In 2009, one year after graduation, a minor existencial crisis knocked me out. Not a lot of people noticed it, not even me. I wrote a ‘short’ story, which is mainly told through monologues, about a 23-year-old girl dealing with her past (Mexico) and her then-current world (Canada). I wish I could say it’s merely fictional, but I was 23 at the time. Sarcasm, exaggeration, and fiction are still important elements, however.
Now, in 2013, some things are still the same so that’s why I’ve decided to share this piece of writing.
The content could offend some people. This is not my brain’s intention. I just need to share information that after being released will hopefully help me feel relieved, and most importantly alive. If anybody reads this, I hope something will make sense.
This is a story about love. This is a story about poverty. This is a story about my love for poverty.
I’ve never fallen in love with someone who is like me. I’ve never found the male version of myself, if there is one. This means that I’ve always ‘loved’ guys who are the opposite of me, and when I was younger, the more they needed me the more I wanted to be with them.
Before I go through my love tales, and poverty tales, I need to say to myself that this is merely an attempt at fiction. It is a poor attempt since the stories are not fictitious, yet many of the thoughts become fiction once they are printed on paper. Besides, despite my young age, my memory cannot be trusted. One reason could be that my thoughts are too scattered due to my existential crisis and unstable life. Another reason could be that my loyalty to the written word and my failure in the publishing industry have turned my daily experiences into rough drafts of book’s chapters.
One of the main things that bother me about the print world nowadays is that anybody can write about anything. Suddenly, we’ve all become experts and connoisseurs. Sometimes you just need a degree or diploma to know what a country needs to resolve its century-long problem. Other times, you just need to visit a village in “Neverland” to know the hardships people go through.
Growing up in Mexico, futbol (or soccer) was one of the main reasons to do nothing. The following memory is probably a cliche or a commonsensical argument, yet it is still my memory. You know, sometimes the line between memories and traditional beliefs is not that obvious.
My memory is that guys who were watching futbol would always scream at the T.V. and give directions, or orders to the players and coach. Kick it! Run! Move to the left! Idiot, why you didn’t pass the ball?! (This is my translated PG version). They know the players better than their own families, and they know how to coach a team more than the actual coach. Yet, many of them can barely kick a ball.
I already lost track of what I was going to say, like always. My passion for communication and expression has always been harmed by my associative mind and fixation with links, connections, and rants.
The point was to show that I believe that for someone to write about something, they need to experience it first. This is one of the few things I’ve discovered in my short, almost nonexistent, journalism career. Who am I to become an international journalist and report about other people’s lives?
While in university, I dreamed of traveling the world to witness people’s live (preferably in the developing world) and share their stories in the developed world. I strongly believed that I could be the messenger and that my audience was going to discover this new world through me and finally care about other people’s lives. The story will be ultimately mine, never theirs.
One year after graduation (2013 edit: 4 years), I don’t believe in that anymore. I just want a pay cheque. People will never care; I don’t care. I just want a pay cheque for me, I just want someone to care about me. Thus, I’m writing my story.
To be continued…