Morning Battle

My left eye opened, following the unconscious movement of the right one. I could sense the acid from the pillow, the sour of my dreams, the sweetness of the morning. They were all different, but the same.I then hear your thought trying to reach me, I listen to my happiness carefully, it calls for your name. While my head tilts forward, time stops, the vivid green walls now scream, they scream my name. But my name it is not, it is not about the melody of its sound, not about the letters that comprise it, not about the simplest meaning of the me it embodies. It’s just about a name, like any other, like any other you could’ve said. Green walls no more; Esperanza no more. No hope for the clarity of my actions, no hope for you seeing me as I am, as I have always been.
No connection.
No hope.
No esperanza.
No future. Only a present that has already vanished, only this second in which I think about your thought, only this instant in which you are not mine anymore. Everything could only be part of a disillusion that you initiated. How can you be so fragile and yet so strong?
How can you think and not think and make me think of your thoughts. How can you not know that I exist? Only if that morning would’ve been real, like every other, you would’ve gotten to feel like I felt. But you weren’t thinking, you weren’t thinking of my thoughts like I was.
The walls turned metallic against my face, against my heart. I cannot feel anymore, so I ran. Did you stop me? Did you think about my thoughts?
No thoughts.
No feeling.
No looking after.
No transparency.
No mirror.
No will.
No hope.
No esperanza.
Why didn’t I ask for more? I ran. Why didn’t I tell you that I could be yours forever? I ran. Why didn’t I open my eyes to the morning that was ours at the moment? I ran. Why didn’t I tell you that I loved you? I left. I escaped and you opened the walls to let me go.
No words.
No lyrics.
No sense.
No destination.
No esperanza.
My head shivers to your indifference. Can you look at me? How is it that everything is lost after building up to so much? Where’s that song that I took as mine? Where is that poem that I helped you embrace? Where is life without you? Where am I without life? Only a moment, only that instant in which I ceased being yours, only that morning that you refused to believe, only a piece of time that ran away with me. I gave you my thoughts, but you never received them. I gave you myself; I gave you life; I gave you the moon painted in black, I gave you a present, I gave you this instant in which I write, I gave you a word, a song, an eye. I gave you my lips so that you could sing; I gave you a smile after a look; I gave you a silent secret, then you blushed. I gave you more than I could give; I gave you my opened arms, my chest, my sense. I gave you a morning wrapped in me; I gave you my sound, my tone, my voice. The walls turned blue. My life turned into hue, my path no more.
No me.
No us.
No moon loving you.
No tree.
No green.
No streets to be free.
No luck.
No trust.
No air.
No hope.
No will.
Esperanza no more.

Contando Pasos

Con el tiempo que pasa y que no llega,
Con el agua salada de la costa aún no descubierta,
Con un cielo azul y verde,
Con la energía de un planeta que me baila,
Con la riqueza del pasado y la soltura del futuro,
Con un camino hecho de magia y santería,
Con la dulzura del seno de mi madre,
Con un héroe al que aprendí a llamar mi padre,
Con el aire que levanta mi cuerpo,
Con mi cuerpo que flota libremente,
Con mis brazos que no dan mas en el aire,
Con una cara y dos y tres,
Y una ceñida que me cree.

MistakenReality

I want to stay here forever,
Where my mind is isolated,
Detached from the irregularity of mistaken actions,
And from all of these memories that are once more invading my reality.

I want to detangle that threat of vigor,
Of ironies and adversities,
That keep me consolidated,
To this world of misery.

I want to stop the coordination of my walk,
The acceleration in my dance,
The sophistication of my thoughts,
That are pure, electric, twisted

I want to be me again,
Hit myself against the wind,
Fly up high and grab the stars,
Die and fall in the lucid sea,
And reincarnate once more time,
Knowing that it is me,
Knowing that I can fulfill,
The empty corpse that embodies me.

Meant To Be

This was meant to be.
This day of craziness and chaos,
And playfulness and serenity.
This was meant to be.
This you and me,
And the tree
And the naked sea,
And the moon flowers,
And the time that should not go by,
And the grass that lies under my feet,
And the inspired poet crying
Under the humidity that satisfies the night’s needs.
This was meant to be.
Everyone talking about their dreams,
Searching for unknown things,
Looking at destiny with an eye,
With that third eye,
With crucial intensity,
With undeniable energy,
With your heart, and mind,
And spirit, and essence.
Life was meant to be
A beautiful piece of something.

