I am the young woman, who skips her university classes, because she just cannot drag herself out of bed in the mornings. Her boy – friend has been unfaithful and she is sick with fear of losing him.
I am also the other young woman, whose heart was broken badly and now what she most fears is falling in love again and whenever she does, she treats the man so badly, that he tries to not get too close.
I am the husband, who wants to fuck his wife many times a day, not so much because he loves her, but because the anxiety in his heart is huge and only fucking can calm the terrible fear down for a little while.
I am his wife, who wants out, who dreams of living far away and becoming a dancer and who is so afraid of telling him the truth.
I am the mother, who beats her son, because in his face she sees the face of the man, who raped her. She hates that rapist and she loves and hates her son. She feels terrible. I am her, who sometimes wishes, her son – now a grown young man and so deeply depressed, that he hardly ever leaves his tiny dark room – would have the courage and just hang himself and get it all over with once and for all…
I am the man, who tried so hard to get out of misery and he did, just to have his wife leaving him. He ran away from an unloving mother when he was 6, he was so hungry that he stole the food of the street dogs and still he had the strength to become a lawyer. But now without his wife, he throws it all overboard and loses himself in booze.
I am the poor campesino, who knows he is smart, who tries so hard but does not succeed in getting him and his wife and 5 children out of utter misery. I am him, who one night gets so drunk and so furious, he takes his machete. He would like to kill God and all of humanity with his machete, but instead he falls upon his little daughter, who has come running to hug him. With his machete and in his fury he takes out one of her eyes.
I am the mother who mourns her beautiful and smart daughter, whose throat was cut by a jealous husband.
I am also that young husband mad with jealousy and fear, who wants to killkillkill
I am lucky. So far I have not been raped, I have never gone hungry, my children have not been killed and I have not become a murderer. Yes, I have been incredibly lucky.
Just as the woman, who married a man, because he claimed to be able to communicate with the dead, I am so very afraid of death. Just like her I could have stayed with a man I did not love just for this supposed talent of his, which might save me from death as long as possible. I am her, who worked her butt of for decades, who raised her daughters alone, while he, her husband, sat in a dark room, making contact between strangers and their beloved dead. I am her, who finally, after menopause, got out and learnt to dance and laugh and look Death in the face.
No, I am not like her; I still avoid looking Death in the eye. She is so much more courageous than I am.
I am not Shoshana, who deeply feels that Death is natural and good, or Flora, who can leave her body at will during meditations. I am not Frederick or Anjum or Javier, who feel God clearly in their hearts. I have not seen the tunnel or the light or any spirits so far.
I know nothing about death and little about life. I just feel; I am filled with compassion, even for my little self....
So many stories are part of what I think I am and I am part of many stories of others. Even though the collage of stories in each of us is a little different and ever – evolving as long as we last, it seems true: it is the same story in 8 or 10 or maybe 20 varieties.
If the walls of ancient houses could tell stories, an atom, or a quantum – can you imagine?
Our poor minds would not be able to hold so many stories; maybe our minds would need to reduce them all to OM?
Art by Kiki