A Memoir Without Words

A Memoir without Words

Andrea Castillo

Chapter 1 – Utterance Amidst the Void

         Find a book exquisitely constructed, with the finest leather binding, and admirable, crisp pages. It should be easily obtainable, countless favorable reviews, and highly regarded. I will be near there, perhaps a few shelves lower, hidden in the back, amongst the dust; a memoir without written words. Indeed a difficult read- if one at all, but then again any book without plot could prove to be quite challenging. If you stare long enough, you might catch a glimpse of an utterance amidst the void, out of the corner of your eye, but nothing more. I am unashamed yet not deliberately willing to monopolize myself with my own immodesty.

         To adequately describe the contents of this memoir, I must first disclose that I often slide by on the mere hope that attention will be drawn to others in my attempt to remain unseen. Although, in all fairness, it is not difficult to make one’s-self invisible once social awkwardness sets in. If you pretend you are not there, others will make believe right along with you. Of course, a bit of social manipulation doesn’t hurt. As for me, I only speak when I must and give very little insight into my own opinion.

         I am intelligent, no doubt. I’m just, what you might call a realist. I suppose each man chooses his own form of insanity to live with; mine being a separation of want and need, as well as heart and head. Perhaps it’s that I’m not as senseless as those around me, or that I choose not to have to go through the ‘maturing’ era whilst others watch. You see, if I don’t make any of these mistakes out loud, it’s as if they never happened at all. I can choose the scene I play in my head, and like a white board, I can erase it, as many times as I need to before getting it how I want it. The only flaw in this problem is that I’ll never get a chance to see what would have actually happened had I chosen to do it this way. Moreover, often, by the time I work it out, it’s already too late.

         Perhaps, had I encountered myself a long time ago, I would not be like this. Now, however, I am hardly able to catch a glimpse of what’s truly underlying when I find myself looking into a reflective surface, let alone any other time. And who wouldn’t admire such a selflessness as myself? Not to mention a passionate lover, even if such trifles only exist in my mind. I suppose I have cursed myself though, not knowing what others make of me, or even what to make of myself.

***

         She’s beautiful with her eyes closed.  Whether her mouth falls open or her lips curl up a bit in that sweet sleep smile – she is loveliness, defined; A picture I wish I could take and put in my wallet for safe-keeping…  But the lighting is too dark. Her lines are too soft to capture with pencil or pen, and her shadows are too deep for paint, pastel, or clay… She’s a beauty unwritten.  A song unsung.  Perhaps one day I’ll be able to look back and know that I was to her more than just a ghost passing through.

***

         Silence is extravagance, should a person ever be able to hold their tongue long enough to learn this. They will learn though, someday when they are paying for their idiosyncrasies with the guilt that, typically and tragically, rolls off from them like water on glass. Myself though, I am a stranger to such experiences, at least on the outside. Could such things ever describe me, it still begs the question, “who am I?”

***

         I could glimpse it in every part of her.  Sometimes she wonders if I have super powers. I could see it, tensing up her playful smile.  Her lips tightened and her eyelids dropped just a tiny bit.  It was in the way she pulled at me -- how she kept herself close to me, pressed up against me.  She was teasing me, but with possession.  There was a fire dancing in the far backs of her eyes.  Tucked behind the darkness of her pupils, I could see it flickering.  Her thoughts float around outside her.  I'm sure if I tried, I could reach out slowly and grasp one to keep for myself.  She was beautiful in her jealousy.  I'm not the mind reader she thinks...  But I can't keep my eyes away from her thoughts.

***

         Who am I: a hazard to my own health, the youngest child, a preservation of things hidden deep beneath the surface perhaps? These things that are hidden deep beneath the surface are often considered untouchable, not because they are, but because no one dares to analyze themselves that in-depth. And who can blame them? We all have our secrets, whether we admit it or not. It’s a dangerous thing, these secrets. The ones that eat us up from the inside, or the ones you feel everyone knows-like standing naked inside a glass box. Remarkably enough though, this is assuming you could place yourself on the same level as me; assuming you and I are alike.

