Letters that cure

Enormous yellow, green and red rings intertwined in the entrance of the university, tens of people walking with different tones of skin colors, bushes better trimmed than an aristocrat's beard and red walls that holded a real fortress of wisdom and knowledge. Jimmy had an intense morning of a road trip from his friend’s house to his new home, where studies and shelter are side by side.

Guided by the bright sun, he walked towards his new roommates. It was a lovely tour through the campus and his accommodations. Jimmy documented the minimum details of the flower-encrusted drinking fountains and even how the sports fields were the size of the old small town campus. In just a few hours his group of friends was aware of all the geography able to be seen on the first day.

The days went on, they occurred so quickly that Jimmy even felt the need to ask his scientist colleagues if the earth was spinning faster. It was a possibility acquired with charisma and networking, sitting at different tables, walking during unusual times to locations where poets wouldn’t go. That’s how people who attended creative writing classes were known as. But Jimmy was not limited to poems, if the subject was involved with creativity, his motto was never to surrender to the mediocrity of ignorance, to close himself off to the new and the unknown, to be like…

There was something missing, he knew that. It was deep down, whispering to him, every new conquest and idea, every new content added to his gallery of experiences, all of these things caused an itch in his soul that could disturb him without him knowing exactly why. But it was time to change; it was the time to write a poem to his parents, using his most powerful tool in his favor: the written words.

With paper and pen, Jimmy sat on a chair and leaned on the desk. It had to be sincere, he had to throw away all the wright blocking his life progress.

Wandering over the immensity of my being, I could notice hundreds of times how knowledge is a blessing, humanly designed to imply curses with itself.

In fields full of uncertainty and absolute inertia regarding the course of the world, I see myself as a wanderer, lost, without direction, but walking, because without walking you don't get lost, you simply die.

And I don’t want to die, I want to live and see the seas with no water, the deserts that have never seen sand, or the gods that have never performed a miracle.

Not that I’m different or better, I am what I am, you are what you are.

But it was not always that I have been like this.

And so it was not you.

Believe me when I confess what I’ve been feeling and examine yourself.

You will find the missing pieces on the board, the face that completes the puzzle.

I am the puzzle, you are the pieces.

Let’s go back to the time when the clock did not run.

When our music played on the radio and then on the phone for us to dance like crazy, while dreaming like lucid.

When the cartoons on TV were distractions for our laughter and the jokes that accompanied them were worthy of a show.

What about when I showed you my beloved darlings?

One day I would be one doing that, who could imagine?

You could have, but you decided to enter the cave, watch the show orchestrated by the shadows.

I can not comprehend in the intimacy of my being how can a man choose to close his mind to the unknown and relieve the same events every day.

But you do, so answer me.

Because there are no books teaching me how to deal with this.

They can show me how to write, show me how to speak, show me how to think and live like a philosopher even though I’m no more than a countryside student.

But here is the problem: they only talk to me.

I talk to you, but will you hear?

I am no Plato, nor Aristotle. I have no major degrees or great speeches for you to hear and get emotional. I am simply a curious boy, learning day after day how to become a man.

And with ‘man’ I mean that I aim with all my heart to be THE MAN.

The one who creates universes and spreads life

That one who is not afraid of the world for he is here to face it.

You are a man, she is a woman. You both are progenitors, creators of life.

Sow it.

Only giving birth is a small fraction.

Being born again at the new dawns that present before ourselves is a gift that requires effort and needs to be appreciated. It’s the process of growing when you are already high.

Do I have the property to say all of this?

Some might say no, and they are correct.

I say yer, and I’m not wrong.

I lived, not much but I lived, so I bring with me the certainty I know it is to be someone, to have an identity.

Cry, it’s good for the soul.

Just don’t give up on being a new man, I know you can.

You proved your capability of doing it once, do it twice.

I say goodbye, remembering that Jesus still had the marks of nails in his hands.

Miracles happen, but the scars continue.

Let’s move on to the next round, where the scars are mere memories and what is being built is the castle of love in which each brick is a part of ourselves and it fits correctly.

Jimmy finished in tears his letter in kind of allegorical words. It was not bad, but it was not how he wanted to express himself. He wanted to say things face to face, having the pleasure to see their reaction, their understanding. The boy sent it the same way, hoping it would have some effect, any good enlightenment over those hard heads. A few days passed but nothing happened, one week later and the classes were heavy and his concentration was missing.

But on an unpretentious Monday, when the sky was blue and the grayish intended to penetrate its defenses, there it was; a letter, signed by his mom and dad.