Desperté

Al lado del mar caliente me senté y sonreí.
Al lado de un mar que me acompañó al sufrir,
Al lado de fuertes ondas de energía yo sentí
Mi espíritu levantarse en sí,
Y corrí hacia el sol,
Donde encontré inspiración,
Donde encontré el dolor
De una infancia que ahí está,
El dolor de mi existencia,
El dolor de mi sentir,
Y lloré,
Y pedí que volviera a suceder,
Y pedí temer,
Y pedí encanto y placer,
Y construí mi propio mundo
Con una estrella y un sol,
Y vi una vida que ya terminó,
Una vida completa,
Encontrada,
Satisfecha de haber pasado por mi razón.
Una vida que acaba de empezar
Y continúa su camino hacia el despertar.
El despertar de mis sueños,
El despertar de mi mente,
El despertar de mi fragancia
De niña perdida e inconciente.
El despertar de una vida que acaba de empezar,
Y que me elevará de nuevo,
Y que me enseñará a volar,
Y a recorrer el mundo entero,
Y a conocer mi andar,
Y a entregarme con ojos cerrados
Al territorio desconocido que es la felicidad,
Y a vivir,
Y a amar sin condición, sin razón, sin temor.
Amar a todos los corazones que por ahí vea.
Y a curar mentes dañinas, desconsentidas.
Al lado de un mar salado me senté y desperté.
Desperté y abracé al sol que me acudió,
Desperté y me liberé una vez más,
Y sentí mi vida pasar,
Sobre las olas del mar,
Una vida que en este momento acabó,
Y esfumada subió al sol,
Y este la borró,
Entregándome una nueva ilusión
De vivir,
De sentir,
Del porvenir,
De mi esencia,
De mi existencia,
De mi ser equivocado,
Entregado al mar salado.

Respiro Libertad

Aire que juega con el destino desconocido,
Y que entra y sale y se contradice,
Y que desconfía a las paredes que se imponen,
Que cree en la libertad del instinto,
Y en la riqueza del alma,
Y en la audacia de la mente,
Y en las cenizas del pasado,
Y en la magia del presente.

Aire que entiende los hechos de la ignorancia,
Y que envuelve ideas complejas y revolucionarias,
Y que me toma de una mano,
Y sostiene mi esperanza,
Y cubre mi cuerpo desnudo de frescura e intimidad;
Y me devuelve la esencia con el toque de su ala,
Y me hace descubrir motivos para otra revolución, revolución de ilusiones.
Y me inspira a encontrar la verdad,
Y a razonar lo irrazonable,
Y a pintar mi libertad,
De forma espiritual,
Inconciente en el andar,
Y sin miedo de encontrar,
Mas aire que golpes da,
Golpes de libertad।
-Un poema de aire para Hanuman

SomeThingsICannotForget

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond our measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves who want to be brilliant, gorgeous, and talented and magnificent? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn’t serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We were born to manifest the glory of God that is within us. It is in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give others permission to do the same as we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberate others.

Berenjena

Eggplant o berenjena
Que complicación.
El mismo tema, el mismo sabor,
Dos palabras
Sin explicación.
De comida a vida,
De vida a persona
Y de ésta a yo,
Que no sabía ni entendía,
El significado
De esta expresión,
Castellana-inglesa,
Graciosa y cómoda y capaz,
De hacerme dudar y pensar
En otras cosas que me gustan,
Como un día en primavera,
O un beso en el pecho
Y en la boca,
Y una caricia melosa,
Y una canción triste o alegre,
No importa…
Porque el hecho es
Que como mi berenjena
Con ganas de seguir comiendo,
Y de seguir viviendo
Una vida hecha para mí,
Alocada, desmesurada,
Como el aire sin cadenas,
Como el tiempo que no llega,
Como el sol y las estrellas.