I am a warrior among no-nonsense, a coward among men. A mere smile could threaten my very existence, because it would mean emotion. I have a name; a label; a title- if you will, but it is not who I am and therefore not important. Every word uttered is considerably damaging, which is why I write. I write for myself, for my reader- for you, but no matter, you will never read it. These words that spill from my finger tips will never reach your eyes.`

         My image fades as I attempt to put into words how I look. My mother could better tell you how I look. It’s sad, actually, how little I know about myself. I know what I am not, but in my world there are endless possibilities, therefore making deductive reasoning impossible. Don’t misinterpret; I am human, that much is sure. Envision me as a stranger you pass on the street, but moments after making eye-contact you forget what they look like as you head off in the other direction.

         I’m cliché, on the inside looking out, which makes looking at myself difficult. I’d much rather be on the outside, looking in. After I perish, after my stone is gone, will I be remembered? Both you and I know the answer to that.

***

         I remember, her eyes met mine for a long moment.  I was standing there, leaning down, looking at her through the car window.  Our hands were suspended there tentatively as I reached in to give her the little bottles I'd been saving for her.  Her fingers rested on the bottom of them, as if she was unsure whether or not to take them from me.  I knew before I got there that they would make her smile, and it was like sunshine to see it slowly break through.  She spends far too much time being unhappy.

***

         I scream on the inside, where no one can hear me. I cry- no it’s only the rain sliding down my face. You feel as though you’re starting to understand? No, you can never understand. Bold statement for me to make, but it’s true. You will never understand simply because you will never read this.

***

         I can always feel her presence there with me before I'm able to force my eyes open.  Just a fraction of a second before her lips touch mine, despite (or perhaps because of) the blurry mask of sleep, I can feel her gazing at me.  Leaning in.  Smiling.  I can sense her softness.  It changes the air around me... Just a short moment -- a sliver of an instant -- a fragment of a breath -- I am filled with raw happiness, untainted by any thought.  It is unlike anything -- to be awoken by a kiss from someone so lovely.  So loved.

***

         Take a piece of paper, blank, white, and try to write, anything. I refuse to be shut in by the world around me, by what I know to be true. I don’t think this world was what any of us expected.

***

         I've told her that she has beautiful lines a thousand times, but I don't think she understands what I mean.  It's hard to explain.  She was sitting next to me on the couch eating a bowl of something she'd just made.  I watched as she ate it and talked to me about some newly realized trait of hers.  I don't think she really expects me to say anything when she talks to me.  So I usually just watch her.  The light from above the kitchen sink was behind her.  I was watching a silhouette.  She was a beautifully arched and curved silhouette.  A perfectly sculpted contour.  I wish I could have sketched her.  I wish my sketches could show the colors she ignites in my heart.

***

         Systems of thought often masquerade as intelligence, quite similar to the way lust is often mistaken for love. I live in my own thoughts in a more realistic sense of the matter, than you live in your own house. Do you really find this so shocking to believe? Is it really simpler for a person to believe that vampires exist? The mind is a fragile thing, like glass. If it is ever broken, you can attempt to glue it back together, cutting your fingers, never getting all the pieces and never quite the same as it once was.

         One thing I found I lack is the ability to accurately describe anything about myself. One would think it would be easy, but my lack of creativity makes it quite challenging. Here I sit, in my plain black chair, at my overly tidy desk, biting on my pencil. Through the drawn curtains, I can see the rain flooding the streets; its victims running in attempt to escape. They don’t know the true definition of imprisonment, though. They don’t understand the agony of being imprisoned by the mind. It gives you time to think though. Yes, definitely plenty of time to think. I often let my mind wander for hours before I’m brought back by the ringing of a telephone, or the bark of a dog.

***

         My face got all hot in an instant.  I could feel it start from my stomach and move up -- the rage.  The hurt.  I was angry with her for being happy, because I'd just finally accepted that she never would be.  It pissed me off that my biggest flaw to her was that I wasn't born a boy.  I've found that, in the beginning, women love me so much more passionately because I am a woman.  But in the end... Passion, compassion, deeper love... The blending of soft bodies... The melting of souls... The powerful understanding that comes with sharing that deeper emotional connection...  none of those things seem to outweigh a strong body to hold you.  Are we all so insecure... All so unsure of ourselves, that the promise of protection and stability win us away from equal, mutual love?  Does every girl really just want to feel taken care of?

***

         This room is so small. Plain, like myself. Nothing that makes it stand out. In fact, I believe a padded room might be more homey that this one. How long have I been writing now? Not long enough. Never is.

