The obstacles that constantly sprout along my path
have long become impassable,
Despite my mind working tirelessly,
I now walk hunched, silent,
As thorns tear at my flesh.
The thirsty soil voraciously absorbs
The drops that fall,
Containing fragments of my soul,
Logic, and inner peace in liquid form.
While in return, it places to life's journey,
seedlings from seeds of loneliness,
allergy to the human pandemic, mental imbalance,
They grow as I grow,
Harvesting me of human emotions.
To endure the journey as a black sun,
Essential in the process of photosynthesis,
I mute my suffering,
Deaf to the sounds of my body
As it gets skinned without haste.
It is the only drop of pride left,
As I can no longer escape.
I can't even flee; I merely move
From Scylla to Charybdis,
With a few moments of calm in between,
Whether in the stomach of one of the six heads
Or at the bottom of the ocean.
Confined momentarily in my castle,
Inside books, I search for the images of the two princesses, before..
They transform into monsters, before...
the shark's time comes to bring me back to the surface of the sea,
Or before Scylla spits me out.
Perhaps then I can show them and make them remember again, always silently pleading, atonement in return.
Pounded in the eye of the cyclone
The second ancient path,
I seek the glade of the rainbow
And teach you folly before it teaches you.
Pounded in the eye of the cyclone
The second ancient path,
I seek the glade of the rainbow
And teach you folly before it teaches you.
I remember that night when I sat at the desk, trying to give words to what I was feeling inside as I was trying to hide it from the outside.
Winter of 2014
Sandybell had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis a few months ago, and nothing was going well as she was getting sick often and the meds caused her a fever, 3 times per week.
Yes, she had a fever every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday every week for 2–3 years.
But the worst was the mental breakdown that she was constantly facing. Because diagnosing autoimmune syndrome, means that your youth was stolen from your body by your body itself.
Add in this the financial problems we constantly had as students, living in a room for 2 years, the fights and the quilty thoughts that both of us had--that I wasn't enough for her and that she was holding me back.
She often criticized me, saying that I was showing her proper attention only when she was getting sick. And she was mostly right. I don't know why I was doing this, probably when she was feeling good, I was trying to get time for myself because the next day wouldn't be like that.
Truth is, there's no playbook to handle the experience of seeing the love of your life feel like shit every day, while I felt like I could do nothing to help her.
I was drowning all the time.
The only times I could decompress myself, were when I was going for football training and when I was writing lyrics. The piece you read above--I'm still listening to it—is probably the only song I managed to sing decently, not from a technical perspective but from a pain expression.
It's funny how much time passed from the first time I discovered how much writing helps me until the 2nd time I rediscovered it, which was in the autumn of 2022.
A broken heart was the catalyst both times, but it was mostly broken because of self-quilt.
I think that the most important thing that allowed me to move on from this story was the close-out.
June 16, 2019
We had broken up a few weeks ago but we were still living together, in the same bed till she could find a home.
I was in a party, got a bit high and as I was returning home in the morning, I started writing on my phone the words I wanted to say to her.
(I stopped writing here and searched my phone, and I actually found it.)
She was preparing to go for work.
She understood what I wanted to say to her, but she didn't want to have this reflective discussion. In a rare instance for my character, I said it anyway.
"Sandybell, I'm going to miss you so much!
This break-up will...
The important thing is that we gave to each other 7 beautiful years while we both obtained a very close and important person in our own little world."
She didn't accept that.
I don't remember what exactly she said but she was blaming herself and the illness (we both learned later that this wasn't entirely true.)
I came close and hugged her, saying,
Everything I could do, I did it...
She accepted that,
I know..., she said.
The moment of Atonement
And I feel that's the difference with the second princess.
The closeout with the Lady was traumatic for me, to say the least but I am not going to write today about it. Not because I am tired of writing about her and the whole struggle (for which I am tbh and I think that's a good sign, the saturation of the pain).
Maybe not, the fuck I know anyway.
What I know is that's not the right day, but it will come soon, through the anniversary of this Letter of Stories.
Damn, that's a good way to describe, I'll keep it.
Anyway, I started this with the intention of tell you about my recent and probably last return to the RainCity. But it deserves its own edition, plus there's one more song I'd like to share here.
It's about friends, the ones who left as they lost themselves, somewhere in this road of life, and the ones still here <3
To give a proper closeout to this letter, though, I think the point I try to make here is:
How do you cope, when there's no close-out—not a satisfying one anyway?
I once lived with Mel for three days and she told about this mind-trick.
Imagine you don't want to or don't actually remember the last time you slept, hugged, or the final words.
And this absence, makes you sad, incomplete, and quilty.
The trick is to choose the moment you remember—the one you want to remember as the grand finale—and make this your own close-out.
I did that once and it worked, pretty grateful for that.
But why it doesn't work now?
Well, because I spend too much time, thinking of a miraculous close out in the future. Dreaming of thing that won't happen, because the reality on such things turns out to be always different. Maybe that's why I cope easier with death, because there's no future.
Which means that I haven't moved on because I just haven't accepted it.
Stupidly simple, right?
Well, that's life.
And we gotta live it till there's no future.
Ily