Canto

Canto para no llorar y no sentir que te vas,
Canto para expresar el nivel de alteración en el que estoy,
Canto para conectar el mundo Chi y la realidad
Y el color de la libertad,
Y la dulzura del melón,
Y la amargura del callar,
Y el tiempo pasado y el presente,
Y el porvenir que no viene,
Y la luna que mira y calla,
Y la playa contemplada contigo y conmigo
Ahí sentados cantando y ahogándonos en nuestras propias voces
De colores rojos y amarillos,
Que son calidos y húmedos y candentes.
Canto para no ignorar mi voz que sobresalta,
Y que vibra con las ondas de sonido y de viento.
Canto para trasladar mi cuerpo ligero a otro lugar,
Donde mi canto vale oro,
Donde se escucha mi gritar.

Una vez en mí

Comprendamos como funciono. Mi ser interno
Una vez en mi mente, notaras las extrañas reacciones que surgen. Esas acciones sin sentido, esos deseos sin motivos, esos momentos donde en el limbo estoy. De esto se trata el yo interno, de ambigüedades, de complicaciones, de desentendimientos; porque nada tiene sentido, nada concuerda y al final, todo surge. Sin querer, soy demasiado expuesta, demasiado confiada, demasiado liberal. Esto puede que sea bueno en ocasiones, pero en otras, salgo herida o malinterpretada. Esa última no es buena. Soy cariñosa, a veces seca y amargada, en ocasiones tímida, en otras impulsiva, curiosa, alegre, triste, pensativa. Me gustaría volar, me gusta escuchar, me gusta tener atención. También me agrada ayudar y ser ayudada y a la vez comprender a los demás. Siento cierto placer cuando me dan las gracias, al igual que cuando recibo un beso o un abrazo sincero. Soy una idealista, metas y retos me atraen, de esta manera siento que progreso intelectual y espiritualmente. Mi familia es mi tesoro mas preciado, ellos me hacen sentir viva, mi devoción es mi planeta y mi apoyo es la naturaleza la cual pienso que es un regalo de una fuerza mas fuerte que cualquier otra. Las mañanas soleadas me devuelven el alma, me llenan el espíritu de numerosas posibilidades. También encuentro apoyo en mis amigos, a los cuales le debo sonrisas pasajeras, estudios bacantes, sinceridad y entendimiento. En mi cuerpo también encuentro apoyo, mediante gestos, mediante mi tono de voz, mediante vistas de mis ojos, mediante yoga, meditación y ejercicios diarios. Me gusta aprender cosas nuevas diariamente, lo que me aburre lo tiro antes que llegue a mi cabeza. Me gusta lo interesante y riesgoso. Me gusta estudiar, igual, solo cuando me parece interesante.
Mírame de afuera. Mi ser externo
Siempre he pensado que mis ojos continuamente han existido en la tierra. A veces pienso que ya he vivido mucho, que he visto demasiado, aunque en realidad me falta el resto del sistema energético (el mundo Chi) por conocer. Mis ojos evalúan el resto de mi cuerpo constantemente. Son dos puntos de energía que perciben e imitan las ondas sentimentales de mi corazón y del resto de mi cuerpo. Su forma cambia según mis emociones. Cuando estoy triste se curvean hacia abajo, cuando alegre, sobresaltan y brillan con la luz del sol. Mi pelo ha cambiado mucho de color. Cada etapa de mi vida ha sido caracterizada por un color, o un estilo diferente, aunque el color predominante y natural es el marrón oscuro. Mi pelo expresa mi libertad, aunque la mayoría de las veces esta atado, siempre cae libremente sobre mi rostro. Mis labios determinan mi expresión. También me parece que son el vínculo para acercarme a otros, para comunicarme, para entretenerme cuando estoy aburrida también juego con ellos. Mi piel es blanca, talvez demasiado blanca pero me agrada. Me gusta como se sienten las vibraciones de sol en mi piel. También como mi piel es transparente, dejando a todos ver el verdadero yo en todo momento. Mis piernas son finas y extendidas, como queriendo llegar y alcanzar todo tipo de extremos. Pudiera decir que mi silueta es una botella de coca cola, siendo mis caderas los extremos mas anchos de esta. En mi manera de vestir soy curiosa, atrevida y sencilla a la vez. Me gusta sentirme cómoda con lo que llevo. Me gusta ser original también, y tratar de dejar mostrarme en todo momento, sin mucha cubierta alrededor.
Mi pasión y devoción. Preferencias y favoritismos
Me gustan los amaneceres claros y mis caminaditas diarias del estacionamiento a la escuela donde puedo recoger flores moradas, repartirlas y colocarme una detrás de mi oreja. Me gusta observarlo todo detalladamente. Me fascinan las diferentes culturas con las que convivo cotidianamente, de mis amigos principalmente aprendo mucho sobre esto. He encontrado a Laura mediante la poesía, a la cual le dedico un 99 por ciento de mi tiempo. Pienso que en todo hay poesía. Me gusta escribir todo lo que pienso, tengo un tesoro llamado notebook, en el cual escribo pensamientos, poesía, y todo lo que se me ocurre. También tengo unos cuantos libros que han marcado mi vida y que me han dejado un mensaje radical, estos incluyen: 1984, Beloved, Great Expectations, Brave New World, Ismael y el último The Fifth Sacred Thing. Este último ha sido mi inspiración para muchos de los progresos y pasos que he dado en mi vida. Pienso poder llegar a ser algún día una maquina de comunicación. Quiero transmitir a todos mis ideas, y todas las ideas que sean necesarias. Quiero poder llegar a ser inspiración y si es posible poder dejarles saber a todos que vivimos en un mundo de amor escondido, que existen motivos para vivir que no son necesariamente superficiales o materiales. Quiero que se vea el buen de nuestro planeta, el amor con el que nacemos, el lado lindo y sutil de nuestra historia. Para esto quiero ser periodista y en esto se emboca mi carrera. Me gusta correr, me gusta la playa, la música que me entra por los poros, la navidad, el Honors College de Miami Dade, mi mesita de estudio, las flores moradas y gentiles, los amaneceres soleados y alegres, mis amigos, mi familia, mi perrita loca, mis maestros, mis uñas cuando arregladas, mi cuadro, mi planeta, mi país, mi norte y mi sur, las estrellas cuando hay, mi corazón cuando late fuerte, mi tono de voz, mi forma de expresión, mi conocimiento, mis batallas contra lo injusto, mi amor por Lala y por todos los niños de la escuela primaria Phillis Wheatley, mi admiración y apoyo por mis maestros de ingles, mi ropa que me expresa, mi reloj despertador, mis gritos de alegría, mis lagrimas de dolor. Amo vivir intensamente al compás del ritmo de vibraciones supernaturales. Amo la fuente de esperanza que existe en mi corazón, y amo poder dormir y despertar cada día con una luz de optimismo. Encuentro inspiración en religiones como el Hinduismo, donde los dioses me hablan y guían con frecuencia. Pienso que esta es una de las religiones mas completas del mundo, y pienso que sus morales equivalen a una posible paz mundial.