         I tidy it up once again, straightening the pencils, the paper, brushing the eraser pieces off from the desk.  I walk out of the office, down the hall and into the kitchen.  I don’t understand how someone can leave such a mess on such a regular basis when I don’t even see her.  Day and night, I refuse to leave this place; I refuse to be corrupted by this world, their world- out there.  Why? Because, this is what happens, things get scattered about and all is left in a mess.

         I’m not shy, I’m just simply not social. These deliberate attempts to remain hidden do not characterize me as a “lost cause” or a cry for attention; as a matter-of-fact that’s the exact opposite of what I want. I remember being a child and how I feared growing up and being like every other statistic; commonly placed among the crowd. In my world they all looked the same. Battered from the ever-growing fact that they no longer possessed the innocence I forever held in the grasps’ of my hands. As I got older, I felt the innocence slipping away from me as those same waves battered against me in my struggle against them. I feared the world winning this battle against me. Because if they won that would make me the same as everyone else; a statistic. The thought engulfed me as I tried to push myself as far away from “typical” as I could.

         Much of this occurred in high school. I recall the day it started; easily memorable, because every day after merely mimicked the first. I arrived out front of the school and walked up the steps. At the top of the steps, I stopped, looked up, and closed my eyes for a moment before walking in. I felt so out of place, as usual, like a piece of a puzzle that’s being forced into the wrong spot.

I went into the auditorium and sat where they told me, not making a sound. As I looked around I saw everyone looking and waiting for his or her friends and people they knew, but I knew no one. Not that I was complaining.I felt the cold wood against my back and everyone’s eyes on me, intimidating and paralyzing me. Not a person in the school knew me, and for a day, I was invisible; being pushed in the hall and placed and labeled as just another person taking up space in the set of pupils, typically classified by who they think we are.

         My silence was the only sound that filled my ears that day. Solitude can have so many meanings, but never have I felt the isolation and seclusion that I felt that day. I was lost in thoughts; lost in reality; lost in life itself. Then the bell rang, snapping me out of my coma. I proceeded across the tiled floor as though it were a chessboard, strategically thinking about how every move can affect me.

***

         All at once, I see it coming.  Her eyes close slightly as she glances down at my lips.  Her lips curl up slightly and she bites the bottom one.  In that moment, I witness a flash of something in her eyes that I've never seen in anyone's.  It is separate from everything else about her -- I cannot read it.  I cannot interpret it.  It is alluring.  Seductive. And I am certain that even if my life was ending, in that second, I would be powerless against her.  I would share my last breath with her in exchange for her lips against mine.

***

         Night is beautiful. Night is blind to the colors of the sky. It’s always just black. Simple. The crisp, cool wind slides in silently through the cracked window at night and blankets me in its essence. My dreams are made up similar to that of the night sky; just black and simple. It’s not the dreams, or lack of, that really matter though-- it’s the moments between sleep and wake. These are the truly satisfying moments in my opinion. At times, I lie away in bed and stare at the ceiling. No particular reason really, it just feels right.

I think about you, you know. Not you specifically, of course. Just someone there--out there. It’s difficult to explain, more difficult to understand, I suppose. Words never satisfy the heart, do they? I try to keep everything bottled up inside, but the bottle is finite; it has its limits. Occasionally it leaks, all over my work and ruins it. I’m waiting for the day I drown in my own blood and tears that spill from it. I know I claimed to have no emotions--I lied.

***

         I heard of the things she's been doing lately.  It really hurt, and I don't know why.  I think it made me realize that "getting to know" people is a bad idea.  People change every day.  They don't even know who they are, so how can you assume you do?  When something happens to make you notice even the tiniest of changes, you feel let down.  It's like a tiny piece of you dies.  Either way, she used to be this sweet girl, against everything I was starting to stand for.  I guess she got fed up.  It's hard to be good, and I think, after a while you forget why you were trying so hard in the first place.  It makes you kind of just want to say, "Fuck it," and do everything.  That's what I did.  I think that must have been what she did.  But it was still odd to hear.  Still painful to know that I had to alter the well-kempt image of her in my head.  It still hurt.  But I'm still not sure why.

***

         In my head, I have everything I want. I have got everything figured out. Nevertheless, I’ve come to the conclusion that whoever invented the English language conveniently forgot to add all the words that I need to convey these things to you. I’m starving for these things that go unsaid. I feel as though I’ve been buried underneath the weight of this frustration, suffocating.

The pencil always leaves a dry taste in my mouth. I think it often touches my lips more so than it touches the page itself. Yea, I’m daydreaming about her. It doesn’t matter though, because it’s only a dream and nothing more-- never is. I look at my watch, another lost hour.

