Who I Am Today

Who are we, but a police officer who wants nothing better than to act, and an bilingual author who always dreamed of painting? Here we lie, together, slipping in and out of sleep, and in and out of reality, dreaming of things that we may or may not ever do. I don’t want to let him down, you say. He’s done so much for me, sacrificed so much to get me to where I am today. But where I am today, you say, isn’t where I want to be tomorrow.

I walk by an elementary school at least two times daily. I know the faces of the mothers who wait there with their strollers, and of the fathers who lean on their dented cars, smoking a cigarette before their little children can see what causes the stench in the house. Of course they know, the little children do. But as long as mother is there waiting in her hat, or father in his boots, no one will question why mother and father no longer wait together.

It is spring here. The flowers paint their delicate cheeks, the sky is blue, the trees explode into the color we all love to love. The flowers bend their gentle necks in the rain, when the sky is grey, and the clouds explode into bloom. There is pollen in the streets, making rings around puddles. And when it rains, it streams into gutters like rivers of cloudy urine. Nature’s propagation is nothing but a stagnant pool of defecation, lining the streets in yellow.

You stood by my desk, the one that has no drawers, quiet. There are pictures on my wall there, and you looked at them. There I am, smiling, wearing bright red tights and grasping tightly a friend to whom I speak so rarely now. There is the man I used to love, and I pretend today that I do not love anymore. There is the blue sky, there is the blue shirt I forgot at home. There is my mother, there is my brother. All the lives that I once lived are arranged in a mosaic on my wall. All the voices I once would hear outside my door, or whispering in my ear, or mingling with mine in laughter and in song, are silent. The eyes, they all stare at me, smiling. I wish they would say something. They won’t.

Why is it, when I hug my pillow tight to smell his scent the morning after, that I think of you? Why is it that when I push back the hair from his face that I see the red gleam of the ruby you gave me so long ago? You placed it gently on my finger, said it would be forever. But there’s no such thing as forever. There’s no such thing as forever. There is only a stream of events that may or may not connect to each other. There is a sequence of days, of movements, of emotions, of lights. You stand, motionless, in a picture on my wall. I loved the color in the picture when I shot it, and I printed it, pasted it on my wall. I look up to see you every morning when I take my tea with milk and sugar. But you’re not here with me now, and there’s no such thing as forever.

I wandered through the biggest museum in the world, alone. The greatest painters in the world hang immortalized there, in empty halls. I duck into side streets to find bookstores where no one ever goes, hoping to find this book, with that signature. The greatest authors in the world are shelved there, immortalized by a name written in faded ink. Today we love them. Today we give their paintings special rooms. Today their work is protected by lasers and security cameras and plates of glass. Today their writing is reproduced in countless volumes and inappropriate quotations and imitations. If we admire the lighting in the scene, we can forget the darkness of the artist’s death. If we fall in love with a character, we can forget the sorrow of its creator.

I don’t think I am great enough yet for my work to merit the world’s collective overlooking of my depression. I don’t think I am well known enough for twisting white lines on my skin to be considered poetic. Until then, I’ll hide all that. Until then, I’ll pretend that you can make things new just by saying I love you. You adore me, but you’re just not content.

We were lying there, slipping in and out of sleep, in and out of reality, and you asked me what I wanted to do. I want to write, I said, so simply, trying to pull the words from the depths of my sleepy mind. I want to write, I said, and I am going to write. I can’t let myself down. I’ve done so much already, I’ve sacrificed so much to be where I am today. But still, where I am today, I say, is not where I want to be tomorrow.

On the train, the country side whirred by in a flash of green. The ground whirred by in a blur of grey. The sky whirred by in an smudge of blue. That is what life is, isn’t it? It’s a palette with only three colors, starting so vibrant, so promising. And we muddle them, we blend them, we mix them, we mingle them. So original, we are. So poignant, our creations are. One day they will hang in empty halls, protected by lasers and security cameras and panes of glass. But today, there are no lasers. No security cameras will alert the authorities if someone comes too near. No panes of glass encapsulate our fragile hearts. We mix and muddle our lives, we blend and mingle our days, hoping that the end result will be worthwhile. All that comes out is a palette no longer vibrant, no longer promising. Our lives disintegrate into the colors of the sea. Green and grey and blue stretch out endlessly.

We are statues on a lawn, still and stoic in our young love’s majesty, coldly sitting looking on. The walls are caving in. We bury ourselves beneath sheets of paper. We dance in strobe lights, seeing only glimpses of each other, rhythmically. Watching you dance is like watching a children’s paper flip book. The page turns, your arms are suddenly around my waste. We slip in and out of reality. I hide beneath the blanket when the sun comes shining through my curtains. I’m too afraid to learn what reality is. I’m too afraid to look behind me, seeing my steps filling with salt water. I’m too afraid to look ahead of me, to the endless sea swallowing my days. I’m too afraid to open my eyes.

If I open my eyes, I will see that mother and father no longer wait together. If I open my eyes, I will smell the defecation of a thousand breathing beings. If I open my eyes, I will remember that forever does not exist. Perhaps I will open my eyes one day. I will open my eyes when I am great enough, when I am famous enough.

Until then, I will paint my delicate cheeks, dress myself in blue, revel in the green that is my fleeting youth. And one day, I tell myself, I will explode into bloom.