Feeding Energy

He healed me.
He healed me with those demanding hands of his.
He gave my skin the essence needed to survive,
He sensed the need, the flavor, the vapor.
He then controlled the missing parts that kept me far, high…
And then he lifted me up again, somewhere there where the only things I could hear
Were my voice and his linked together, singing and crying and moaning.
And my voice and his, and the light of his hands getting into me,
Satisfying me, filling me up to the peak.
And up there, somewhere unknown to my eyes,
He became the man in me, and I became the woman in him,
And we became our own healers,
Our own seduction,
Our own core.
And then, I understood.
I understood the movement of his lips that came from that place where I could feel it
I saw the pain that was already gone,
Gone with his own hands,
Healed by his own spirit,
Because at that moment,
His spirit was me.

Remembering a First Love...

I’ll lend you a piece of myself so that you can think of it,
I’ll tell my heart not to contract when you hurt it.
I’ll close my eyes and dream of you loving me,
I’ll stay alive only to be part of your life.
I’ll die in your presence so that I can reincarnate in your skin,
I’ll cut my hair, free it, oppress it, and hate it.
I could sing a happy song and paint the sky with bright colors,
I could look in your eyes and again think that I am in heaven.

Pleasant Misery

While you anxiously glance at the time in your watch,
I’ll make sure I make you happy.
But then the look in your face,
The red, tiny, minute veins that extrangulate your eyes,
Maybe the whiteness in you artificial skin,
Or the misplaced hair in your beard.
Maybe, you don’t want happiness.
Now you take your corrupted eyes off your watch,
You glance at me,
I feel the desire, I feel the necessity,
And now you act as artificially and predictably as a robot,
You’ve fallen into the conventions of contentment.
My eyes turn against your presence,
They’re afraid of your actions, afraid of your repugnance.
But you still desire, ignoring the tear from my eye,
Ignoring the cry, turning it to a confused moan,
Criticizing my corpse, harming my lips, corrupting my aroma,
Consuming my soul.
Now the watch grabs your eyes once more,
But you’re not anxious anymore.
You glance at me,
You feel my pain, but not really.
You only pretend to feel my pain,
And while you get ready to destroy my life,
I want to make sure that I make you happy.