 

Chapter 2 - A Paragraph at a Time

         Can we feed on words? Can we survive on words alone? Live, eat, and breath nothing but words. How long would we last…? And would we die from hunger or pain. I myself would starve, much as I am right now. Starved from the lack of words, choking on my own tongue, and like a thirst I cannot quench do I long for the words, these things unsaid.

***

         I wish I had a million pictures of her.  I'd draw them all.  I'd trace the lines with my eyes and my hand would move... I would look down and see her there -- an outline of my passion.  I would marvel at her simple beauty.  And then I would begin to add depth.  I would capture the light on her face in a million possible ways.  I'd have every emotion, every angle documented.  I'd do all I could to memorize her loveliness before I lose it -- because I know I will lose it.  That's the sheer truth of the matter.  She is mine for now.  But not all mine.  And "now" is fading in every instant.

***

         My head ached and throbbed. I rubbed my temples with my fingers as though it would help. They came often, the headaches, as a product of my anxiety I suppose. It was a physical pain, something untouchable, but there. The other kind of pain though, that runs deep, it’s a monster, one that must be fed in order to survive and we naively bow to its every command.

         The rose droops and as I go to lift its limp, lifeless head, the entire entity of it falls to ashes at my touch. I glance over at the clock, after sensing it, hearing it, feeling it spin faster and faster, and it stopped dead in its tracks. The world is not aware of my presence, and many times, nor am I of its presence. I swim in an affiliation of unsubstantial substances that hold me afloat while I figure out where my mind is taking me. I reassure myself that I’m not hiding from the world, merely waiting for it to find me.

***

         How can I see you and smile and know in my heart that you are mine, before shifting my gaze to the floor. Oh sweet, sweet floor; tiles so neatly aligned- I ask of you, plead to you, nay-beg of you to carry me away from this entrapment.

 

Chapter 3- Realization led to fear

         Panic arises, fear sets in, lies melt the walls; terrified of what would happen next. Foundation turns to sand and the truth of these lies filter through my hand as though it is the only real thing left in this world. My mind, a world built by one man, will not last for long. The governing of it is poorly constructed perhaps even, worse yet, non-existent.

         At the moment, the thoughts that consume my mind so distract from everyday tasks, that I would be the most joyous of writers if I could just bring myself to leave the oh-so safe confines of my home. Shortly after returning from a world of dreamless slumber, I’m sure you could imagine my disappointment after the realization of the fact that a writer; a creative, thoughtful, artistic, writer, is without a dream or prayer. I suppose it shields me from all the harm that the fear of the dream world could set into place. This is it; this is my life; dull, tasteless. The illusion that one day my senses will do me good quickly dissolves as the numb feeling sets the stage for an empty desire to do anything.

There is nothing more tantalizing than a blank, white, sheet of paper; nothing more daring than the thought of it covering your body in a cold drape, sending your mind into a state of panic. Even now you are drawn to the thought of nothing, because nothing is what you have on that paper—what I have. You remember it don’t you? How that emptiness drained you so many times before… How you wish someone would start it for you as you sit in suspended animation, pen in hand.

         Imagery is the one thing that keeps us going, keeps the pen moving in the forward direction and yet fear is what blocks it from moving farther, or even erases all of the beautiful work that was already done. The pen should dance across the page, not tip toe as mine often does, thus making me the retched writer that I am. A book, a novel, should be like the perfect woman… Untarnished and bare as the suppressed rust falls off with disregard. Void filling the aura. Shame has no place here. Now lying; caressing; loving the obscenity of it all she taunts me. No eyes are needed to feel the reality of it. Unashamed yet not monopolized by the immodesty-- she is bare yet not naked. Eyes fall on her as a human, and the sweetness of which trickles like honey suckle over her, suppressing any fear. It doesn’t need to make sense, just feel good—feel right. And time? Well what of it? Let it roll off my naked body, slowly… Slip through my hands as I wait, as I recall, as I write. Yesterday and tomorrow—does today no longer exist? If so, it trickles, yes time, too slow. My body still wet from yesterday when already tomorrow is here. Why? Because today only exists in yesterdays and tomorrows, while it aches for our attention. Still time is not respected, bought, borrowed, rented and stolen, but not respected. So what place does time have in our lives, we merely push it aside in any case.

