I am grateful for my life today, for every breath, for the ability to convey these meager words. I barely escaped the Underworld with my life. Here I lament, for although I have gained much, I…
I went on a journey into the darkness. It called to my soul and I succumbed to its gravitational pull. A stone falling into a bottomless well. As if my own Self were there beckoning me into the unknown depths. Where the damned slept in their feces. They looked up at the ever-grey and stormy sky, while their siblings stepped over them, cursing their stench. And the angels wept.
I was there. Among the houseless, the mentally ill. I broke into my father’s house for a bit of medicine, his good rum. Well, I was desperate. My father had forgotten long ago, the son he never had. The rum was all that was good from my lineage.
I made friends with the Paisanos, traded all my dignity for mere moments of relief, for freedom from the madness of this upside-down world. Like a drop of water in a burning house. And the ones without shoes never judged me.
I found myself in a jail cell, a psych ward. I found myself in a straight jacket. Unable to do the most simple of tasks, put hand to mouth, hand to dick. Hand to hair. I would have pulled every strand as an offering to the ghosts. God knew they needed help. I called for the nurse but she insisted it was for my own good.
I saw handsome demons dressed as conquistadors and priests, proudly bearing my family crest. They boasted of power and wealth, and the everlasting meal of human flesh. They held out their hands to me, swore I would not miss my soul. It was my empathy that caused me pain, they said. Then they laughed heartedly in my face as I cried out for Holy Fire.
Vomit at my feet. The Curandera’s song shook me until my body contorted. The high of her voice, the depth of her lyrics, the boom of her drum. Each moment dissolved with the structures of my mind, maddening chaos. Whispering haunted memories. I couldn’t stop it.
I saw myself curled up behind the dumpster. I could not get up, not even to shit. Bury me in shame and self-hate. All I wanted was to not feel the pain for one moment. All I wanted was medicine.
I prayed for death. The angels were happy to oblige, to put me out of my misery. They stood about me, outlined in psychedelic colors not visible to the sober eye. I knew it was my time. I felt my soul being ripped from my body and the Angel of Death, he said he was only answering my prayer. I cried. I screamed in protest like a fish on a hook, fighting for one more chance at life.
The cop in the emergency room asked me why. “I don’t know,” I replied. “I’ve nothing to live for, yet I cannot die.” The nurse glanced at my vitals, and told him to leave. I cried. And cried.
My abuela was there, holding me. I saw her through the eyes of a babe. I remember her smell, like cigars and malta, sweat mixed with tears. I tried to touch her face, but couldn’t reach. I tried to speak her name but only the sounds of an infant was heard. Was I dead? Was I reviewing my life?
Then I was there on my knees on the blood-stained field, the hot sun on my bare back, my hands in the dirt, mourning the ones who were left to rot. The bones of the ancestors spoke to me and I let my tears fall upon the earth. I swore to the heavens I would. I would.
I prayed for a miracle. Everyday. While my siblings traveled the world and celebrated their youth with good food and even better booze. I envied them as I stayed on my knees and fasted and prayed. I curled up in a ball and listened to the tales of the ghosts. I prayed for them and watched as they walked home.
Then I heard a voice. My whole body resounded with its every issue. The only light in my dark world. I was enraptured, like a moth to a flame, I could not look away. I was fed, taught, and rocked to sleep.
When I awoke, I knew things I could not understand. To make a pilgrimage on hands and knees, like a baby who couldn’t yet stand, I was charged. To ask my senses, my mouth, is this milk or glue? I crawled then I walked. I taught myself how to swim.
Still I traveled. I turned my head from the ones who hurt me. I spoke to the trees and squirrels for the people could not understand my foreign speech. I sang to the ghosts and angels and they remembered my song. I danced with the one who would become my best friend. Like a Hawk and Tiger, taking turns at land and sky. We cried and sang together.
At the summit of the mountain, the lion’s lair. The weight of the pain was too heavy. I set it down somewhere along the treeline, with an offering of my greying hair. I bathed in the ice rivers. I sat with the fire. I watched the stars talk to each other.
One in particular took a liking to me. She traveled down a ray of light and watched me as I watched her. I told her what life was like on Earth. I will not bypass the pain. I will not abandon myself in the darkness. She listened to my dirge and shed a tear for the human race. She promised to speak for us in the higher courts.
Now here in the quiet valley, the pain and joy, the love and rage, like northern lights that fall upon the path at my feet. I’m grateful for this. I still have questions, still hear the ghosts. The adventure calls me forward, a Sagittarian bow, a soft open heart.
Thank you for these meager words. Thank you for the milk and the glue. Thank you for the freedom and the straight jacket. Thank you for my every breath.
I know that I’m never alone.
Thank you, reader, for your presence here. May we all hear the song in our souls. May we sing in chorus, one day, the stories of how we walked each other home.
— The Traveler
— The Hermit
— The Storyteller
Azrael Torres 