Her Dream

"When I grow up my dream is to become an actress and a pediatrician and become wealthy. I want to encourage others that they too can be successful in life. I also want the other people that if they believe that they can do something, the dream will be accomplished if they try really hard. My dream can come true if I stay in school and get an education. When I grow up I will be wise and educated."
-Lala

La Mano Oculta

Sitting in Economics...

Walking in the direction of the endless hall of the second floor of the campus feels worthless. The bright incandescent light, the white parallel walls that don’t say anything, the coldness in the building…it is all organized, manipulated, stated; I don’t belong here. The class begins. The teacher starts talking about how the Fed has cut interest rates in order to impose an expansionary fiscal policy that would create money, put money into the economic system, which in cause will slow down or stop the recession that we are going through. He said it was pointless though, because apparently he is an expert. But now my pencil falls, in the middle of the class, in the middle of nowhere, where we are. The reaction hits, I put all my vigor in the thought, I compete against my own will, go down, and seize the pen, which was waiting for the right occasion to escape. My head then falls against one of those miserable walls. The wall rejects me, the pencil too. My eyes start to impose, they don’t like hearing all of this nonsense talking, they dislike the feeling of being tough unimportant things, lies, and they don’t like to be undermined.
So I wait for the right occasion to liberate my mind, to fly somewhere else where the walls aren’t white and parallel and straight and tall. I go to that part of my mind where there’s no reason, where things don’t necessarily make sense. And here I stay, I see the person that’s sitting behind me here, she seems to be in the same state of mine, I am relieved. She pulls out a notebook and starts writing, she vigorously writes, so intensively. The power in her hand takes over her; she struggles, but keeps writing. The blond hair on her face now blows against her black-painted eyes, cupid eyes. She looks at me, and smiles. I return the smile, and believe her. I believe her passion, the power of these true things, these true feelings. And she believes me too, she also believes how inconsiderate and repugnant supply and demand could be, how the consumer surplus is a total waste of people’s energy and time, how the allocation of resources is so unfair since not everyone really gets the same amount of anything, even though we’re all living in the same planet, under the same natural resources. And she blushes, she reddens because the feeling is mutual, because we both think that the ideals of economics go against our own, and we cover it with intelligence, knowledge and some self-control. Now my pen falls again, only that this time I don’t care. I let it be.
The teacher talks. He forcefully says: “It is not from the benevolence of the butcher, the brewer, of the baker, that we expect our dinner, but from the regard to their own interest” –Adam Smith. He says how the so-called “father of economics” put all of these words together, but how everyone could’ve done that. And I believe him too. He wants change and I can tell. But the change starts from within, and he is unhappy, he lies to himself because of all of these nonsense views about the world, the false perspective that economics is a social science that carries morals, because I truly believe it does not.
After navigating minds, I come back to my sit, where everything was just as I left them. I look around, my pencil on the floor, the impacted faces of everyone that eats the lecture, the presentation that just ended. I look back, the girl glances at me, she is back too. I get up, grab my pencil, and head to the door.
Life isn’t always fair…suck it up! – L-C

"This is the time to rejoice and praise the earth, because today we have planted our freedom".

Intrigued by all of the possibilities, I see myself restlessly waiting for this day. The day in which I dedicate my severe will to the earth, the day in which I will come together with everyone else and understand that fifth sacred thing that I seek for. The work was hard, the planting was unique, the coming together with these kids, the Phillis Wheatley students was a never ending experience. All that the kids wanted was to contribute to the cause in some way or another. I remember the sweat on all of our faces; I remember the looks that we gave each other accompanied by a genuine smile of hope, a lungful of air, a smile that stood for optimism. And Lala would ask me every now and then: “Am I doing a good job?” and I would respond to that: “ Lala, you are only doing what I am doing, being one”. And she smiled at this, not really understanding what I was saying, but trying to act as if she did, and she just kept working right beside me. I felt so connected with the earth, I enjoyed the sun right on my face, the drops of sweat that only said “passion”, the water that was given to the plants, the love that emerged from the planting, the process of being so united, so closed together in every aspect. I felt the power in my hands, they could do anything at that moment, and they could reach the sky. The laughing, the pictures, the talking, the sharing, the jumping…all of these things were the center of the day. Our hands spoke for who we are, our hands had all the power in the world, our hands planted, constructed, felt, touched and contributed to a tremendous day of human equality, freedom, and good will.

