Of all that is past, you were the only fragment of time that deleted me from history.
Deleting a message I didn’t like doesn’t mean I forgot I read it, and it doesn’t make me believe it hurts less, either. But I respect it, like I try to respect everything I don’t understand.
I grew up with an immense heat inside me. It starts in the chest and I feel it spread through each vein, emerging in each pore. It’s a heat that isn’t always comfortable – it burns at times, suffocates. I always want to live everything as if I can’t stop to breathe, or to absorb all the particles of fresh air that each new experience brings. But that’s just how I am, I can’t deny it.
Because I learned to respect my past and, above all, to accept it, I don’t hold grudges to anyone, not even to you.
It’s funny that, from a young age, I dreamt I was galloping on a wild horse through steep mountains, and I always afraid, looking back. The dream repeated itself for years. I always in the middle of many battles, fighting on the side of the locals against the invaders, and I always died with a stab, a shot, or a hammer on my back. Every single time, without exception.
For more than 20 years, I woke up sweating with the feeling of negligence for never being able to understand who killed me. How could I get so distracted and allow someone to destroy me in the cruelest way possible? The dream I had, however, when I went back to sleep, was always of relief. After the storm came the calm and I could sleep in peace from then on.
The day I met you, I dreamt I was at the beach – there was a huge house where all my friends and family were.
The house caught fire and all my people went into a state of madness and desperate emergency, while I, calmly, walked in between them and said “Don’t be afraid, this is my dream, it’s not real. I can make it rain”.
And so many thick drops started falling, but the house kept burning. And then, in between the mess, walking by the sea, you appeared with the calmest and most natural look in the world. When you finally arrived by my side, you wrapped me in an embrace and the fire ceased in a split-second, as if it had never been there.
When I was, recently, in a work situation that led me to see burnt houses, cars and dreams, I remembered this dream many times, and the agony that must be not having someone to hold us in moments of despair, when life screams for help but no one hears us. It’s when we feel the real pain of human condition, isn’t it? When we see or imagine ourselves alone, in the midst of chaos, of delirium, of death.
No one is coming with us when the time to leave comes, after all. There are no embraces that save us, the soul can’t resist, not even to touch.
And I was kid six years ago, impressed with a house that kept burning, even in a lucid dream, even when I made it rain, and that would only stop when you held me in your arms. Six years ago, I was a little girl. The cocoon of a larva, still protected from what life had in store for me. I only realized what it was like to live when you tore me in pieces, as only betrayal in love can, and I never again dreamt with stabs on my back. I never died in my dreams again, houses were no longer burning during my nights.
Then, for years, my dreams featured you, until you disappeared and gave me the peace I deserve. The irony of symbols and of the Art of the mind are chilling. Exploring the gray matter is not easy, but it leads us to a point in the mountain where the fog has been left behind, way down there.
We see the real colors we’re made of, and there is no love that can rescue us – the truth is raw and doesn’t need to be appreciated. She doesn’t care.
Six years ago, this same day, we crossed the lines where the fortunes are registered – we held the palms of our hands as if we were at risk of falling in that fusion of bodies and emotions. As if there were not enough hands that could hold us.
And what’s beautiful is that I could let you go, without forgetting – because I don’t forget anything or anyone – but without missing you, without longing to see you, without any suspended thread from the past.
Letting go is a process that can add years to us. It’s like coming off a drug, a vice that lies to us regarding whether it is healthy or not, whether it is love or not. We lie to ourselves because we hold on to a nostalgia that supports us. I wasn’t made to be stuck to anything, let alone to someone.
I came here to feel the warmth of the chests, to let them burst through the pores, to contaminate those around me, without allowing them to leave open wounds.
That’s why I learned that honesty, saying what’s on my mind, never keeping what I think or feel to myself, is the best way to liberation. But the best thing I’ve learned since you broke me in pieces was to live, to breath. Maybe I would have never learned to enjoy the moments life gives me so much, as fugacious as they might be, if you hadn’t wrecked every certainty I had.
There is nothing, absolutely nothing, that tastes as good as the freedom I have in me today.
And let me tell you that, today, six years after we made love for the first time, I dreamt with a wild horse again.
I rode it, galloping, through a huge green field, covered in white flowers. The horse almost didn’t even touch the ground anymore. We were flying. And I never, ever, cared to look back.