Painting the Sky -- what would have been the beginning...

The estimations of life are far greater than one ever expects them to be. Babies are born every three seconds, and people die every thirty seconds. It’s a very big variation, really, on how many children are born into the lines of destiny. Sometimes it even freaks me out on the debate of coincidences and the road of destiny itself. Scholars mock Astrology, and even Religion disowns all who use divination as the means to unravel the future. But I don’t pay mind to it, whether you want to or don’t want to see your death. It ruins the purpose of free will, and it ruins the surprises that lead to one’s destiny. But I’d rather not get into that. I wouldn’t look at it easily. In fact, if I was asked in what I believed in, I would just turn my back. It is most certainly obvious that I would be judged.1

Wearing hand-me-downs wasn’t how I was raised. Receiving gifts for every Christmas wasn’t for me either. But I watched from the sidelines. I see people get hurt, I see people be happy, I see people grin over a job well done, and I see people fall in love. Never in my whole life have I ever achieved the art of living. Like one of my friends says, there is a difference between living and having a life. One of my favorites: there is a difference between existing and living. Yet, I have hovered, like always, over that idea. Who am I to speak when nothing can be said on my part? Who am I to be the center of attention when I turn and shut up afterwards?2

Yes, I am an introvert, calm almost always, sweet to the attitude, and always observing. Empathy is one of my hidden gifts, and so being it that way, I can imagine myself in a person’s shoes just to feed my curiosity of the world. But it doesn’t work like that. I am merely wondering, not knowing. Besides, I’d rather not know. It’s like crossing a closed and locked front door without knocking first. And to say the truth, I have had friends, I have spoken out to this ever-changing world. I have put myself in the spot light for two seconds, and blushed over it just as soon as it was over.3

On occasion, I would obviously state the condition of the school I once belonged to. It was separated in a few sections by colors. And although the school was rather old and expanding itself for the millions of freshmen that had either failed or were coming in from finished eighth grade years in middle school, everyone seemed to think that high school sucked. I would have said the same thing, but as I observe I have noticed it differently. Isn’t it the people inside the school that give said school their reputation? Is it not the people that suck and not the school? Honestly, I could give the names of the many that dropped out before my senior year had even started. I could even give the names of the few that had graduated early. Some were my friends, to be honest.4

I miss them, of that all recent graduates should know. Everyone separated, all college applications and university mail sent over with transcripts and teacher recommendations in check. The world went from many elementary schools, to lesser middle schools, to less high schools, to varying colleges, and not enough nearby Universities. Or rather, there were enough nearby Universities. I just procrastinated in the issue of College and University checking, and hence didn’t make it through at all. It was most astonishing to find that I had accomplished my self-made prophecy: to be left behind.5

Part of a creative group of unwanted people, I melted into the open spot that they offered me. I revolved around the louder bunches of the group. I smiled when I was supposed to. I felt happy and met my most intense crush, and messed it up just as soon. An opening of my lips, a quick scribble of mindless-babble but heart-filled words, and I scared him away. The clouds of hopelessness settled in. I wanted to be a loner. I felt like a loser. I closed my mouth. I stopped speaking for the sake of not messing anything up. My parents were glad. My teachers were gleeful with no hands raising to answer a question except for the very advanced learners that split themselves away from the rest of the student body (which made the whole school staff bounce with the idea of special diplomas). However, my friends were split in between solemn pity, strong friendship, and offered help over me. And although they made me smile and laugh throughout most of the time… I felt like I was being dragged by time.6

Behaving more and more like an older woman that cared no more for living, I started to lack a life. I yearned for more reading and studying time at my school’s library. I tackled the tales of the books, most were about adventure and little love problems. My heart stung with loneliness, and I felt that it was of no use to get with anyone. No one would like me. I would be received with the same teasing smile if I were to open my mouth and speak to another boy. In fact, I would be a laughingstock. Words always seem to sound better in my mind, but my mouth always screws up when it opens up for the strung words to crawl out in the open. And so it was that I closed up from the world, not caring to meet any new friends and still trying to obtain a higher place among my classmates.7

