by Carlos Antonio Piñón
November 30, 2012
I don't believe much in the supernatural, however, I think there are other possible realms unseen by the human eye. What that defines, I'm uncertain of, but it's better to leave it up to imagination. I like to think that each of us have some kind of unexplained spirit that exists between us. I was born in 1995, but didn't feel alive until 2011. Before that, I had relationship problems that strongly affected me. I had drawn a rose before with oil pastel, and that became my icon for love, but it was corrupted with infatuation. I later drew a man on his knees with a rose in his hand. He's alone with no response. Words that I could not write were drawn that day, but I could never find words to define it until today. I was broken apart. It was worse by my inability to express myself properly. I was an atomic garden with fruit ripe with explosives. I'm not a farmer, I don't know what goes into farming; however, I learned how to harvest my thoughts.
I don't claim to be anything more than I am. I can't explain what I am, either. I suppose this applies to my poem, "Who Are You?" I outlined almost every adjective I could think of for myself to help give my name a meaning, but I found that every word I used didn't define me any better. The best word to explain me would be "Uncertainty," and I find that poem portrays a more in-depth definition than any word could. In "If and When We Rise Again," I challenge the basic structure of how we perceive life. I find that even the most inanimate objects can explain life most. Such as a book—they're filled with human traits. Not just because they contain words, but what goes along with a book. Another example would be in "That Light that Flickers," with a nightlight. A nightlight portrays our determination to light the darkness. We wish to enlighten ourselves with knowledge so that our times won't be dark. However, sometimes we are left with unfortunate situations, such as in "Teardrop." A single item, yet so powerful in definition—when you think of a teardrop, you think of the sorrow and despair, or possibly happiness. It makes me wonder, sometimes, how such a tiny item could mean so much. "Thinking About Things" goes through both nightlights and death that makes up our life. It's about a dried up paintbrush with the fallen leaves of autumn.
Life is in art, even as everything dies around us. We must keep marching on. Death is very much a big part of life, however we don't know much about it. In "That Infamous Light," I write about the uncertainty, the unseen spirituality of the flickering nightlight we call life. In which case, when our lights go out, we don't always die. We might not come back to life physically, but what we do on this earth matters and you can't do it alone. I learned immediately that you need someone else on this planet. It doesn't always need to be one other person throughout your life, but at certain points, you need someone to be there for you. "To My Best Friend" is written with and for my best friend Moises. He helped me in so many ways, I'll always be grateful. It's these small things that count the most. They always seem small at first, but they mean so much more. When I first met Moises, I didn't think we'd have such a great friendship, but as it turned out, it meant more to me than anything else. It's this idea of being a shadow that I talk about in "The Shadow Projekt." It's these details and help shape the world that we should focus on, because really, this world is fantastic. I want to be able to share the wisdom and knowledge I accumulated to students when I'm a teacher, and everything I have built up will motivate and drive my passion. And this, I think, will be as close to a definition to me as I could ever get close to.