This is not written, but it is not the same story that day by day I repeat or that I usually count. I'm writing in the wind, I'm writing knowing you'll never read these words. Because you're gone. So, what is the purpose of my writing? You knew it was my way of screaming, it is my way of dancing; this is the way I can express myself without fear because no one sees me or is there to judge me. Life has treated me well as I promised; I'm living, I'm laughing, and I'm discovering. I've cried a little but I guess it is normal now. I've been sitting on the ocean shore. When I've closed my eyes and I promise I can feel that I'm home, and sometimes I look at the stars and see the same moon I used to see at my home. The sunsets are not the same, but they are immensely beautiful at times. The sun for some reason is bigger here, but you don't have to worry, you'll be surprised that I'm not the same as before: my fears, my insecurities, my pain and my grudge has gone. They left a scar but, instead, my heart is full of peace, security, love, happiness and, incomprehensible maturity. Now, I am deciding to love and I am deciding to live. How's life over there? How many more times do you have to cry? Don't regret what you're doing, but try not to hurt yourself anymore. I think you could learn if you can hold on to what I call my home today. I don't mean that broken home you grew up in—that dysfunctional home that hurt your heart. See, I'll tell you a little about my home. The mornings are soft. The mornings are shiny. They know devotion. They know the emotion and joy to live. No one judges you in this home of love, and if they do not manage to shoot your heart because my heart is shielded by the One who loves me. I want to find you to tell you this. I want to find you even if it takes me years. I want to find you, hug you and tell you that there is a better place. But I don't see you. Where are you? Where does the story begin when you start to live? When does a story start? What is the factor that determines the story that will be told? Are the events that we decided not to tell are they of a story of rubbish? Being that we give thanks to each one of the steps we have been guided to that moment? Sometimes I don't understand the logic with which life has to be understood. Then I stopped, I pause the world for a moment and breathe. I closed my eyes because I wanted to find you and I could see you. You were there, in that old hospital chapel. You carried your notes with you, the old letters they gave you, and a broken heart, with a little spark of hope. So fragile, with your white complexion and red eyes from so much crying. You had no place to deposit all the love that you had loved life one day. It was you. But you went to the right place, somehow your soul and your heart always knew how to get home. Everything was grey, everything was slow, every breath hurt in your chest. You didn't have a mom or dad with you but you were there, you had so much to give. Surely you did not imagine that there they would find you. We were there, we were both there, and our heart was throbbing. Our breathing was slow, and every time we read a word that we had written hurt, only God knew how we felt, only God understands our pain, only in God we could take refuge. Words uttered our mouth without knowing that they would be the ticket to find our true happiness. 'Let your will be done.' And there, without first accepting Him, without first recognizing God, not knowing how he looked at us, not knowing how much love we had from him, we decided to take refuge in him, without understanding his love, we trusted him. We held of what we had heard of others speaking. And there, in the immense love that I can now understand a little, hugged us, took us. And for the first time we could recognize that we were always in between His wings. We were never alone—in every tear, in every fear, in every danger. Now I can see that he was always there. God is always there. I write because I do not want to forget. I write because sometimes I need to remember where you were. I write because I realize that you are only past. And you hurt --you hurt— but you don't hurt me anymore. And that is where I realize that God healed me, and my tears became joy. The ticket led me to a path of grace that is sometimes difficult to follow, but I'm not alone. I never was. How's life over there? How many more times do you have to cry? You want to find me? Did life get any harder? Is it easy to keep the faith? The promises made to me have been fulfilled? What about the peace and love I feel today? Has it spread? Are you sharing it? I hope so because so far you cannot shut up and although it is a bit difficult to write when you do keep happening that… You know what I mean, the heart connects with the fingers and we write what our heart can speak. Letters, emotions and feelings. No matter the language, here we are. If you have forgotten, let me know, and write, find me, I will somehow listen to you. Maybe I'm doing it now. God was good, He's good, and He'll still be good. |
AuthorI like to write, I seek to be vulnerable behind the pen, close the eyes of the world and speak with the sincerity of life: joy and sadness, cold and warmth, pain and strength, beginnings and endings, expectations and realities, inexperience and hundreds of attempts to ______ . |