For a writer, there’s nothing worse than choking on the very words you’ve been desperately trying to cough out, and then, at the final moment, realizing you’ve drained them of their necessary air.
For a writer, there’s nothing worse than knowing you have a deep ocean inside of you, from which words struggle to swim up, and up, and up, against strong currents imposed by you and no one else, only to watch them drown before reaching the surface.
For a writer, you’re quite the trained killer.
Who feels it but me? Who hears it but me? Who perceives it but me? Who bears it but me?
I’ve been trying to spit something out for weeks.
I’ve tried both languages.
I’ve listened to music to inspire my thoughts and feelings (oh, these feelings!).
I’ve tried to revive memories that still sting and sizzle as they make contact with my reality…
And yet… And yet.
Could it be?
With so much to say?
Really?
Is this how it has to be?
Just imagine: it’s all because of you… You!
It’s mind-blowing how you can take over so much of me at once.
You live in another country, yet are so accessible.
Your life plays out in a foreign language, yet I can understand the many ways you speak to me.
You decided to take a vacation from yourself to “figure out who you’ve become and why,” yet I’ve always known all of you.
You will probably never stumble upon these words, yet you might.
And then what?
One day, I’ll write something worthy of your incredible and troubled and passionate existence.
One day, I’ll run that idea by you after showing up in your beautiful city unannounced, and you’ll laugh and say “there’s no need, but why don’t we go have a coffee?”
One day, you’ll look at me and understand everything I’ve been hiding since the evening I met you on that pier.
But you already know, don’t you?
You already feel it,
You already see it,
You already perceive that which I’ll never be able to explain.
Therefore, I wait.
And I wait.
And I think.
And I remember.
And I feel.
And I see.
And I laugh!
And I understand, more than I can ever say or write.
And finally, I trust.
I trust we will find meaning to all of this madness,
Because this cannot boil down to nothing; it’s too important.
We, are too important.
One day, I trust, my life will continue with you back in it.
One day… You.
Photo by: Belén Alemán / Cambridge, Massachusetts, USA
belén/alemán 