"Remember this story, remember that one act can change the world".- Starhawk

"Only our bare hands, eager to build something new"

The eye of knowledge, the eye that leads me to the imagination, to the deepest part of me, to the soul, to my spirit. We all have that third eye.

The Radha-Krishna amour is a legend of all times. The relationship of Radha and Krishna is the embodiment of love, passion and devotion. Radha's passion for Krishna symbolizes the soul's intense longing and willingness for the ultimate unification with God. Krishna is the soul of Radha, and Radha is definetely the soul of Krishna. She is the undivided form of Krishna. She will remain a mystery, unless one can know inexpressible divine elements.

The Reason for Being Who I Am

Hay que ponerle caramelo al Eleguá pa’ que se esté contento. The invisibility of her words has been bouncing in my head and all I capture are futile words, full of air, carrying no weight, confining no essence. I remember the trembling of my hands, the sophistication in her voice, her big round eyes full of brown. She was passionate about the little solid statue, the little “Niño” (how she used to call it), que le abría los caminos y traía prosperidad. This is the story of my mother, a story that later came to be mine. She adored this creature. This piece of rock, with down sloped caracoled eyes that stared at our lives; a rock that could only stare at us with nothing to say, nothing at all, because it was just a religious symbol, the orisha that my mom would protect more than anything in the world, it was part of her, her obligation, her faith. The icon was real (at least for her). It still is. It was the center of the room, where every Saturday afternoon she would light up candles, set up her mystic corner, and pray. Pray until the orisha listened, pray and pray until it recognized her words. This was her excuse for spending so much time with her ritual: “esperemos que se despierte mijita” as she used to say. Food, and liquor, and water and shelter were given to the Eleguá on a regular basis, with only a purpose: it had to light up our lives, open our paths, liberate us from malice and hatred and many other good things that my mom would usually make up with the purpose of making herself believe that all of these were true, even though the Eleguá would only sit quietly and watch her mind run for itself. My mom really wanted all of these things. She was going through a lot of pain. At this point in our lives, sometimes she wouldn’t have enough resources to cook us dinner, sometimes we didn’t have water, or electricity, or any other basic things that were necessary. My mom wanted freedom, even if she didn’t know it. I wanted it too. She was forced to rely on this orisha, and on many other orishas only because she needed a sense of hope and understanding, because she thought that she could not do it by herself. Like my mom, many other people who I grew up with were attached to something else that was not their own spirit in order to progress in any way. This spiritual reliance is the cause to many of the beliefs that I was tough as a child and that were naturally incorporated into my behavior and into my life in general.
And here is when the story of my birth became an anecdote that neither my mom nor grandma could avoid telling visitors and everyone else whenever the chance emerged. “A esa niña la salvó La Virgencita de La Caridad”. They couldn’t give reasons or explain in any other way the fact that I was saved, cured from illness, resuscitated from death. This usually happens when medical and scientific explanations aren’t enough, when faith becomes too strong and penetrates into your spirit, soul and will. “Sagrado Corazón”, the hospital where I was born was the throne to religious conviction, to rays of faith, and moans of praying. This was the place where dehydrated, I stayed for a month, interned in the hospital with no hope of living, embraced by the arms of a deadly disease, Amebiasis, a parasitic infection that was introduced to my body because a mistake made by the nurse assisting me .She collocated one of the aerosol tubes incorrectly, she put the wrong medicine in it, causing this disease. My lungs full of liquid; my tiny, newborn corpse carried neither strength nor spirit. This is how this medical place, the hospital, became to be the place where my grandma constructed her religious display. It was also, according to my grandma, the place where I was born twice. My grandma loved me too much to let me die, but even more she loved her faith, her pure spirituality, and her mysticism. As soon as she had the chance, she brought all of her statues and icons which of course included La Virgen de la Caridad, which later became my second mother, and to whom, according to my grandma, I owe my salvation. Tears run through the already wrinkled face. My grandma was so focused on her ideals and so integrated into her religion that there couldn’t possibly be any other reasons for my well being. “Te salvé mi princesita”. That’s what I am to my grandma “una princesita”, and this makes me the happiest human being on earth. And to this I owe my life, I say. To her wanting good for me, to doing everything that she could so that I could be well. At this point, I separated love and affection, from everything else that made my salvation possible. And I did this because I believe that it was her unconditional love that saved me, aside from any medical or spiritual curing that went on during my illness. This was the division of what I call religion and faith: the separation of corruption, dishonesty, and fraud with holiness, mysticism, and pure faith. At this point I realized what I was getting into. I realized that I was saved because I had made my decision, that crucial decision that I had be intrigued by for so long. What should I choose? What have I been brought up to and what was born with my character? And this is the difference between a fraudulent soul, and a liberated one. I am free, free because of these teachings that were incorporated into my way of thinking, this tradition and wisdom that is carried out in my country and therefore in my family. From here I chose who to be, what to follow, and who to believe. Que dios te bendiga y la virgen te acompañe. For God’s Sake how I love this phrase! This is a blessing; it’s the spirituality, the faith, the conviction that saves my essence, my existence and my spirit. This is what I chose, not the corruption and distortion of an unfulfilled religion, but the clarity and peace of a sacred devotion; the divine belief in a supreme entity, in a superior being, free of bribery and malice.
Today I am the essence of what I chose to be. I am the symbol of a breakage in tradition in the history of my family, I am that one girl that is not like the others, that responds to you when something is wrong, that thinks critically, that goes against restrictions and false convictions. And I am sure that my grandma is glad for this, I am sure that even though she does not realize it, she is glad that I have found my path. For everything else I am satisfied. I am pleased to be able to use my mind and my heart in their pure state, uninvolved with religious issues, with hatred, with falsity, and corruption.

