The Mind Outlives the Creator
If I knew I was going to die soon, I would expel all my grief in poetry. I would release myself from the reigns of fear and tell my life story. I would unravel the mysticism of an isolated journey, and let my shadows materialize; allow them to float, fragment, and purify. Truthfully, my life has been a constant cycle of death and rebirth, a shapeshifting mess, but I contain those scars to myself. Never let them know how many knives you’ve survived. Protect their innocence. Words circling the mind of a child whose innocence already died.
Since I was a teen, I have been healing brick by brick on my own accord, and sometimes I forget how long I have been doing that for. For others, I edit my sorrow to make it palpable, digestible, but if I were to die tomorrow, what would that have been for? Would I die content never sharing my voice? Would my soul be at rest?
Sometimes I feel as though even the people who know my grief forget or don’t care to remember. And though it might be odd to want to be seen as a manifestation of grief, I don’t feel seen unless my trauma is seen alongside me. Every timeline is a pathway to who I am today. It explains why I move this way. If only they knew how much violence it took for me to become this calm.
At my life’s best, I have been fortunate enough to have a supportive family that rallies behind me. However, this modern formation was one that took transforming. I imagine the current image makes people think I have had it easy, but in all honesty, there has been more absence than believed. If I knew I was going to die soon, I would paint my true mural not the decoupage of light memories people have used to view me.
A video crossed my timeline recently of a person talking about being known by people but not being known. After processing their grievances, the darkness of such a reality burrowed deep. Around me, I pondered... who knows me? Where does their understanding stop and their imagination begin? Solitude never felt more like a knife; healing but still forgotten.
Are you proud of me now? Have I won your attention or just your eyes on me?
In my family, I have always been simply orbiting. Present but lonely. Both loved and neglected.
Chapter I: Tug of War of Life & Death.
If I knew I was going to die, I would write the eulogy for my high school self. I would give them the hug they needed and emotional protection. I would probably title it something like Dark & Stormy or the Tug of War of Life & Death. I would write them not as a victim but as a survivor worthy of acknowledgement. I would reach through the clouds as the ace of cups not the three of swords. With a handful of light, I would write the ode for the life that allowed me to survive. I would cleanse my soul before it left me. With experience, I would write poetry to uplift those who are just as damaged as me; those losing themselves to mental illness; I would write the passageway.
If I knew I was going to die, I would write my shadows into physical forms. I would write my insecurities into insects, write my depression into catacombs, write loneliness as a therapist, write intimacy as mist. For a time, recounting history would be an exorcism, not a possession. The nonchalance of upsetting others would finally find me. I seem to always grow when time limits me. Maybe my family will offer apologies. Maybe my body will no longer be a reservoir for people to take from before they leave me.
In my final days, I would fill my journals with time capsules for my sisters to make sure they make better decisions and take care of their mental health. I would leave them nuggets of wisdom to remind them I am still present just somewhere else. For the whimsical edge, I’d imagine these journal discoveries as grimoires, some kind of generational magic.
Chapter II: For Myself & Beyond.
The story that I’d write would be for myself and beyond. For myself, poetry would be like a resting ritual. I would peacefully die with the same source that saved me. Nothing would be left unsaid, so my finals days would feel weightless. I guess it would be akin to a poetic memoir.
I like to imagine if I don’t become prominent alive, I would find posthumous success. Perhaps it is somewhat self-indulgent, but I want to believe my life has meant something. Alchemy is my end goal, and I want to assist those trying to do the same. Life exists far beyond me; writing and the mind outlive the bodies that made them. There are so many people fighting quiet battles and forcing their daily steps. At my lowest, I was looking for community. Maybe I could leave behind that unity.
I am imperfect, so I would not seek to stand on a pedestal or be idealized in my creations. I would just hope I have exposed myself enough to make at least a small change in someone. I don’t want to gatekeep tools that have helped me if they have the potential to be life saving. I would hope my work translates like Yung Pueblo or Ocean Vuong.
Chapter III: Why not?
To another person, this attempt may sound futile. They may even question why I insist on trying to put in so much work with my frail body. I recognize it’s an ambitious hail mary in my final days, but I would want to shoot for the life I tried to create. If it doesn’t matter, why not try? Isn’t that all we’ve been doing anyway? Trying to find joy in the face of our mortality? So, if I knew I was going to die soon, I would still write the poetry of a survivor and an alchemist. Writing and the mind outlive their creators.