To-day I received a letter from my sister Alondrà (Lark); no, my parents are not hippies. Amusingly enough, she seems to be under the impression that my name is Jaén, which I assume she must pronounce as ya-en instead of ha-en. The letter is filled with tenderness that is typical of a child. Ah to be a child, to revel in the delectable innocence that permeates freely and abundantly from the soul. It spills out from the eyes, iridescent gems that burn with intensity, with ardor that would waste à l’instance the consumptive. Once I was a child and upon stepping on the threshold of that fictitious oddity society calls adolescence, I lost without realizing the best part of me. Moreover, I hadn’t felt it until I was at a distance wallowing in the impertinence of bleeding suffering, of defiling corruption that rips through the flesh until one is left meta-morphed – and one whimpers: I’m lost.
Not all is lost, not all is in vain. I retain vestiges of that face that like paper wrinkled away, transforming into ashes that took flight and gave way. And I smile.
Oh, can you believe it! A month has transpired! I am burning with passion to communicate. One of my friends travelled to the distant and enigmatic Russia a month ago and now has returned. What wonderful, sublime things she has written to me about this fantastic place. It is rewarding to know that there are other souls that are able and willing to discuss issues of importance with the sensitivity of a poet. It is refreshing to be able to discuss poverty with someone that actually has the ability to opine, that is able to speak with calid honesty … er … from the heart. More oft than not, I hear people speak with no authority, by this I mean to say that they seem to be repeating what they have been taught by rote. For example, most Americans are middle class … mendacious myths like this are so vile. And I am much too languid, much too prideful and stubborn to listen patiently while someone expounds on things, one can honestly state, he has never given really a thought. That the only reason why he feels he must expound on the subject is because he was taught that this is the right thing to do.
When I was a child – gad it’s hard to believe that I am now able to say this. Was it not yesterday that I was 13 gallivanting with my best friend Ricky across fields of drying grass, on occassion halting to analyze the blades of grass that sprung from the April shower-kissed earth; sometimes, we would chance upon a lady bug that would span its wings to our delight and then fly off, disappearing from our world.
I have never liked big families, especially with regards to nuclear families but there is something I enjoy in having a multitude of cousins. I always stand out from them. Though I am the oldest, I have never taken airs of superiority. I have yet to raise my voice to them, to command them to silence so that I may speak and set things right: “Ahoy. Listen up y’all, this is how it’s gonna be. I have authority, being the oldest and therefore the wisest.” No. I have always been content with letting them take charge. I, being the oldest was left in charge. But how funny of the adults to assume that I would behave as they! Once they were gone, the children would run amuck and I’d take joy in this. I did not want to impede them from being themselves, from joking … from being children. I loved them too much and I envied their vivacity. Though I was still a child, I was rapidly being consumed by my ever-pensive mind.
I love these souls that share the same origin, with them I become someone completely different. My surly demeanor vanishes and gives way to uncontrollable laughter that becomes fastidious as it fills the vacuity of our household. I become a child again, infected by their vibrant personalities that explode out of their bodies, filling their surroundings, unifying them in eternal beauty. Children are better at being human than adults. They are truly wonderful beings that have yet to be corrupted by the decadence of a waning society. They let one be, they let one think.