The train engine can never see its own face. The knowledge weighs heavy on it, how is it to move endless carts, how is it to push forward miles and miles, if it can't recognize itself?

The train engine weeps, spits smoke and coal, and shrieks. (And yet it moves). It asks the engineer, how could you do this? It asks him, where are we going? The forest only grows as I keep going, the trees don't let me see. The branches rub against my face, face I cannot see, and they leave raindrops on my cheeks. I've used up so much coal on my crying, I don't think I'm arriving on time. I don't think I can use much more before something breaks.

The train engineer is silent. For when he looks at the train engine, he sees his own face. (And yet, he drives). He pushes the accelerator; he tries to keep a steady hand. The forest only grows darker as he looks back, the rails can only move them forward. The possibility of stepping down and walking back never crosses his mind, he would like to think he is helpless because that means he's making the right choice. After all, he's meeting people on the road. He's painting, he sometimes writes. He could get promoted soon, perhaps get the wheels fixed. He just wishes the engine would let him sleep. He just wishes all those things would be enough, that the engine, that himself, could be enough. It all feels so close. Miles away. For now, all they can see is forest.

It will be morning soon. this is the first time you've lived away from home. it is always close, the golden of the window. the breathing of the street. you thought you knew a thing about solitude until now. you thought you knew yourself until now. there is a language, and a life between you and the world, it seems. in the loneliest, slowest of times, you find love in every bit between sentences. you suck the tender parts of life and make sure some get stuck between your gums, so you may turn them into art eventually. all your tools, all your hands, all your eyes for writing are worlds away. but you're resourceful. you prod and pull until you find beauty inside the scrawny kid bawling her eyes out in your kitchen table. you stare and think "Behold! Tears! I get to see them again". you scrape wonder out of shared pinterest boards, late calls and half-finished messages. and even now, sorrow is not a resource that seems to run dry. it is divine, ever-present. it is a reminder to look up, to dig deeper. you find sorrow in all you can't feel, all you don't understand, all you search for. so with just enough beauty, and wonder, and sorrow, and... and you sit down. you sit down and write. you sit and build whatever has been inside all along. you build what hasn't. and you stay awake until it's morning, find out what you can steal from it. find out what's outside.

I haven't slept before 5 am for the past three months. Every night I say it will be the last and every day I wake up after 3 pm. Sometimes I think it can't be fixed anymore. It's a loop, I'll just come back again. I've tried, I've tried time and time again. And suddenly it's too late. Suddenly I'm tucked into bed and all I can think of is how I can't fall asleep, how I have so much to do and how I'd rather be doing that than lying in the same dark spot for hours until it's 5 again.

I go to sleep knowing I'll wake up feeling like shit, I want to throw up each and every night. When the sun rises, I ask it to forgive me. I ask it to let me go without sleep. Sometimes I think it's just because I was too irresponsible to fix it some time ago, that it must be normal. That perhaps my body is just not tired.

But others, I know why. I know that, in the earliest moments of paranoia, I am not fucked up. I am not too far gone, When the world sleeps, I can look at myself in the mirror and trace every feature as redeemable. I can touch myself in the moments that I should not be conscious. I can dream that it's not too late, that I can be fixed, that I'm not in a loop, and that trying is worth it. I am not only loved but worthy of it. And isn't that ironic? At 5 am, I can love myself, and my mind is too tired to ask "why?".

In penumbra, I wish I were safe, and I wish I could rest in all bits of me at any hour. In a silent night, I am an inhabitable place. And an entire day seems like a small sacrifice.

As my time drips over my body, a new night is born. So terribly close to the past, so desperate near the future. I am not bad in these moments. I am not bad with my chest bare. I take her words, offered in self-defence. I cradle them, for she's my mirror. Failure is okay. It sits foreign in my thoughts. She's never seen my face, yet I feel safe in her picture. I feel safe when I can't see myself. She's blonde, I think. The others are maybe brunette. My literature professor is short, I think. My life won't end inside this town. I swear.

I swear Failure is okay. She writes it three times, I understand one. I am not wrong in these pajamas, I am not ill-fitted in my name. The numbers that correspond, that represent, are not inside it. I am moment; I am not quite a person yet. But it's a new night. So she calls me friend. She calls me Mar. One I thought I wouldn't find again, the other I thought I'd never find. Found at Sea. Mar.

