“Nada personal”: 20 de julio de 2015
I will remember boxed wine and paraguayo. Spanish all around me, no inspiration, only inspiration. Crying in pain, laughing in ecstasy, wanting to remember and wanting to forget. I will remember you, because my memory is quite good.
“Nada personal” de Soda Stereo. Muscle relaxers and ibuprofena and studying in the dark by the fire. I’m camping, you know, but alone. When you’re alone do you feel lonely? I never feel lonely, is that weird? I never feel the need to share stories from my past to people in the present, to reveal my personal truth en voz alta to others. I never miss you, but sometimes I miss you, and you know who you are.
I don’t want anything, only the essentials. I just want to feel the urge to write. I just want to feel the urge to spill. I want everyone, but no one, to know. I want the blackness of night to reveal to me stars in between clusters of clouds.
I want to be able to express myself perfectly in Spanish, but I know I can’t. It’d take a lot longer in South America, but I don’t have enough time. Don’t you ever feel you have too much time, but never enough? What would you do if you knew you were going to die tomorrow? I wouldn’t change anything, I’d let it happen as I try to let everything else in my life happen.
I try to be a pacifist, I try to not let anything get to me. You know not trying is still trying? I try to become the Buddha, the one and only one. I try to feel nothing and everything at once. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes I imagine I’m writing to you, everyone else but me. Sometimes I imagine everything I say is a lie and I’m the only one who believes it. Sometimes I only say things because I like the way they sound.
Today I threw out my back with one cough. I bent over to spit in the sink while brushing my teeth, and something went wrong. It was okay for awhile, until I could barely walk and could not sit down, and especially could not stand up after sitting down, without heavy bursts of pain rupturing my cerebrum. I cursed, I cried, I hobbled to the reception area of the campsite and took the ibuprofen they gave me and waited for the medics to come.
Now I self-medicate with boxed wine and a hot shower and fire, until tomorrow when I can take el bus al centro to fill my prescription for muscle relaxers.
Drugs, all I want is drugs. All I want is to never feel pain. Or feel pain in a different way, you know? I always see the pain scales in hospitals, for children, with the smiley faces. From 1-10, how bad does it hurt? I can never figure out how bad it hurts, because there are so many types of pain! Back pain is a lot different from a burn, from a hangover, from emotional pain. How can I give a number to my pain when I’ve felt something worse but on a different plane, a different level, a different spectrum?
An empty space is an invitation for expression, of truth spilled out in lines or no lines. You’ll never be everything you want, but more or less.