Awake

My eyes are open wider now. Not like a person who is afraid of the world but like a person who can take it in. And take it. Because something has changed. Something in me knows I’m more alive now. That I have more life than can be overcome. More light than the darkness can answer.

Ode to Sunscreen

O sunscreen, what a miracle you seem
to the pasty-white white boy I'll always be.
A trustworthy buffer against that orange enemy in the sky,
my suit of armor against the UV arrows that fly
so fast toward my skin, but they won't get in
because you adhere through sweat and through tears
and stick to me like an ever-true friend.

Distant

I may begin to seem that way. But it has little to do with you. Just think of it as an act of self-preservation.

The difference is, we wake up

There are times when I realize I have fallen asleep. Not in my bed or sitting in my chair, but just in life. I am walking and talking and smiling and working. And I am asleep. And it’s intentional. Because that sudden gasp of air and wide-opened eyes that come when you wake up might be too much. It might be too much to look around and see how this world really is—and where I am in it.

But I must. Because feigning sleep is a child’s response. And I can’t claim that innocence.

Lo único que importa es continuar

Last night I watched a documentary about immigrants from Mexico and Central America who try to cross the U.S.-Mexico border illegally. One Mexican man who they followed on his journey said this:

“Before you leave, there will be many people here who will only tell you negative things. Like ‘watch out for snakes’ or ‘the ranchers might kill you.’

“And when you are on the journey, a lot of people will tell you, ‘Don’t continue, la Migra is up ahead.’ But what am I to do with that information? Turn back? I have to keep going. The point is to keep going.”

Lo único que importa es continuar.

All that matters is that I keep going.

Remuneration

I feel it creeping, always a few steps behind me. If I slow down too long, if I stop for a breath it will catch me. And then comes the darkness. Doubt and fear and knowing that I am failing. That I may not be who I want to be and that I definitely never planned to be here—not now, not ever. That things may not work out in the end.

So I steady my pace and try not to look over my shoulder except when I have to. To remind myself that I have to keep pushing even as my body fails. To remind myself that one day there will be an accounting. And I’m the one responsible for all this.