Who am I? How long does it take to get to the center of the mind? Like a tootsie pop, the world may never know. I wander daily searching for the self, the one I’m afraid I’ll never meet.
I found myself at the border of life and death today. The blood pouring down my face after A fall of three stories. I’m alive but I am not well. You find yourself sometimes altered beyond recognition and that’s where I was today. I was void of all meaning, unprotected without armor. I’m typically only able to hit these points after a few shots of whiskey but the fall covered it without charge.
I’m concerned for my well being. There are times I drift into yesterday’s no longer my own. I fear I may one day become the emotionally disturbed man on the train, trying to convey all my ‘never saids’ into a coherent thought. The truth shall set you free they say, but they don’t mention the mental and emotional scars that come with it.
I’m thinking of them all. They rush through my mind like rush hour subway riders on the way to-and-from work. A collage of faces with various expressions trying to reach me. Like the newly paved road some are smooth. Others are filled with bumps like the city streets following a winter of snow. They are equally important. Without them I could not push forward. I aspire to achieve, carrying the faces with me. They are my saints, yet the only thing holy about them are their clothes.
I can not thank them because they no longer exist. They are just memories, memories that are stranded in time. Holding on like this should be a crime. For time alters memories and out of it come new perceptions. I defecate on their likeness too often, changing them with each turning day. They walked off the lonely road long ago to join the beaten path of destruction. But I will not forget who they truly were.
In 1773 the earth trembled from hunger and over the course of a few days it devoured the city now called Antigua, which for more than two centuries had ruled Guatemala and the entire region of Central America.
In religious festivals Antigua rises from its ruins. Its streets become carpets of flowers patterned as suns and fruits and birds of great plumage. No one can tell whether the feet walking on them are celebrating the coming birth of Jesus or the rebirth of the city.
Local people weave these street gardens—to makE Antigua immortal as long as the fiesta lasts.