Are they alive? Are they aware that they are living beings that have an organic machine inside of them that pumps and bumps and drains and circulates every second that they are lost in the world? I look down at my clothes and try to visual the heart inside, the way Frida Kahlo would have drawn it if she was a few feet in front of me with a sketchpad. The only times I remember the beating and thumping was when I would have to sit in a small room with a doctor as he tells me to breathe in deeply, something I never do outside of the doctor’s quarters. Looking at myself with the skin doffed like a jacket once removed, bare bones and joints bending and the organs in their respective lodgings except maybe a few inches to the left due to my sleeping habit and the bed that has the indention after many years of sleepless nights. I am living, a sentient being that is just as alive as the tree that spoke to me a few days ago and the cardinal that hopped on my arm, digging its claws, prickling the top layer of my skin that is now removed; my bare soul exposed to the world. The cells inside of me are pulsating with energy and I am alive. Off the rocks of the ever-present world around me, I am alive. Something that has been missing from the train of thoughts in my mind, always leaving the station on time, but never waiting for the passengers that walk too slowly, the forgotten and mostly invisible commuters that take everything in while getting to the platform, absorbing the landscapes around them and allowing it to penetrating to the depths of their soul while it enriches them with fruitful energy. Never catching the train, unfailingly arriving to smell the past fumes that linger around because they are lazy and want to be inhaled and exhaled by as many noses that are in working condition.
The heaving of my chest only noticed when ill in bed, in which ‘heaving’ means the action of my chest after the frightful fits of violent coughs. The beating of the machine from thy source only felt through the palm of another when a girl would attempt to reenact romance that was projected on the big screen, placing her moisturized hands on my chest and whispering in my ear, “Your heart is racing for me.” But in hindsight, it wasn’t racing laps around the track of her presence because she was always someone that changed, the initial gladness of love interrupted by troubles and personality attacks where one person would tilt their head and the part of them that was once loved would ooze out of their ears, draining somewhere in the street for others to stomp their feet into, forever gone and littered with the soles of strangers that might please her more. Furthermore, the simple gestures and convenient reminders of being alive have been polluted, tarred and feathered by the world, dragging me on a piece of yarn that hasn’t snapped until now. Too many years have passed before me where countless nuisances have aggressively infiltrated my mind, and not once have I realized that I am alive. Alive like the whales in the ocean that jump out of the water to peak at our progression. Alive and well like the plants that sprout from a seed and break through soil, even at times breaking through concrete to rise up high above their birthplace to look around and feel the warm rays of the sun, the same sun that we place dark lenses over our eyes to shield away. Alive like the loyal dog that follows and protects their master. Alive like the penguins that are unable to fly, but have managed to live to the best of their abilities. Alive like you, alive like the woman in front of me with the wheelchair, alive alive alive like the world and the dirt and the trees and the animals and alive, the present realization that I am living regardless of troubles and doubts and fears and loneliness that burrow their roots and hasp their definition into the luggage compartment of the trains that leave with the most worthy passengers at the platform, staring off not at the fading form of travel rolling away on the oxidized tracks, but at the sky above it where the moon is barely visible, her crater eyes staring down in the sunlight that is invalid because the rain clouds are approaching and tightening their power to release the drops that were called upon by the ghostly voices of ancient Mayans that would sacrifice their children for the benefit of their crops. The moon says to herself in a murmur, “Present am I, but you only take notice in the dark.”
Created: Jan 22, 2010Document Media