Posthumous Memories

 POSTHUMOUS MEMORIES OF A YOUNG WRITER

I

From an early age, I have felt this voice that guides me, that elevates me and brings me into harmony with something more refined and endowed with certain understandings. The coin tossed into my hands is as ancient as the ground I’m standing on, and its value no longer exists, but its charm remains in its shine.

How can one say much while feeling so little, while meditating on the dive of a young man, emerging from the salty waters, with almost golden skin and eyes reflecting the warmth of a life, an experience so scarcely lived? From a present and distant time, living between two distinct moments.

I walked with present steps, feeling the sun illuminating my mind and the moon from afar with its imposing charm. I encountered ligaments, observed myself without wounds, but before new sensations, I made myself small as I penned the notes from my heart, in contrast with the new; the old observes where the August wind blows.

I move forward with steady steps under such a strong sun, watching the birds streaking across the sky’s edges and innocent dogs getting lost as they disembark on this bitter land, from a river so distant now, yet pulsing its waters through the invisible current where men vaguely transit.

I observe myself going and returning, and in the same place, finding the difference and similarity in what moves us, what teaches us, and what drives us. The coherence of actions with words, of feeling and absorbing, of filtering and engaging. The mortality of the soul is visible in the being. Becoming more by becoming better for itself, recognizing its shell, but not seeing its true Beauty in the body.

For all suffering stems from nature; from the existing condition of life, from rising to sitting down, to wandering through the emotional waves of uncertainty, in a dual world where we see in ourselves the equal sides and the cuts made without delicacy, as it reverberates in you the consciousness of a Whole, a point within the chest, expanding and contracting in the bosom of the Cosmos, in the dew drop of Mother Nature.

And if my memories bring you firmness, hold the pen tightly and write on the paper of your flesh the cure for all your ills and write everything with full certainty, with the meekness of a sheep and the nocturnal eyes of the owl that watches both sides and both worlds. Paying attention, concentrating on the essence of a Whole that rectifies, illuminates, and unifies you, making you vomit the poison and deceptions of false medicine.

II