BEING BORN IS AN ACT OF COURAGE

 

Being born is an act of courage. 

Because it presupposes survival.This is not always the case. Survival is never a given. Courage does. 

Everything was settled. It wouldn't take long for the journey to unfold, the big one, the one that would put me back in the desired dimension. Centuries were dedicated to the study of the project that would begin at the time, which was already more than a erased project. I would see again that land, the colors, the shapes, the language, that libertarian vehicle that was a precious garment in communication with all other forms. Love had drawn a womb, a light at the end of the tunnel would expel me, so that, once again, the arrival had begun and all the procedures had been lined up in that direction. There is no anxiety, no ambivalence of any kind. There's the factual. Again, I will paint myself with mustard, with rainbows, see the mountains honor the sky in the highest mountain range, all my brothers will know that I exist, that I breathe, that I can be their encouragement, all looking for a place to kiss the sun and the stars on the long nights of the equinox. The melody of the sacred will guide me. Soon, I will feel the concave joy of existence. Concise.

Behold, one pain tightens and another and another. I feel nauseous. I grope for darkness and no light and the tunnel strikes me, embarrasses me until the temples of my brain, the parietals and all the blood becomes yellow, the color of gold. One more pain, one more trampling and I find myself pushed against the walls of the cramped space, I am the pain and the pain is me, who both belong to the same and the melody has escaped me, I do not hear it, from the outside not even a sound, except my own plunge into the dark night of this womb. The rough sea, its swell, skewers me against all kinds of obstacles. I seem to hear a cry greater than my existence. And behold, again, as at all other times, the shy and final wave pushes me towards the light, I see it again, I feel it in the crown, one more tear so that my form touches other forms, and again, I am new, the beating of the waves is now my own heart, and the cry of the outer form is my own cry of liberation. The pain reached its zenith. The melody is claimed and appears unexpectedly and behold, all of a sudden, new forms give me back, well beyond the light, the touch, the color, the oxygen and the strange and different sound. Communication expands. I hear myself screaming, in front of my hands and against the belly from which I came. There is in me the wonder of the new earth. 

I have a fabric on me that warms my extremities, but it is a face, a softness that has shape and smiles, opening a kind of hole when it sees me, when it looks at me, when it looks at me, what I see and feel is a smile, a plumb compass, that is the singularity of form that brought me into the world, and here I am again,  In front of your face, your skin that is a soft way of saying everything, mother, vehicle of sacrifice, language of safe haven, your eyes are rainbows still hazy but I know that it is the origin of my return, their shapes wrap me like pincers, they give me back an identity, I recover my voice, after getting used to the excessive light, to the world of colors and the language breaks and I want to say more than a syllable, a torn cry and between my lips comes the food,   A mountain halo, dark and wet, the liquid gushes into me and I know again what this life that has been given back to me means, and I suck the food that is honey and that is wheat, which was a storm and now a shelter. Everything hurts me, existence hurts, right there, in the beginning, everything is like saying that nothing in me is devoid of the destiny that I bring, that of pain and the experience of life. And while the food enters my blood, a bloodless pain goes to my navel, a pair of scissors that severs the definitive link of liberation. I cling even more to the nipple of my mother's breast, that goddess who falls asleep from the exhaustion of giving birth to a new being, i, here I am drawn and sure, I am restrained and expectant, I am alive again. And it will take time for the papyrus to be fully fulfilled, but now, I enjoy sleep, I abandon myself to the weariness of a body that was lent to me to come again to dwell among gods and martyrdoms and it fascinates me to feel that my organs are slowly, experimenting with detaching themselves from the past, from where I came even now, my hands try my face,  feeling the pain of rehearsed separation.  We are one separate. She, the one who created me asleep and forgotten of her own body and identity, and I the newly-arrived identity that came to be added until I can, myself, for myself, rise up, manifest myself, saying what I came for. I fall asleep and see on the other side, all those who preceded me smiling, waving, motivated by the successful journey. 

I already know what yesterday and today mean. I already know how to say mother, and the last name of the man who helped my mother with conception. I mean dad, but my lips just regurgitate shovel and shovel and I try again, trying the language on the tender lips. Shovel and mother. Here they are in front of me, sitting on her lap, with his gaze in my eyes, I would say trying to guess what I think or feel or see. And from his mouth, the insistence comes out again, the incidence on the missing syllable. The i to complete father, as I say mother, mother which is the beginning, the apogee, the anchor that allows the warmth and the hardened face of this man who is the father, my father returns, irritated to my gaze, as demanding that he be able to verbalize the missing i, which will become the i of the paternal question.

I wake up, babble syllables that mimic what I hear, and in the air, the electric energy of a thousand rays. I don't understand the excitement or the disjointed movement. The adults who conceived me open fire in words, which is my favorite discipline of the moment, language. I want to say what I feel, through my mouth, but the syllables sound disjointed and low, because no one turns their face to me. My floor is cushioned and a hammock separates me from their floor, where they cling and squeeze, where the it has to be ugly and petty. I scream and cry to them, longing for them to hear me, but only I hear myself, that their voices, their words, their speech overwhelm mine. Someone finally returns to my place and grabs me and I try to grope his face, as if saying I am here, I am from you who can make peace that war does not build anything good among you, I am yours and I have come to bring you love which is what I have, and I feel it on my mother's face,  The tears and the blood mingle and I see the red immensity, as if the river of sweet lava were overpowered, the dyed color of war. I lean my face against hers, but we both feel shaken and thrown into a space of darkness, where her body falls into the void and my helplessness is also projected onto the cold floor of another tunnel that I don't remember seeing in the papyri, in the erasures of the divine. The violence of language and acts compromises life, human frailty hides and rises to the human throat, often perpetrated in a thoughtless act, in an attack on the condition of the other, and it no longer depends on us, on the circumstances that have been generated, but on the other to whom we attribute the power to be part of our existence. And in a brief second, everything is compromised, everything is undone, the knot, the vitality, the access to the body and to identity. A thread breaks for eternity.

We're still lying down, I try to reach your hand, your arm, babble I'm here, come to me, but there's a cold, red, cold abandonment in my mother's body and a pool of blood has cooled her. I close my eyes in order to see what comes next. After that image of abandonment, I abandon myself too. 

When I open my eyes again, it's me and God. Here we are again, side by side. There is relief and commiseration in me. Brief journey to mine. And next to me, the smile of my mother, hugging me, without body, nor blood, nor sadness nor revolt. Both returned home. And I feel that my mission, however brief it may have been, had its culmination in the liberation of that binding being who smiles beside me, while God Himself loves And mercy caresses us with her look of understanding, healing the wounds and silencing the questions that she might want to ask. Next to me, the mother continues to smile. In a headless smile, in a halo of liberation and peace. The designs were fulfilled. And after that pause for understanding, I carry it with me, so that it can enjoy another journey that has begun right now, on another plane that transcends matter and human understanding, where figures like my father's only experience such a realization late. The mystery thickens on earth and condenses in the heavens.