Saint Lazarus

Found on Google Images

Crossing the narrow street was, to say the least, cathartic. While to the vast majority of people it would resemble a biblical character, to me it was something else. It reminded me of my own resurrected friend — could I call her a friend? — And inside me, many cells were dying and being brought to life again.

Although I’ve been frantically denying, she was calling, demanding me to enter that dark space where we constantly, and yet scarcely, met. Playing deaf was exhaustive. She kept calling through the most peculiar ways, such as a deep cut on my finger, the inquisitive stare of my own reflection in the mirror, the form the sunrays crackled through the window during a lazy weekend.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t adore the magic of our encounters. But the intensity of her presence was devastating and I needed much more time to recover myself. It was important for my sanity that I was utterly clean from her fog. I had to be protected and prepared to face her, to be a colossus huge enough to maintain us both, with our fears and limitations.

We meet at the corners of writing, where time and space are bind by phrases and paragraphs. I could intimately admire her and coldheartedly despise her, both being justified. We meet where the pages of a book are sewn together, each guarding the threads, not knowing which of us was held by it, mutually securing us, incapable of separating care from ego.

“Saint Lazarus” was the final shout, requesting to be written. There I was, repeating her words, over and over and over. There I was, unadvertised, reverberating the same lines, the same syllables, creating her, destroying her, resurrecting her, forcing her to raise from her bed and walk out of this cave, this bell jar where I convicted myself she was sheltered.

Was I the one disturbing her sleep or was I the one being constantly awaken?

She is the urge.

The force that puts me onto the paper; that does not accept silence, emptiness, waste; the inspiration that does not consider anything else; the stories who refuse to go down the drain. She is a violent caring muse and she demolishes me, piece by piece, word by word, finger by finger…

She does not allow me to shut down. I must not neglect her.

Yet I tremble by the blaring of her name. I do not pronounce it. I shriek it.

She is a ghastly apparition, a presence and I open myself up, pure, immaculate, undressed and unveiled. I’m a vessel for creation and she is a dark thing, a marvelous thing inhabiting me.

There is no more distance.

The fence has bits of flesh; we have trespassed with no regards. I am the echo of her thoughts, delayed by decades. She improves me, revealing so many mistakes, inserting herself into my patterns, provoking me, daring me to catch up to her, to those years of inertness. I am a seed, a sprout, and she is the moist soil, so avid to give life, ironically.

We rely on each other to signify. Alone, she’s dirt, covered and buried, and I’m weed, alive but unknowing what for.

“Saint Lazarus” is such a modest street, barely walked on. Such as my works have been for the past years. It was an ultimate.

I am no longer strolling down. I am crowding. I am swarming as infuriated bees, draining the nectar with which she feeds me. I won’t starve again.