The pupils of life detangle themselves,
The accordion plays a sad song,
The teachers teach, no one knows why,
The illness penetrates, it harms;
Happiness responds,
The aspiration emerges,
The will sustains,
The hope remains,
The sun reflects.

The Ambiguous Storyline

I am afraid; afraid of letting go, afraid of taking in, afraid of maintaining. That is the anxious vivacity that consolidates my life, the years in it, the months, the days in the months, the nuclear hours in the boundless days, minutes and immeasurable secondsI am afraid of loosing because I have already lost. Fear and passion altogether, the collision of these two brings torment, anguish and the unpredictable agony in which my life is based on. Every now and then we realize how fantastic, unpredictable and unique our minds could be. Inside our fist-sized brains, neurons and brain cells are directing us to do things that we might no want to do, to have thoughts that we are not supposed to have, to behave not exactly as we “are” and many other particular things. From this idea this quote came to mind, “This is who I want to be today, that is who I have been for the past ten years”. Could we really do this? Could we consciously or unconsciously predestine who to “be” or decide how to cope with life? We all have our own personal mystic or realistic ideas about our character, our beliefs, our destiny and our past/future. Now, what about our present? Can we deliberately control our perspective, our inner self, and our soul? We spend a vast amount of time fixing, managing, and coordinating our lives because we can change them. Our lives are flexible; they are there to be directed by us, to be handled by us. That is how the idea of our ambiguous storylines comes to place. Storylines are those aspects of life that tell the person that you are. A storyline can get so attached to me that it actually becomes me, or sometimes not. Sometimes a storyline does not represent who I am, and this is when I detach myself from it. Sometimes I am even aware that I am playing something that I do not want to play, but I am so compromised with it and with everyone around it, that it is hard to detach, and this could bring problems. In my past love relationship I was displaying many of these storylines that I talk about. I was embraced in many of this, only because of conviction, and at the end I realized that this was not who I really wanted to be, it was just a compromise that I did not want to break. I was the helper, trying to help this other person obtain legalization in the United States. I was also the wife, the women that had to report every move, the starter of the matrimonial relationship. At the same time, I was a student, only trying to do her best, trying to keep up with all that involves a student life. All of these storylines and many more were involved in this relationship, that at the end, did not even resemble the person who I truly wanted to be, it did not reflect my personality neither did it identify myself. It was extremely hard to detach myself from it, because once I was in it, it was even hard to realize that I was. But at the end, I came to mind; I thought of my life as a whole, I thought about this attachment and of how damaging it had been to my life. Then I felt extremely free, free of all of those things that tied my life to an unworthy entity, and now it is just me and the wanted storyline. The truth is, we are here to make our own destinies, our own selves, and we could mystically or ideologically detach ourselves from this identity that comes to manipulate our souls. That identity is probably far from being who we really are.

