And by a sleep to say we end
I just wanted to tell you that, as you can see, I have not been active in this account. In response to some private messages that I have received throughout these months of hiatus, I would first like to thank people who, even being far away and, for the most part, speak a language and live a very different life from me, have worried or just written to me for any other reason. Secondly, and since this is a space of literary creation that I founded under the inspiration of BTS and its ideals of love for oneself and others, I feel it'd be positive to return to it little by little. The reasons for my poor presence here have been mostly because of my health, both physical and mental. I'm quite reserved in everything concerning myself (that's why I write..., because that way I can distance myself and change my skin in other identities formed by the small crystals of my own reflection in the mirror), so I won't go into details. One of the most courageous acts in the world is falling in love and another showing you vulnerable to others, it's like getting naked before someone for the first time.
For the reasons I mentioned, I was not strong enough to offer the content I wanted to share here, leaving it abandoned until I felt better. Gradually, I have been reducing the discomfort and will continue to reduce it. I needed to stop with some issues and reflect on my state of mind, my priorities and the type of life and person I want to become one day.
Sometimes, even if it hurts and disappoints us, we must stop along the way.
Just today, while painting this drawing, I have decided to write Hamlet's soliloquy on it. When I finished, I thought about this blog, the words of some of you and other people, memories.
When I was in high school, I read these verses with deep enthusiasm. Finally, I was going to enjoy the most famous fragment in the history of literature along with the first paragraphs of Don Quijote de la Mancha. I read them days before we studied them in class and I was overwhelmed by their beauty, their rhythm, their content. In the maturity of each human being, one of many moments of revelation should be to read this soliloquy. At fifteen, his words resonated with the expectations and experiences of my age, however, I thought I was aware of what they could mean. This morning I read it again and I realized how much I have changed, how these verses remain the same but are always different. They adapt as the waters of a stream slip through the rocks and caress them without them reacting. Over the years, the gentle hammering of their waves changes their shape and hardness. There are so many verses within oneself, so contradictory, so selfish, so destructive, so naive, so hopeful, so vivid, that it is impossible to give up. This was proclaimed by Hamlet.
The road never ends, neither the anguish nor the joy. Perhaps destiny is confusion, but we must do what we can until that destiny is revealed to us. And the revelation is in the attempt, in the long nights of self-pity, in the decisions that deafened the pain of our heart, in the kisses enunciated in summer nights, in the imperfect poem. To flourish in the sky like a star that will never cease to be watched by men and women sharing the dream and the chimaera of making sense of their own existence.
What can't go, doesn't go, just changes.
To be, or not to be--that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep--
No more--and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep--
To sleep--perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprise of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I've missed you.
