Anisoptera

They say that every poet has a death wish. That art feeds better from misery…That you are not a true romantic unless you kill yourself.
​“Where can I find ( )?” “At the end of the hallway, to your right. Bed 24.” There I was once again, dragging myself down the third floor of the same old excuse for a hospital. The strong smell of chlorine mixed with the one of bodily fluids made me sick. You’d think I would be used to it by now, you know, being both my parents doctors there and having slept there myself at least fifty times. I’d think so too. Well, I wasn’t.
​I try to remember how many times I’ve visited him. How many times has he been in and out. How many times I’ve ran after him, looked for him around the city. How many stitches I’ve removed… I think the first time I met him I was twelve. That day the papers could have had headlines like: “Little girl with butterfly heart meets a broken soul.” But papers don’t care about romanticism or poetry or suicidal thoughts. Truth is I fell in love with my best friend. Fell in love with his poetry and his art, and those green eyes that always looked so sad.
​And truth is I had lost count, but somehow, two years later I was there again, staring at the once white floor, trying to find excuses to not go in there. Dr. Iglesias had stopped me to say hi and ask about my father’s trip. Still looking at the floor I blabber something and give him a smile. I think I don’t want to know after all, what the hell is it that stained the floor.
​The library is two blocks away from my house. I’m always there, and he is always there too. I read. He writes. We say hi to each other sometimes. We exchange looks and smiles and nods. Every week he sits a little closer. “What are you reading?”, he asks. “What are you writing?”, I respond. It turns out this green-eyed creature is a poet. He is also six feet tall and six years older than me. “No one reads anymore” he says, and he’s right. The library is empty. It’s one of the reasons I’m always there. I was too young then, but later I discovered that in Cuba no one writes anymore either.
​I was twelve years old when I met him. And I was twelve years old when I put my books down and picked up a pen. Sadly, the pen didn’t really do it for me. After all, I still had a butterfly heart, and I needed something more dramatic than a simple pen if I was to write anything that mattered. I needed a typewriter. And so, I found one, in the scary room we used for storage. It looked like a regular white-yellow-stained suitcase, but it guarded my so much desired treasure inside.
​I filled at least ten pages the first time I sat in front of it. I felt so important, drinking black coffee and typing nonsenses. And that’s all I wrote: nonsense. What does a twelve year old knows about life? What about love, or pain, or death or even happiness? All my twelve-year-old self knew was someone else’s stories. My words weren’t mine, but other’s. My worlds and characters had already been used and abused by Becquer and Borges and Edith M Hull. What can a twelve-year-old say that could have some weight…?
​Have you ever really loved a pet and then one day you wake up and it escaped? That was me that morning. Except that it wasn’t a pet, but a six-foot-tall poet, and my only friend; except that he tried to escape in the most literal sense you can think of; except, I never thought I’d be happy to see him fail. You are supposed to want to see the person you love succeed in everything they want to achieve. Unless…Anyways. I had lost him, and I didn’t know of any of this until two weeks later when I walked into the library and there he was. Tall and beautiful and…what was that on his wrist? Bandages? Why…? Was he ok? “Are you ok?” “Hi pequeña. Yes, I’m ok. Come, sit with me. I’ve missed you.” That day he picked up a book. I picked up a pen. I don’t remember exactly when I started to enjoy black coffee. All I know is that when I did, it wasn’t just because really interesting, artistic “grownups” drink it too, but because I, myself started to find pleasure in the bitterness of the liquid. I confined the typewriter to its yellowish suitcase prison and never opened it again.
​The library wasn’t the place to find me anymore. The aroma of old books was overwritten by the piercing smell of alcohol. My mother gave me a strange look when I asked her to teach me how to take a person’s blood pressure and how to give injections and use tweezers. But I was such a strange kid… Why should any of that surprise her?
​After that I started writing more seriously. I wrote free verses about thorns that made roses bleed, and yellow nightmares that vomited screams. I wrote short stories about lonely minotaurs roaming never-ending labyrinths. I wrote useless sentences and random words. And then I wrote some more, until the pen ran out of ink, and I had to pour my own heart into the paper in order to make some sense. Then I saw it. All the butterflies were gone. Dead. All that was left behind was a nest of dragonflies.
​I visited him at the hospital. I always brought a new piece or some lingering words from an idea that needed to be cultivated. I only shared my writing with him. Maybe because he was responsible for it. Because it wouldn’t exist without him. Or maybe it would, but it’d be so different that it wouldn’t be really mine, but of some other version of me. So many times he has called me selfish. “Art is meant to be shared.” He says “Bad, mediocre, good, excellent, genius. It doesn’t matter. It’s art and it shouldn’t be kept to one self.” His logic is that you never know how it could impact someone’s life. How it could give someone hope, or make someone happy… I know he’s right. I’m the living proof of his philosophy. Yet how can I put myself out there like that? Put us? I write for him, and my writing is him! If I share it with someone else, it stops being ours. It becomes that person’s property and he can make out of it whatever he wants. It feels like some sort of affront. How dare you read my words? Don’t you see that’s my heart, right there, in your hands? Don’t you see it’s not just words, but blood and tears and dreams and smiles? No! It doesn’t mean anything! The walls are blue because they are blue, not because I want to make you sad. Stop reading into it. Stop reading. Just stop.
​Am I selfish…? I understand that every writer has sacrificed their stories to me. Every painter their art. It’s not theirs anymore. It’s mine and I will adjust the words and the colors to my own life and I will make out something out of them that means something to me, even if that’s not what they were feeling when they created it. They surrender their work and it’s mine now. I don’t want that for me. I want my words to remain mine. Mine and his. So… So what if I’m selfish? So what if I’m scared…?
​Dr, Iglesias’ voice sounded so distant. This strange man was standing in front of me. He looked exhausted and old, and talked slowly in a deep base voice. Bed 24. At the end of the hallway, to my right. The smell of chlorine bombarding my nose. The disgusting walls, the fluids-stained floor. I’ve lost count how many times I’ve lost him. How many times I’ve found joy in his failure. Failure means a couple weeks in bed, success means never seeing him again.
​I mutter an excuse to Dr. Iglesias. Who cares if there’s no valves for the oxygen tanks. Who cares if the Cuban government is a dictatorship. I’m fifteen years old, Dr., and my best friend, my only friend!, is a few feet away waiting for me. Excuse me. Everyone out of my way! The end of the hallway. Now to my right. Bed 24.
​He looks so small…tucked under the badly washed sheets, sleeping. Both his arms held by belts to his sides. The white bandages around his wrists make me wonder if the sheets used to be that same color before they turned this faded mustard. I’m just standing there next to him, holding the folder of the tragedy that is my art. My art. Mine.
​That was the last time I saw him. He was the oldest twenty years old I have met in my life. He had lived too much, too fast. Or that’s what I like to tell myself. Maybe he was just a coward. I didn’t go to his funeral. I loved him too much to say goodbye. (Does that make me a coward too?) My writing died with him. I put my pen down and kept the coffee. I also kept the question: Am I selfish? Or am I scared? Is it even my decision? Or does my writing stop being mine from the moment the first drop of ink runs through the paper?
​It turns out, dragonflies are not so bad.