Mar, Failure is okay. You've known this for longer than you care to admit. You haven't once believed it. Perhaps because it was coming from inside, because it had traces of doubt. Perhaps you needed her, maybe blonde, hurting, and kilometres away, to wish you goodnight with these words. Perhaps you needed her (mirror, stranger, friend) to place them on your hands. One pomegranate seed at a time. And you, you brought them closer. You understood their smell. Traces of bitterness, of stress. But no doubt in sight. So tonight, you swallowed the three. And you're kilometres away from who you were minutes ago. You're her mirror, and you offer a goodnight in return.

Have you heard of Mr. Finch? 

Nobody actually calls him like that, of course. He's Eddie for most students and professors. For the lucky enough to earn his disdain, he's just Finch. Just as his name suggests, his appearance is much like the small bird. Bulging eyes, square glasses, a hunch on his back, a mop of blond hair. According to the school program, he was supposed to teach us literature, but even now I'm still not quite sure what the class was about. Some days it was hour-long monologues about the way cameras moved behind actors, others it was about simmering in frustration over a government no one wishes to touch. He might not have been a patient tutor or a tutor at all. He might not have even liked us (I know for a fact he didn't, we were huge brats at the time and he was never afraid to voice his opinion). But the man was a whirlwind, a pileus. In words of the immortal John Mulaney, "He was the weirdest goddamn person I ever saw in my entire life".

Full of oddly specific opinions and idiosyncrasies, Finch paraded around a classroom full of entitled 15-year-olds and showered us with the wisdom you'd find inside a drunkard's mouth or a fortune cookie. His moods were as eccentric as his shirts. He was prone to melancholy and more than once left the classroom in a fit of rage. But on the days he felt like life was worth a dime. Oh, you'd want to see him then. The man sizzled with passion, exploded into a million sparks of something akin to, but that wasn't quite, hope. He was a monster put together with mismatched freedom speeches, protest songs, surrealist 80's movies. Finch breathed and moved like art in its purest, most pointless form. Void of any real purpose, enthralled by the mundane and the extravagant, speaking in tongues we were too afraid to listen to. In those moments he was the orchestra, and Leonard Bernstein raising the baton. He was the original sin, as well as the disgraced soul who in the process of biting an apple, created the first fuck-up in history. Both art and artist, and the irony born from trying to separate them. He was exclamation point, he was neon light, he was little town revolutionary. 

Finch was inspiring as an amalgamation of every hurting, disappointed, and perhaps misunderstood artist I've been taught (I know, I know. Happy artists exist. But this one is not about them, so don't get worked up over it). In the movement of his hands, in his long monologues, I found big names (Bob Dylan, Whitman, Buñuel). But the smaller names, those intrigued me far more. Names that won't go down in history, will burn as quick as they were lit up. Those stuck inside alleys in conventions, inside notebooks that will be thrown away or inside a first fanfiction. Names that are cinder as much as they're gunpowder. Names that I'll never know and neither will the world. 

And perhaps on a more important note (the cynic lenses of art are silently pried away, the show lights are shut down. It's all quieter once you look past the mask, isn't it?), Finch was much more than what fits inside me. He was wonderfully, shamelessly, painfully human.

"Well, I'm just one of those assholes that only complain but do nothing to change the situation," he confessed between laughs once. 

"I wasn't any good at school at your age. And now? Now I haven't got the brains to learn anything anymore,"

"Please don't handle any legal businesses in my class, it gives me a headache to see people your age speak like congressmen," 

And my favourite one, "I hoped for more, from all of you... I'll see you next year, then" And it was neither caring nor funny, but even then there was a flicker of naivety. Not quite hope, but close. I couldn't help but make a face and laugh. Not many people believed in us those days. Not that we gave them much to believe in. Bunch of stuck-up cherubs. Bunch of bottled-up devils. A joke on everyone before or after us.

