Condition

Things should have been. But they are this way instead. They were talking about the past and how great things were and how they wheedled from one occurrence to another. This brought them joy and severe sadness. But they did this still because maybe, they hoped, in talking about the past, the present wouldn't seem so unforgiving. Sometimes, knowing that this is how it is isn't enough. And now, what I want. To feel the wind behind my eyes and in my chest and in the inside of my bones. How do I say this? I want you to know. Sometimes, things are too great so that they become overwhelming.

Stay with me.

Once, Dad beat me. I was young and he must have felt terrible. But there is something to this, an understanding. I said, Who do you think you are? I said, Who are you, Carl Jimenez? I don't know why I said these things. But the look in his eyes. There was fear. He hated me for asking the questions he must have asked himself everyday. Who are you? How I cried. And then I couldn't even cry. The sound of his belt against my body. Over and over again. Until he collapsed. I don't know why I'm telling you this now. But I do know that it matters.

Soon enough, they ran out of things to talk about because the past is finite. They'd talked about everything they'd shared.

And the only thing left to do was to go on and live.