Reviews

[emmajoy]

' After that I started writing more seriously. I wrote free verses about thorns that made roses bleed, and yellow nightmares that vomited screams. I wrote short stories about lonely minotaurs roaming never-ending labyrinths. I wrote useless sentences and random words. And then I wrote some more, until the pen ran out of ink, and I had to pour my own heart into the paper in order to make some sense. Then I saw it. All the butterflies were gone. Dead. All that was left behind was a nest of dragonflies. '

You need and must be read.. your thoughts are intriguing, fascinating and subtly academic.

The enormous block of language you set before readers is just a little scary, one needs courage and patience to take a breath then dive into the depth of such an unusual blanket of writing.

But I did and do feel Immensely satisfied now. Whilst your words don't invite one to a party.. it gives a feeling of having strayed into another mind, another world.

Can but leave sparkling applause!

[Kaede16]

This review seems almost like a piece itself. Your way of writing is sort of magical. Makes me happy at least. Thank you for your review

[SweetNutmeg]

I can't really say I enjoyed this, but I very much appreciate the skill and passion you put into it. I'm glad you decided to share your words. They really moved me. Thank you.

[Kaede16]

I appreciate your opinion. Constructive criticism is part of what make us grow. Thank you :)

[SweetNutmeg]

Hmm, I think I didn't express myself well. I don't enjoy beautiful people dying, so enjoyment doesn't seem like the correct word for this piece. But I was deeply moved, felt sympathy and especially appreciated the passion I could feel and the skill with which you told your story. So, in that specific way I did enjoy it, despite the tragic subject matter.

[Kaede16]

Oh, I'm sorry about the misunderstanding. I agree. It was very hard for me to write this piece but I feel it help me get some sort of closure. Thank you for your review

[Chris]

Some stories draws a reader closer, some push the reader away. Some even come with their own intent. Maybe this one was about Dragonflies after all ...but I doubt that.