Teacher Dreams

My brother, Jose, you were my significant teacher. Although your life was cut short, Hermano, you taught me the beauty of waking up. Opening my eyes and witness the traumas of our past and face the demons of my present. Gracias.

Your death caused me so much pain. My heart was lost; kidnapped by the spirits of the afterlife whom held it hostage until I stopped chasing after them. I was exhausted. My shins were bruised. My mind stopped processing and my soul was detached, left behind a mile ago with the other souls of my family.

I was detached.
In the space between questions and answers.

I was no longer capable of movement. My spirit was still held prisoner and my physical being was crippled to the point where my hands could not write. My eyes kept closing, replaying the scenes of my father’s knife penetrating me in and out. My throat was full. Full of years of silence. Words that only made it on to paper but never onto the ears of others.

Hermano,
Teacher,
Voice,
Your loss was the truth. The truth of my despair. The same despair that I was able to hide from until your public death crushed our family, but more so, it killed me. All the nightmares of my childhood came to life and as much as I tried to keep them as nightmares you forced my eyes to stay open. It took two years of your lessons to finally learn how to clear out my throat. Release the words from my bleeding mouth. Words that I never knew were my own. Words of the spirit tongue. Words of Trust.

You taught me to stop chasing after the spirits of the afterlife. Stop crippling my body and be open to outcome. Open to liberation. Liberation of my abused body. Liberation of your detachment from my physical world. Liberation of clarity. Where the only thing that mattered was my present self and not “what” I thought my future self would be if I were exposed. I was detached from outcome but open to new modes of being.

Gracias Hermano. You taught me to write with my body. Make the words on paper, also onto the ears of the world.