My grades were of the normal quality. They were not too up high, and not too down low. I passed my classes, listened to my teachers, nearly passed all of the tests and quizzes, and tried to look for my sanctuary. Senior year was full of it. The art classroom would be where I would be all the time, creating with the new digital air brushing, and messing with other media. My parents made a big deal of it. I could paint! They would be charmed to get me started on painting for them to get money. You can paint! No. You can paint something like the Virgen de Guadalupe’s portrait. No, never. You can repaint anything! No, you don’t even understand.8

The same was spoken over my earlier poems, which were the outlets of my feelings over being picked on as a child and then as an older teen. They didn’t understand. Yet, my parents proclaimed that they did. Then again, perhaps we were too different. They had suffered in a more outside-to-self way. I had suffered as a more self-to-self way. Why was I so big? Why wasn’t I skinnier? Mom blamed it on the school food. I was too young to even know. Yet, I live in a whole different world.9

The trees shingle to my hums and singing. The sun shines over the meadow. The wind blows into my ear and makes me feel better. My tears fall, but they are lifted by the feeling of having the world as my companion. Who was God? I hoped that he was watching over me, and I hoped that the saints were taking care of my life. But time and time again, I would ask, Why, God? Why am I here? I suffered from doing anything wrong. I suffered from being below my classmates. I suffered from not believing in myself. I suffered from a self-esteem that had been beaten to the floor. I suffered thanks to my only Grandmother’s death.10

I grieved, and I missed her more than anything. She always invited me over to her house whenever I felt like I didn’t belong at home. I hugged her and on unfair occasions, I would cry for her. She promised me small hand-made gifts for each time that I made good grades in elementary school. I felt like I was prized above everything. Then she moved to her native home. I missed her more. That meant that I couldn’t visit and leave my house every Friday. It meant that I couldn’t sleep in and wake up early to see her making tamales. It meant that I couldn’t hug her skirts anymore for any of the nightmares that I had woken from, all teary-eyed and afraid. But I was resolutely waiting for visiting her. But then things were never the same the night that her heart stopped. She had died asleep, and someone had called just when I was about to fall asleep.11

It has been over five years ago, and I can’t stop thinking about how much I missed her. Then again, I’ve learned to leave her memory alone. Mom told me about how Grandma was really like, and it made me cry. It made me wonder why people use masks to cover their real feelings. It made me wonder why Grandma had favored me above my other siblings. But even as I was favored and adorned with dresses and bows… life wore on. I cried at the larger feeling of loneliness that she had brought upon me. It hurt too much to even bear. My grades fell. I had no friends when she died. I barely even remember that year. I can only remember falling asleep with tears in my eyes.12

Yet, years after that, I read and read through books. Books, which I had never even bothered to read, had become my passion. And whenever I had money, I bought more. I read love stories, stories of recovery, stories of self-justice, and stories of historical events. Some made me happy, some made me cry, and some made me wonder why the world was such a horrible place. Then again, I feel as if I’ve never opened my eyes. There is still all too much to see. The lines in my hands tell me that there must be more to my life, but I don’t know what they mean yet. I don’t care to know.13

And since I was late for what my friends did their assigned junior year…I followed my parents’ needs. It wasn’t what I wanted, and it still isn’t. I still share a room with my sister, and I still live governed by my family. My Mom doesn’t want me to leave her. My Dad could care less if I died. My siblings are learning from my own mistakes. And I feel as left behind as I ever will be.14

So…where am I now? I am studying for a subject that I’m good at but not necessarily quite fond of. I am putting my dreams aside to make it through. The world outside of my parents’ car window is rainy and dark, my heart is heavy, my mind is scattered, and we are in a recession that has turned into a dead-end-road to many. And sometimes I wish, and sometimes I hope that I will change the way I am to fix the situation I’m in. I want to be someone. I want to be acknowledged. I want to observe and write what I am observing. I want to release the anger and the penetrating annoyance that I have towards the world.15

I want to speak.16

And so my story begins, in a world where not everything is possible, in the land of Immigrants where freedom supposedly exists, and where discrimination overrules the boundaries that people want to cross. The sad issue: none of my paints have been bought and I have no canvases to work with. And so I am left with the only item of storytelling: a very old two-hour-handling laptop. I can only hope that things can change. I can only hope that things will this time around.17