was aware again. Time slowed down for her as if she was the only thing that mattered, she was the only one that had ever mattered. She realized just how vivid colors were and how beautiful everything was. She felt the tiniest breeze through each strand of hair, she saw each particle of dust as it moved, gently, quickly, out of her way, and she felt the air, the oxygen, the smog, everything as she breathed it in and made her lungs expand.
Then suddenly it came. It didn’t cause her any pain and somehow, somewhere in the back of her mind, she was grateful for it. But she felt it. She had twisted her body and aimed herself straight down for a reason, she wanted it over quickly. But she wasn’t prepared for the sensations that occurred. There may have not been any pain, but she felt everything. She felt her skull crack open and the jagged edges slam into her soft cushiony brain. She felt her entire face explode from the fall. She felt her arms and legs slap around without feeling, without bones. Maybe it was just at which the speed she moved, there surely had to be bones. Just as quickly as it came, it was gone.
She was gone. Like being born, like coming into existence, she was gone. Just as the world existed before her, it continued without her. Maybe some miniscule part of it missed her, but it was far too small and the world lived in a much grander scale to truly acknowledge her. She had come, done her part and had gone just as fluidly, effortlessly.
The point was that it was over.
of dreams
Friday, June 25, 2010
i dreamt tonight. i saw faces and animals and clouds all speed through before my eyes. faces i've met and faces i haven't met yet, jumbled thoughts and memories, nearly impossible to pick one apart from the rest. loves gained and loves lost. everything feels the same.
i try to pick apart the subtle differences, the distinctions that separate the love from hate, the apathy from sympathy... but they move too fast for me to be able to pick them apart and analyze. they blur into one another until they are the same thing. inseparable and indescribable.
i remembered my dreams tonight. i'm not sure if i don't simply prefer forgetting them.
Part I: Birth
Thursday, June 24, 2010
It's a funny thing, life. We know nothing going into and out of it. We can't even begin to recall the first three to five years of our lives or so, and some of us are so unlucky as to not be conscious for the last few. We are born naive and die tragically jaded, ignorantly unaware or, a very rare few, at peace (It's a funny thing the latter, perhaps I've still got plenty of the youthful ignorant confidence towards these sort of things but I find it hard to believe anyone can truly be okay with dying. But really that's another story.)
Two things are the same for every living soul: we are all born and we all die. Every death is tragic, engulfed by mourning and every birth is... what is birth? Planned or unplanned, temperamental, a joyous occasion? Sometimes, but not all the time. People have managed to give birth without even acknowledging that they were pregnant and how they pull that off is beyond me.
It's a weird thing, not being able to remember our births. We were all there through the screaming and agony, the pushing and bleeding, the slapping and crying and bathing and hugging. They coo over you and fight to hold you while the nurses and doctors take you away to clean up all the ruddy disgusting natural liquids that were keeping you alive only moments earlier.
Then there's the naming. What's in a name? What is in a name? Nine months are spent trying to figure out what this tiny little being is going to be known as for the next 80 years or so. How did people decide on names in the olden days? Nowadays books are sold and profit is made on whether your child will be named Charlie or Henry. Does it really make a difference?
I wish I knew the story behind my name, or if there even is one. Marcela. Marcel or Marcelo if I were a boy. "Dedicated to Mars." What does that even mean? Mars as in Aries as in God of War? Apparently so. Maybe that describes my temperament and overall moodiness. My family-members would understand that best, I suppose.
Two things are the same for every living soul: we are all born and we all die. Every death is tragic, engulfed by mourning and every birth is... what is birth? Planned or unplanned, temperamental, a joyous occasion? Sometimes, but not all the time. People have managed to give birth without even acknowledging that they were pregnant and how they pull that off is beyond me.
It's a weird thing, not being able to remember our births. We were all there through the screaming and agony, the pushing and bleeding, the slapping and crying and bathing and hugging. They coo over you and fight to hold you while the nurses and doctors take you away to clean up all the ruddy disgusting natural liquids that were keeping you alive only moments earlier.
Then there's the naming. What's in a name? What is in a name? Nine months are spent trying to figure out what this tiny little being is going to be known as for the next 80 years or so. How did people decide on names in the olden days? Nowadays books are sold and profit is made on whether your child will be named Charlie or Henry. Does it really make a difference?
