Afterward

For the entirety of my life, I’ve had this fear that no one would ever want to hear what I have to say. I remember being in pre-school, being around children my age for the first time, and always being terrified to approach one of them and ask them to play, because I didn’t know what I would do if they said ‘No.’

And most people don’t believe me when I say this, but I remember before that too, when I couldn’t have been more than three years old because of where these memories take place —and there are several of them. To this day I still hold a great love for marranitos -one of the only things for which I carry true nostalgia, another being orange glycerin soap- and that’s because there was a panaderia which we frequented. We went often enough that I built a recognition for it -the bright pastel paint, the place I got my favorite pastry- that I eventually decided that I was going to try to memorize the way there through the backseat window. I would always fail, so I would always try again. There was also a palm tree in front of our duplex. I would try to climb it, sure that if I wrapped my arms and legs around it tightly enough that I could get to the top, but my limbs were too short and I never got past my first jumps. I attempted this many times. I remember visiting my upstairs neighbors, who were my folk’s friends, and not understanding later what I had done wrong when my parents came and found me.

I also remember the first time I realized I was going to die one day. Do you remember the first time you realized you were going to die? I’m genuinely not sure if you’re supposed to. Is that why I’m like this? Why I’ve been thinking about death my whole life? Or is that just normal? I feel like I’m not allowed to ask. Sorry. You don’t have to tell me.

I recall there wasn’t a lot of furniture around. I think just a seat and a table and maybe some of my toys. (I used to have this recurring dream when I was young that someone would start shouting at the top of their lungs, and from above me giant-sized furniture started to fall down. I meant to ask my parents if they ever had a huge fight around me when I was an infant, but I never did.) There was almost nothing in this room though. A wide, bright window shown on me. I felt so profoundly bored. And that’s when I thought to myself ‘How long is this going to last?’ And I guess from there, I realized that the day always ends eventually. I go to sleep and there’s another one after that. I sat by the blinding, sunny window and tried to feel the length of a day. As I meditated on this measurement, I came to a conclusion. This was going to all end one day. If that was so, then it was my duty to experience as many different things -good and bad- as I could, but especially the things I care about, because my time wasn’t infinite and I could never do everything. This produced a great anxiety in me, and I’ve been overly conscious of my finite time ever since. Because of this, I have always felt at peace with dying at any moment —because I believe, within human reason, that I have done my best to spend my time doing as I wished. And Death . . . Death is always a new thing to do, isn’t it?

I’ve never felt afraid of death since then. I was always prepared.

Loneliness is a curse you put on yourself. I get interrupted all the time because that low self-worth seeps through until its visible. I self-isolate because I hold too particular a need to spend time around people who I find interesting, but I stubbornly find the majority of people unrelatable. That’s not something I would change about myself if I had the choice though. Those rare but genuine connections are the most valuable treasures on Earth. And I like being alone an awful lot too, if I’m being honest. Time and words shared is done with intention, not from boredom or obligation. It feels good to be amongst friends because they’re exactly who you want around you.

I like fear. I like feeling out of control. I like the taste of bitterness because it’s something you earn. Blood tastes horrible. It’s probably something you have to learn to love, and then there’s nothing better —like bitterness.

I like complicated feelings. I like looking and hearing and thinking about things that are difficult to endure. Once you’ve developed a taste for it, you can’t go back to all the junk food the world has to offer; you have to have more. I like history, because once you start to learn just a little bit, it changes your brain so that you gradually understand everything that has ever happened and everything that ever will happen. Time ceases to be a straight line and becomes a self-intersecting spiral.

The thing about learning to love these little esoteric things though, is that sometimes you find art that speaks to you directly, and it turns out you’re one of only a few people on the earth who cares or even knows it exists. It’s the antithesis of loneliness. It’s the feeling of being understood without ever having been known. I’ve encountered it so many times through art, and I was glad that those who chose to share did so, otherwise I would have never have had that opportunity. This is my “Thank you for sharing,” by giving back. What I’ve made might not be for you, and that’s alright —I invite you to join me in the terrifying endeavor of making terrible art. And this is why even though I’ve been afraid my whole life that no one would want to hear what I have to say, that I decided to write anyway. It seems I always end up facing my fears in the end, because I know the regret of never trying at all would be worse. Maybe there’s just one person out there, in another place and another time, who needed to hear exactly what I had to say, just as I have so many times times before from the work of others. I love you. I’m glad you’re alive. I don’t care if you believe me.