And if I don't give a damn about what I'm saying, because I don't care—or because, regardless, it makes no difference to me—or because whatever I do, whatever we do, the result will be the same, or because it's simply my soul telling you to shut up, that I don't want to listen to you, or that what you're saying is irritating me, that you only want to say what serves you, but that the truth hurts. You fucking bastard, have the nerve to demand that everyone shut up, because the voices are in your head and they're going to kill you, just as they'll kill the voice emanating from your mouth as you beg for your forgiveness.
And if, then, when you look at how the weather changes, you keep looking at me the way you used to look at the sun, maybe it went away, perhaps it rained. The cold will be terrifying; the wind, the night mist, the terrifying truth will freeze you. Everything will hurt you until you realize that the sun is always above everything, and its warmth is me, and that I only want all your cloudy days to become obsolete, like man's love for the world.
And what if life is the freezing of events, and we're capable of defining them? I have words and no money; I have fortune and I am fortunate. How do you capture an image with words? I didn't have a camera, but I wanted the moment to be eternal. At seventeen months, Garante was on the floor, playing and babbling, moving a big cockroach and two more clascos around with their hands while saying, “Grr.” And I think: you're such a little baby, yet you understand so much; you have so much to show me. I want to keep you safe as you grow into yourself, with my care and support, because I won't abandon you, and I'll always protect you from what's bad. I'll always be by your side, and you'll always be able to count on me, because I'll always love you, my Anthony.
My beautiful little princess, I don't know if you realize it, but the more time I spend by your side, the more I love you. Now you're my world, my dreams, and my smiles. Being with you is a blessing. You make me grow and become stronger. By your side, I feel like I can achieve any goal. Every day I ask myself where I've been all this time, but then I realize that you're an extraordinary being, that radiant angel I see lighting up my life. I love you, my love, with my soul, with my whole being. I belong to you; I'm yours by choice, by conviction. Thank you, love, for helping me, understanding me, and guiding me. I only want my whole life to be by your side, and I promise I'll adore you more every day. You deserve everything. I'll grow so much in order to bless you.
Go calmly. You understand it. You can write. That's right. I can't wait. That's right. I can't say, “It's me.” I can't get angry. I can't. And if I can't, who can? Am I less than others? Am I less than the abuser? A euphemism, my nostalgia, and my astonishing self.
And how the fuck do I end up becoming someone I'm not? Something filled with fears, sadness, lies, so much nostalgia, with capital letters that bring light to my life, which stopped belonging to me a couple of years ago. How wrong. What a real way life, God, or energy has of telling me that the shit I initially thought was an opportunity to give life to another being—a giant, not me—an opportunity to say, “I believe in you; I believe in myself,” a solidarity with my soul, with my world, radiating hope, because yesterday's self, though it didn't die, is still there for you in everything. And today's self only wants the stars to align and the moon to be in the right house, for the equinox to welcome you, but above all, for the stupidity of the world never to accompany you.
Author: Oscar Eduardo Pineda León