Comfort is the price one must pay to expose what is inside. To say everything as it is, take down all façades, kill the filter. This in here is me, reaching out from my heart, as if my pen were an Aztec priest, ripping it out from under my rib cage and offering it up to the Gods above. This here is raw.
…
I once thought I was a lion. I mean, I pretended of course, but what's the difference? I knew I was pretending, I never actually questioned if I was or wasn't one, I never even thought to question it. I just let my mind flow, and soar, and fly and take me wherever it wanted to take me.
And I loved it.
I could play for hours, just myself, with not even a toy or a stick or a leaf, my imagination was so strong that it could all be occurring inside my head. I was the protagonist, running through the school yard of my youth, evading the evil water sprinklers of death that were obstacles trying to prevent my entrance into the kingdom of Javierano. You see, Javierano was at war with an enemy planet, and it was facing serious perils of imminent destruction. But there were heroes, and there were villains, and there were enough stories to dwarf the entire written universes of fantasy and science fiction.
My mind had no limits, no restrictions, it would fly free, it would recreate and relive and invent and propel forward. And as I would play amidst the brush outside the gym, or on the field behind the elementary school building where my brother went to class, these would transform into undiscovered wonderlands, and my mind would fly and my body would soar and complete ecstasy would fill me up and swallow me whole.
And such was my childhood. Days of unlimited potential, of unlimited imagination. I would, could do anything, be anyone. And it was fun. All it took was for me to look into my mind and before I knew it I was off, into another world, into another dimension, on a mission.
…
And then I lost it.
…
It is like everything that you have ever been told about going out and testing yourself and not being afraid to see who you are is suddenly not true anymore. Like if it was always just an illusion, because now you have to adapt into society, into a world that cares too much and thinks too much and therefore oppresses too much. And this oppression of the spirit brings nothing good with it. It brings instead so much dirt. And you don't really deal with it because if you attempted to and hit it head on you know you'd be overwhelmed and simply stop functioning so instead you just keep moving forward, and cope as much as you can and keep your mind off it and instead keep it on whatever distractions you can find. And suddenly it's as if you are not even living your own life anymore. It's as if you are looking in through a window, at something someone else is dealing with, something happening far away. You are sitting comfortably in your couch at home, or in your cushioned seat at the movie theater, popcorn in hand and not a worry in your mind, looking on as this other person to whom you have no connection except maybe the slightest hint of affection moves through the barren wasteland of the world. Of this land that once held so much promise and joy and purity and innocence. I never thought I had taken a wrong path. I just thought I was growing up.
…
The ingenious brain of a human child is a wonderful thing. It is a ball of happiness and eagerness. One I deeply admire, and one I am jealous of. I love watching children play, watching the intricate clockwork within their minds at work. When they let their minds carry them away, when they stop being self-conscious, and rejoice in their intrinsics; they are so strong, so powerful, so brave. And yet they're unaware of it. I am aware of it now. I remember the feeling, I remember where it comes from, and I know the power of its rawness. Now I need to find it again.
Lions can't fly. But they pounce. And oh how they roar.
Nobody has left as big of an impression on me as my grandfather. He was a celebrated self-made wonder-maker, who lived a remarkable life. And yet, to me, he was always grandpa. He had thoughtful eyes, a happy smile and a heart of gold. His heart was also very much belonging to the Cantabrian region of Spain where his family was from, and as he loved to say "a Cantabrian heart never gives up."
He had a lot of great stories about a life well-lived, but he was never boastful about them. Most I heard from others. Many after he passed away. But one I got to witness.
It was in the days of his winter, when he started chemotherapy. He decided he was not going to cut his hair again— he dared nature to make it fall.
A year later, before the cancer finally consumed him, he had the hair of a rock star and the beard of a wizard.
The lion finally looked like one.
Maybe someday I'll be a lion too.