I wish I knew the story behind my name, or if there even is one. Marcela. Marcel or Marcelo if I were a boy. "Dedicated to Mars." What does that even mean? Mars as in Aries as in God of War? Apparently so. Maybe that describes my temperament and overall moodiness. My family-members would understand that best, I suppose.
nos·tal·gia
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Etymology: New Latin, from Greek nostos return home + New Latin -algia; akin to Greek neisthai to return, Old English genesan to survive, Sanskrit nasate he approaches.
a wistful or excessively sentimental yearning for return to or of some past period or irrecoverable condition; also : something that evokes nostalgia
I regret a few things from when I was a child. Granted, I didn't know any better and can hardly blame myself, but in hindsight I wish I had been a bit different.
What with my sisters being ten and eight years older than me, I can hardly attest to what their youth must have been like, or what their childlike mannerisms were. But I remember my own. I was always such a tomboy. I'd ride my bike, play with the boys and essentially run around only stopping to watch Power Rangers and, I'll admit, My Little Pony. My mom would chase me around trying to get me to wear ridiculous frilly little white dresses that were without a doubt older than me. One of my mom's favorite stories is of when we went visiting family in Mexico where they inevitably have numerous portraits of each and every one of us, and when I came across one of my eldest sister Yvette I exclaimed, "Why is she wearing my dress!" To which all the grown-ups laughed at my naivety.
I wish I'd let her dress me up more often and get the joy of seeing her youngest little girl frolick in a frock.
I fondly remember my mother dressing me up in a much-too-big green silky gown that I adored and who knows where I got it from, with my long hair that I would always accidentally sit on or get caught on a chair (this happened often at school with those poorly constructed plastic and metal chairs with screws sticking out at every odd end), and just a teeny bit of make-up. I always hated the stuff at a young age, never did I think I would end up with such a strong reliance on it. She'd dress me up like her own life-sized doll and stand me up just so, positioning me right in front of the window with our lacy curtains as the sun was setting and photograph me.
I never did see what came out of those pictures. I don't think I ever even asked. I wouldn't even begin to explain why I thought of this as I lay here on my couch, inevitably sweating from the heat while the cooler hums in the corner, trying desperately to sleep.
But I oftentimes think about my mother's past life before me and my sisters and my father, her husband. She sometimes mentions tidbits of what her life once was and I grasp at it trying to get a better understanding of this woman whom to me is only mother but in reality is so much more.
She's worked odd factory jobs, she received some sort of degree for secretarial work and she knows shorthand; she even keeps a diary in it! I wonder what odd things are written in there.
a wistful or excessively sentimental yearning for return to or of some past period or irrecoverable condition; also : something that evokes nostalgia
I regret a few things from when I was a child. Granted, I didn't know any better and can hardly blame myself, but in hindsight I wish I had been a bit different.
What with my sisters being ten and eight years older than me, I can hardly attest to what their youth must have been like, or what their childlike mannerisms were. But I remember my own. I was always such a tomboy. I'd ride my bike, play with the boys and essentially run around only stopping to watch Power Rangers and, I'll admit, My Little Pony. My mom would chase me around trying to get me to wear ridiculous frilly little white dresses that were without a doubt older than me. One of my mom's favorite stories is of when we went visiting family in Mexico where they inevitably have numerous portraits of each and every one of us, and when I came across one of my eldest sister Yvette I exclaimed, "Why is she wearing my dress!" To which all the grown-ups laughed at my naivety.
I wish I'd let her dress me up more often and get the joy of seeing her youngest little girl frolick in a frock.
I fondly remember my mother dressing me up in a much-too-big green silky gown that I adored and who knows where I got it from, with my long hair that I would always accidentally sit on or get caught on a chair (this happened often at school with those poorly constructed plastic and metal chairs with screws sticking out at every odd end), and just a teeny bit of make-up. I always hated the stuff at a young age, never did I think I would end up with such a strong reliance on it. She'd dress me up like her own life-sized doll and stand me up just so, positioning me right in front of the window with our lacy curtains as the sun was setting and photograph me.
I never did see what came out of those pictures. I don't think I ever even asked. I wouldn't even begin to explain why I thought of this as I lay here on my couch, inevitably sweating from the heat while the cooler hums in the corner, trying desperately to sleep.
But I oftentimes think about my mother's past life before me and my sisters and my father, her husband. She sometimes mentions tidbits of what her life once was and I grasp at it trying to get a better understanding of this woman whom to me is only mother but in reality is so much more.
She's worked odd factory jobs, she received some sort of degree for secretarial work and she knows shorthand; she even keeps a diary in it! I wonder what odd things are written in there.
LinkWithin
