shredding fabrics

i’ve pulled away for quite a while. a pensive retreat into the self — something i’m known to do if i feel too vulnerable or exposed. i’ve always had a dynamic relationship with self-expression and perception. while on the one hand, i know that my soul craves to be expressed truthfully and honestly. on the other hand, the vulnerability of that exposure leaves me feeling naked. i send myself out into the world to be understood. instead, it becomes interpreted. a fractal version of myself spreads out beyond my control. i thought that it would be better to be alone and be silent than it would to be misunderstood.

the fabrics of myself are shredding. pieces no longer fit together, stretching out and tearing from the weight of all that needs to expand and grow. i’ve been restless at night. not sleeping much. at first i thought it was the heat. suffocating, the heat sat heavy in my room. no amount of air conditioning would suffice. the thundering machinery of the ac becoming a noise i could not filter out either. turning off the fans, the heat would immediately rise yet again expanding and inflating and leaving no room left for me. when the outside temperatures eventually dropped to bearable, that restlessness did not ease up. my internal rhythm seemed to be constantly firing, anxiously keeping me awake. i’d toss and turn and twist in my sheets trying to find a position that felt right, that i can sink into, that i can let go and rest. that rest was harder and harder to achieve every night. i had become uncomfortable with this version of myself.

art bears the soul of the artist. this i know, fundamentally, but need reminding from time to time. when we create art, we pull from within ourselves. our childhood experiences, mostly. but also from our everyday observations. moments that pass us by without second thought arise within our stories, our paintings, or whatever other artistic creations we may have. our troubled thoughts or problems we’re still trying to resolve appear too whether we’d want them to or not. art is vulnerable. when i was young, my father put a few of my high school paintings and drawings on display in his restaurant. one of his customers was an artist. he commented that all my paintings had leading lines beyond the horizon. that i was always looking off into the distance at something new or unknown. that has always stuck with me.

a few weeks ago i returned to my hometown to celebrate with my family. one of the days i was there, i went to the local coffee shop. i ran into the brother of someone i was close with growing up. he had changed and so had i. we had an awkward beginning exchange where we both stared at each other until we eventually realized who the other person was. i had to tell him my name. i’m okay with that. i have changed dramatically. my body has changed, my face has changed, my hair has changed, how i carry myself has changed. i’m the slightest memory of who i was then. he sat and we talked for a bit. he told me about his own journey through life, the ups and downs and how he’s returned to a new sense of self. from sobering up to taking part in the community to continuing to work with his family, i could see in him this pride in who he was and how far he’d come from the person i had known him to be. i was quieter about myself — only mentioned where i live and what i do for work. it doesn’t excite me to talk about work. it’s just a job that i do, not a facet of who i am inside. i do not speak of it with reverence.

eventually we broached the topic of his brother. how he was doing, whom he was with, where he was living, how he was living. whether i was projecting it or not i still have yet to fully know, but i sensed an air of awkwardness and sadness in the conversation. there was a hesitation to his storytelling that was only quelled by the love and respect he has for his brother, something he could not hold back. i felt at such a distance hearing about someone who was so formative towards me, who shaped my trajectory in innumerable ways, even if unintentionally so. he seemed to be doing well. i was happy for him. but sad that i could not hear from it himself. i told his brother to tell him i said hi and to say i’m glad he’s doing well. i had hoped he would reach out to me to make amends or to meet somewhere in between. but he did not, and neither did i. we continue to leave that pain in the past.

last year i wrote a short story in which he appeared. in the writing, my memories gave life and richness to the story. i pulled moments from our time in art classes together — our competitive natures driving us both to create and express more and more. our magnetic, emotional push and pull weaved into the narrative serving as the center drama. lingering resentments, complicated and immature feelings, and miscommunications gave depth and breadth to these characters. as the story expanded, those characters became more of themselves and less of us. the dna of my experiences built the foundations of the story, but who the characters were, what their motivations were, and how their final confrontation and resolution took place were all their own. something new had been born from all those unresolved feelings within me.

i walked through ft greene park the other day. i am there most days in fact. when the weather is warm, i bring a blanket and a book and i sit under a tree in the central green. i take off my shirt. i let the breeze cool my body. i lay on my side, half reading, half observing the various families and friends and groups that spill out in all directions. dogs bark, the tennis courts whip and thwap, conversations blend gently into the cacophony easing the sounds towards bliss and harmony. later than usual, i walked up the slopes on the southwestern part of the park towards downtown brookyln. in the distance, i saw flashes of light. as i approached i noticed they were fireflies. blinking yellow along the green, they floated through the air appearing and disappearing out of rhythm. i hoped that someone else would observe this magic too but others walked along not aware of what they were missing out on. i stopped and stared and watched as long as i could, taking it all in.

in my hometown, i had always felt trapped and ready to escape. towards the end of high school, a friend and i would drive night after night on the same route throughout town. we’d talk about our hopes and dreams. we both wanted more from life. we thought that much more was possible than what we had grown up, experienced, and seen. we’d always drive through some back roads towards a new development. on a hillside, sitting solitary in darkness, one house stood while the space around it encompassed all that was proposed to be built. somehow, we discovered that if we park in that newly created street, on the precipice of the driveway of this lone new build, we can take a few steps out into the grass and find fireflies. those fireflies illuminated the field — all that was required was patience allowing your eyes to adjust to the darkness and letting yourself accept the marvel in front of you. the journey to those fireflies made an appearance in the short story as well, however the characters’ destination was somewhere else fictitiously constructed from my experiences. here is the passage below:

We both look out onto the road ahead of us. We approach the first of the seven hills. These hills lead into the farmland on the outskirts of our town. Cows graze on the slopes and, sometimes, if you’re lucky, you can see a horse or two close to the fence. The first three hills are the gentlest. The fourth hill is where things change. Its steep incline, the tallest of all, forces you back into your seat, the driver having to press the pedal harder to push the heavy car forward. At the top, just as your car levels out, you see the last three hills. They roll into the distance to an end point just beyond your line of sight. Your car gently rocks forward. As it descends, you pick up momentum and effortlessly climb the fifth hill. If you hit the crest of the hill with the right amount of speed and magic, you lift off the seat and the car lifts off the ground, just for a few seconds though. We always believed that it was at this zenith where the worlds of what is and what can be blended. If you wish for something while floating in the air, it’ll come true. This time, I wish to be unburdened.

the past keeps reappearing. its signals aren’t lost on me. however, its lessons are. i’m not quite sure what it all means. one thing i know for certain is that the life i’ve been living no longer feels right for me. something is missing, it’s misaligned, it’s unfulfilling. endlessly, i loop through my days. as if sleepwalking. one foot into reality and one foot out. i’ve changed quite a lot over the years, rapidly improving my health, my appearance, and myself. my friendships have expanded and shrunk. days that were robust and busy are now quiet and boring. i am restless. what a strange feeling it is to be in the midst of transformation.

i started writing years ago when i felt that i had outgrown the city i was living in, the life i was leading. i craved art or expression or a platform to put deeper thought and words into all that was swirling inside of me. what now? do i reevaluate how i use this platform and how i write about my thoughts and feelings? i had told myself months ago that i was done writing here, that i felt as if i put too much of myself out there and no longer felt inclined to let others in. but, as if pushed through the wellspring of my being, these words came to be. i cancelled plans to harness the momentum. the first hint of inspiration i’d felt in months, the art was calling to me. i had to answer despite not knowing what i’d discover on the other end.

whatever the future becomes, i hope that it allows me to feel one with myself again.