I have to set the pen down before these things that spill from the tip, ruin everything, but the page begs me to continue to write. I can feel this strength leaving my body, draining what I had left. Whirl wind inside of my head and ink bleeding into my skin as my actions write the words. I just wish I knew how it ends so that I can start to live, even if I am only survived by my words in the end.

***

         I stared at my ceiling. It was blank. Inviting. I looked, and I saw her there, her figure almost too vivid... too clear. I closed my eyes, and saw her there. An urge to get her out washed over me, like it would make her closer to me. And idea sparked in the back of my mind -- a little light.

         Fifteen minutes later I was at the store standing in the check out line with my arms full of black and red tubes of paint. I laid them on the counter in front of the cashier and paid her when I was prompted. I didn't bother to count how many I'd gotten, or to even pay attention to how much it cost. Why do people bother to keep track of such mundane things?

I know how much she hates herself in warm colors... But I know better. They will make her move. Make the rain around her seem warm and thick, like it was that night. Cool tones could never capture the warmth of her lips. Could never tell the story of how her skin gently burns me. No other color could be used for her long wet hair but black. I stand here now, in front of my white wall. I'm a mess. She makes me a mess. But I love it. I dip my fingers into the paint.

***

         I have never understood one’s need for disorder. I, myself, loath the thought of such. I have no need for trinkets, nor for useless paraphernalia, and all of my belongings are neatly aligned and organized. My shirts are ironed three times, placed on a plastic padded hanger with the hook facing to the left shoulder, and then hung from light to dark in my closet. Pajamas are neatly folded and placed in the second drawer. My socks are placed together then folded in half in the top drawer along with my underwear. There are very few things that we have control over, but for what little difference it makes we should attempt to keep order wherever possible.

 

Chapter 4—Dead Zone

         Many have told my mind is a magnificent entity by itself, of which many are envious, but to me it is no more than a dead zone honing things that are better left forgotten or released. Energies unexplained and emotions high as that which was one an exquisite escape has become a foggy entrapment from which I will never find myself freed.

Worse yet than the people who live for the darkness, the night and masking fear with blight distinguished high above the thrown on which they claimed to have once sat. Their eyes remain unaccustomed to looking beyond the mirrors used to enhance every blemish. These men hide in the blanket of darkness they call home; willing to lie for no reason other than fear, yet give one man a mask and he will tell you every private mystery he has ever chained. I am worse-yet.

***

***

         I stared at the ceiling waiting for all of my mistakes to cave in on me; for something to happen, but nothing ever does. The mirror fell, the glass shattered, all the pieces of my heart scattered, and, once again, nothing else mattered. I blinked away the tears of the mind, the sorrow of the wings that never took flight, and the despondency that pesters me at want and will.

The invisible strings fixed to each limb are certain of the way, in which to shift about my seemingly lifeless body, while my mind wanders freely in and out of consciousness, unaware of the movements of the puppet master. The makeup that makes up the mask, beneath which I hide, has begun to fall apart, and rot from the inside. The flakes of paint leave behind a faint trail, but the story won’t be told, as they are the recollection of a forgotten tale.



***

***

         Even now I stand as tall as I can on the edge of my four-legged wooden chair, I’m scared that as I fall off from it not even the noose around my neck will successfully save me from falling into an oblivion for the rest of eternity.  I once was an intelligent individual able to dive down into the depths of my mind and pull from it any information I needed or wanted to recall, but now it is a maze with a series of walls and obstacles standing between both me and my way out and me and the information I seek in the center of it, I’ve lost it.

Little by little I piece things back together.  I want to see the things that beg for my attention, just on the other side of this prison, this prism, a perfect prism by nature, cut so as the light shines in, but the waves continue to bounce from one angle to another, unable to get out.  I just want out of limbo, but I’m scared this has become my reality.

***

***

         

 

         Chapter 5—Back to Something

         About the time I could get up the courage to leave my bedroom, the first stop was the bathroom.  The headaches still throbbed with no end in sight, but I had a quick ‘cure’ or three I could pop like pez candies, to lessen the pain to a secure dull.  I was used to choking down the Vicodin and Xanax about mid-afternoon.  I washed away the uneasiness and left.

I keep writing, but I have no story line.  Just a block in my mind, a black silhouette, and behind it, all the words I crave.  She has not face, none, at least, that I care to recall.  Nevertheless, she was once my muse and now nothing more than my broken pencil lying in splinters somewhere forgotten under a desk.

***

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