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Rocío del Pilar


The island is full of sound. I can’t even hear my thoughts. I can’t listen to no one, but the
wind. It howls. It breathes. It’s cold but sunny. It’s magical. As corny as that sounds.

Thunder storm
Lights out. Wild wind. Lightning, shadows. Howling. Voices and shadows moving
around, sounds that should not belong to this world. My heart is torn between delight
and fear. My self is torn between the shelter and the wilderness. I want to go out into
the storm, feel the rain, the wind, life. But I know I won’t. I never do.
I can lay myself down in the middle of a street just to look at the stars, but I won’t go
dance in the wild under the storm.
There are always things that one wants that are for oneself alone. Whether they are too
cliché or too private and embarrassing. Sometimes they’re just wrong.
If you should describe yourself in a word… in three, in ten, in a hundred. Could you?
Who are you? Who am I?
I have the feeling that we are never just one person, not what people think a person is
anyway. Once I read we’re just a collection of all the memories we are left with.
What am I?
Do the memories of our thoughts count? Or we are what we do? Do we live in the world
or in our heads? Are we what people think we are? Or what we think of ourselves? What
about what we want to be… but aren’t. Where do the possible versions of myself fit? I
could’ve been so many things, so many people… but I’m not. Not today, perhaps
If I had chosen differently I could’ve been… a ballerina, an astronaut, a scientist, an
athlete… would I still be me? But different. But just how much?
Sometimes I wish I could be more cynical about it all. It’s much more easy, much more
painless. And I completely hate it when everything you say or think sounds like an
angst-y tumblr post.
It’s hard to look back on my childhood. Not that I had a bad one or anything, but now,
with time, in retrospective I can see all the things I didn’t before. Dyeing it all with
mixing tones. Or rather, making it all loose it’s color, it’s brightness. It’s essence.
And what is the essence of things? Like when people say “your essence”, “you seem to
have lost your essence” or “don’t lose your essence”. What’s that all about?
What’s my essence? Why am I even thinking about this? Why now? Have I lost it?
Rocío del Pilar

I used to laugh more, that’s for sure. Cynically, I can say I was more naïve, less aware,
weaker. But actually, I feel like that’s not true, not completely, not like that.
“I used to be happy” what a fucking sad thing to say.
I used to enjoy things more, or enjoy more things. Maybe both. I used to think less. Or
was it that I thought about other things? Or in a different way? What did I think back
then? How did I think? I must have thought, right? I sure did talk a lot.
I used to smile all the time. Not like a psycho all, all the time. But way more. Not only
smile but genuinely laugh, wholeheartedly. Everything seems to have been brighter,
lighter. Perhaps less real. Almost like a dream. More intense. Or is it all just some kind
of memory idealization?
Everything was new… or was it that I had not much long term memory recall?
“Be in the moment” or “live in the moment” or whatever it is they are saying now. It’s
all the same. And it sounds so catchy, so sketchy. And I hate to admit that they’re right.
It’d all be easier if we wouldn’t feel the constant need to be thinking ahead all the time.
Take a moment, take a break. Just breathe. I sound like a shrink.

Think of a happy place.

The breeze between the leaves. The breeze between my hair. The breeze in the air. The
breeze in me. (Middle of October, 2014)

After walking through port we arrive at the beach side. We go onto the dock. After
walking through the people we get to the end of the dock. And for a few minutes we can
rest on the veranda. Minute by minute we stop talking. Looking at the horizon, feeling
the sea breeze, listening to the ocean. The buzzing of the crowd is far away by now, even
though they’re talking all around. And I see the waving of the sea, the clouds moving
and lightly changing their tone. The sound and the breeze fill me; I just am. Breathing.
(Holly Week, 2017)