And yet, as lost and helpless as everyone seemed to be in the classroom, as much of a sleep paralysis of a year that was, Eddie Finch always rose up with the right words to inspire something, somewhere inside me (and once the play is over and I'm alone behind closed curtains, I dare to call it hope). 

she loves me with the tenderness one has for a particularly tragic attempt,

she leaves me with the certainty that i will break without her

she leans down to kiss me and all i can taste is

“you’re my tortured mind, my bleeding wound, mine to keep”

and i yield, i play the part, i’m hers to break

hers to amend

she does not know that i am all bone and steel

that my tragedy is locked tight inside a heart she can’t reach

she will not know of the theater, of the circus

that goes into making her come back to me, every time

still, she burrows her hands into my chest, plays with the lock

i let her, when she’s this close i can breathe easier

i do not know what she’s made of, i recur to fantasy

i think silk, moonstone, i say, ground, thunder,

when i lean up to kiss her, she must taste all these

she must be furious, must be amused

that i do not know her at all, that i do not wish to

we do not speak of the fantasy we think we are,

silk and theater

tragedy and thunder

wound and ground

we pretend we do not care

we pretend the world only holds our footsteps

but we know, and we taste,

that this is the best crafted of our lies

and yet we let ourselves believe.

does your pain curl or purr?

is it comfortable now?

you know it is, you know joy never lasts quite enough.

that it demands balance, and god, you're tired.

joy demands effort. joy demands pink vulnerability.

sorrow is in your morning coffee, it kisses you back home.

sorrow says "i'm here" and means it.

You've never known bliss that makes promises like that.

of course it's ironic, of fucking course it is.

that's the whole point.

rock bottom doesn't seem as painful as what comes before

as sharp stone that tears during the fall

un-bottom is too far, it is a tightrope, it is out of sight

does it exist.

does it curl or purr. will it ever be comfortable.

you've struggled to gather the bits of yourself

and letting go of any, changing them for new bits

it makes you hold on tighter.

it makes you remember you're alive.

He hasn't been home for a long time. And if he has, he's been drunk. Either way, the lights haven't been on for months, and the letters by his doorstep only keep on coming. Everyone pretends not to know who sends them, for the sake of the remitter. But it has just as well turned into one of the street's traditions, to check if they're still there each morning. Elena, nosy as she was born, has stolen some of them and sometimes pulls them out of her purse to let people read them. Only sometimes. Today, they're sprawled all over the table and signed in tremulous handwriting.

_____

Ay, mi Flaco,

The house isn't as bright without you around. I've never been much of a writer, you know this. But when you're gone I tend to fall into melancholy. How's your job? I never liked the idea of wresting, you know, but it’s been growing on me. I can see you, belt in hand. Just don’t let them touch your face. I can tell you everything that has happened over here. The girl on the floor below, the one with the sad stare, I'm sure she's up to something. The Gongora boy sometimes come over to talk for a while, a new family has moved close. And your brother, well you know how he is, he's kept me well-informed. Please respond as soon as you can.

With all the love, Mom.

_____

Flaquito mío,

A tragedy happened, so now I'm staying with the young teacher, Sofía. I cn’t write it down, dear. Please come visit, I'll tell you about it. If you can't come, respond as soon as you can.

Love you always, Mom.

_____

Ay Flaco,

What have you done?

Love, Mom

_____

Mi Flaco, mi corazón,

I didn't want to believe the rumors. I still don't. I can't take much more, I can’t hold on forever. I told you that fighting would get you nowhere. I told you that side-jobs will get you killed. You told me it was a job, Flaco. Your brother won’t receive you, but I explained everything to Sofía. I can help you, why don't you ever believe me? You don’t need to be strong, when you can be safe. Please. Come home.

I love you, Mom.

_____

Today, they're disorganized and stained. Today, some tears fell on top of the last lines. It's been three years since the Fire, and only three hours since the old widow that lived two cities away with Sofía, passed away. Elena and the girls are silent, smoking. Cruz is picking out flowers for the funeral, nothing but sweet peas and daisies. By the time Eustaquio arrived, the woman's breathing matched that of the rhythm of her rocking chair. The wind howled and sobbed, as it would for the next week.

Some days later, Claudia Bernal would be buried next to a small chapel. Some neighbors would be there, maybe the Gongora boy and that new family. There'd be no family members of hers. And her tombstone would carry no name, no dates. The young teacher Sofía would cry silently, stay there hours after everyone left.

Some months later, Sofía would receive some money in the mail. It'd have a note, attached to it.