The Mace, the power of knowledge. It dazzles and intoxicates, the stupefier-of-the-mind.

'The beauteous sight', the discus, represents the limitless power which invents and destroys all the spheres and forms of the universe.

The lotus symbolizes the universe, the flower that unfolds in all its glory from the formless endless of the casual waters. Purity.

The conch is the symbol of the origin of existance. When blown, it produces a sound associated with the primeral sound from which creation developed.

A genuine smile turned my world all around

Contracted in the four pale walls of this unknown place, I find myself anxiously waiting to be someone, to be part of someone, and to believe in someone. It feels pointless, and even if everyone says that it is worthy, including the teacher, I still think that all that they have is the will, perhaps I do too, but there is something else missing. But I sit and wait; I wait for the kids, for their happy faces, full of hunger and desperation. Perhaps I feel the same way; even if I felt different (because I did) I am the same, the lack of true happiness behind my eyes, the fake, bogus smile packed of unsaid things, full of mystery and uncertainty. And this is the beginning of the journey, the journey that ended but that continues altogether. The notebook was the first step to our infiltration into their world; the object that resembles one’s identity, the obstacle to hiding your true feelings, the life behind the life. This was a good step, I thought, it doesn’t look that unworthy, this way the kids are going to be able to have something that is theirs, that no one, not even misery will ever detach from them. By the third week, their notebooks were packed of reflections, full of courage and potency. These kids were able to bring life into the paper; they displayed their sentiments and brought out their thoughts. This was genius. It was not so much about the notebook, but about how these kids are subject to freedom, how they seek freedom and go after it whenever they get the chance.And this is what we offered to the kids. The freedom that they lack at the school where teachers are diagnosing their performance at all times, where they’re tested on their intelligence and knowledge based on a three-hour test where they’re tortured until they realize that the material in the test is too complicated for them. This is not how it works with us. As soon as the kids enter the room, they realize that it’s different. They don’t understand what is different perhaps, but they do know that it is. Here, they are able to write about an entry on their notebooks, they could do as they wish with the entry, they’re not timed, graded or any other insane way of torturing kids. Then we may draw, paint, we do insightful things such as paintings that represent our feelings about other things etc… The kids are not used to exercises like this, where they can really speak for themselves and actually say things as they feel it, but they realized that this was the place to do this. At this point in my life, the development of my mind is at its highest point. The reflection on every subject brings true meaning to my actions, the analysis of these kids enhance my analytical thinking and I become an expert on educating these children on how to be free, on how to let their thoughts flow and be present at all times. This new world that I entered has ended, but not at all and this is because that stage of my life has ended in time, but my spirit is still attached to it, like the storyline that becomes one’s self. This storyline is that one that is not present but only because of other things, but it still remains as a lecture, the lecture that has changed my mind in many ways.The knowledge that I acquired from this experience is indescribable. I understand about the crucial segregation that still exists in today’s schools and how this racial segregation affects these kids on a regular basis. Not only the school, but the neighborhood as a whole is also subject to this segregation. This brings scarcity, poor advancement and deterioration of mind and spirit in all cases. This “black school” in this neighborhood has potential in regards to the students. Most of these kids are brilliant, they are smart and their only problem is the problem that the system creates itself. There is insecurity in them, there’s low self-esteem and this is only because those ridiculous standardized tests say so, only because the grades based on a spelling insurrection says so and this is not fair. The true knowledge and appreciation of things comes from the soul, from the will and hope and exists in one’s body. Without these, these kids are just wondering around, waiting to be mandated by teachers, subject to slavery and maltreating. My class was life heaven. My peers were exceptionally devoted to the class, as I was. This brought the potential of all of us together, our will united, and all of our good intentions to make the class feel like the best possible environment. This experience is now part of me, it is a new endeavor that I accomplished and that became part of me, it was one of many storylines that I play, and that even though it is physically over, the spiritual side of it is still a storyline that represents me.