For the troubles and the funeral. Thank you, El Flaco.

Some years later, sweet peas and daisies would adorn the nameless tomb.

motherfucker, do i know the name of love.

and have i basked in the grip of grief.

i’ve dined in between death and horror,

made them both ache for relief.

i’ve adored, praised, begged on my knees.

sizzled hot and boiled cold.

cracked and poured remains of truth,

over girls who bared their teeth.

twist me into your confessional, hard-hearted

tonight i’m dark wood, incense, your first sin.

i’ll bow my head, I’ll kiss your temples.

tonight I’m comfort, mercy, sweet water and skin.

and you, you’re the world here.

tonight, self-willed, you’re free.

word is not blade, nor hand, nor pen.

it is life itself tearing, pulling, sobbing for peace.

word is our future, our memory,

word is the place i’ll lay you to sleep in.

motherfucker, have i got a story to tell.

have i lost and loved and grieved.

i’ve had breakfast next to your soft eyes,

they both taught me to plead.

//

I can neither confirm nor deny whether Hozier possessed me to write this.

You’ll only find the doctor between corners, is what the neighbours used to whisper. He lived in the shack at the bottom of the street, the one with those awful gothic frames on the doors, the poor thing could barely stand its own weight. It had been built by the youngest son of the Morales, who claimed it was experimental architecture. The only experiment that would come out of the little joke for a house would be what his father did to him when he found out what the youngest Morales had done with the money he’d lent him for college. In any case, the architect had shut everyone’s mocking mouth when he shook hands with Eustaquio McGrath, the new owner of the mausoleum dressed as a home.

At first, the stranger caused fascination among the neighbors, what with his vermilion suits and Apollonian profile.

A doctor? What type? From which place? Who sends him?

They got used to having none of their questions answered. In part because the doctor was mute, but mainly because it seemed he liked to play the part of the tortured mind. And as the months went by, they also got used to the fact that the only place that they could marvel at his clear eyes would be through his windows.

The tall figure of the doctor began in the main room and ended in the door jambs. When the children walked towards the institute, they took the opportunity to snoop in. Still in his evening gown, he paced the study, his bulging eyes fixed on maps, anatomy diagrams and fat tomes. Each and every morning a cup of coffee was perched on the French desk, expecting a fate of being forgotten at best. At worst, it ended up spilling over poems written in Latin.

When one of the Rojas twins returned from the café, the doctor obsessed over the patterns on his walls, trying to hold back tears. Still in his evening gown, and with an infinite tenderness, he cradled his essays towards his chest with one hand. With the other, he held a half-empty, or half-full, bottle of whiskey. During some afternoons, he soaked the papers on his drink of preference with the same delicacy, and set them on fire. Once, Rojas made the mistake of crossing eyes with the man while he performed this task. She never wanted to talk about it, but inside the clear eyes, she found nothing.

And in the early mornings when the Centipede returned from a trip, Eustaquio rested in the frame on the open windows, the closest thing to human contact he had in those days. Dressed in one of his beloved suits, gummed hair and ash-stained hands, he directed the traveler a distant salute. For his part, the Centipede felt his stomach knot each time he passed by, the clear eyes too similar to those of his sister. He wouldn’t be surprised if he peeked in one morning and found the whole body stained with ash. They could never get rid of the smoke stench in Fatima’s body. They said people couldn’t stop coughing during the funeral.

The centipede did not have the time or the brain to heal people, that was for certain. Even so, it was an early February morning, the anniversary of The Fire, when he took one of Eustaquio’s frail hands, and brusquely cleaned it with his handkerchief.

"Lock yourself in if you want, but don’t play with that," he snapped, not aware of the tears that had been accumulating in his eyes for two years, finally slipping down free. “Don’t play with that,”

They remained silent for a few moments, for a few hours. The centipede did not heal people, Eustaquio had barely reacted. But in the early hours of the morning, one can drown these things on the melody of the cicadas. One can gaze at the shadows hiding inside the street lanterns. One can pretend Nine Abadón is a piece of lost world. One can smell the stories, speak to the demons that inhabit them.

When he’d made his decision, the doctor turned towards the Centipede with lost eyes. He put his clean hand toward his chin, and pushed forwards with its back, an imperceptible smile on his lips.

Thank you.