Leo Sevilland solace in the playground. I couldnt remember growing up. I couldnt remember when was the last time i woke up happy. I have found the darkest times where my soul lied to me. But i could remember how to love, to pour myself into someone else’s dreams and realities. I could remember to live, to share laughter and sorrow. I could remember to stay awake. And remember the inevitable question before
23rd of November, 2015. This date marks my fifth month into multiple meetings with counselors, doctors, and psychologists. I was suspected of Existential Death Anxiety, a mental disorder. It is the highest form of death anxiety wherein the realization that the natural life would soon cease to exist rocks my world in multiple dimensions turning my tables in unsolicited rides. It is too much fear of dying, the only proven permanent thing in our life. It is common to people of old age, something that a 21 year old could not fully take. I was subjected into check ups and counselling, waiting for the sixth month to fully diagnose a mental disorder.
My counselor told me that it is like I was awakened of the very existence of my humanity. When words stopped being words, and slowly turn into sentences, speeches, life stories, vivid memories, captured moments, solemn life. A deeper understanding of our reason deep enough to conclude for myself a novel of my existential being. A beautiful gift of understanding life from a different perspective. That mine is a beautiful mind capable of empathy. That a collection of puzzle worthy images collapsed into thin walls of imagery within me.
It has awakened my sentinel abilities, to always be the first one to sense danger and be able to deal with it. 21 years were few numbers to account a life. I couldnt remember the last time i needed my mom to feed me, cause i dont know how to use spoon and fork. I couldnt remember the last time i needed my father to hold my hand for I couldnt walk alone. The last time candies are enough to stop my tears. The last time i found solace in the playground. I couldnt remember growing up. I couldnt remember when was the last time i woke up happy. I have found the darkest times where my soul lied to me. But I could remember how to love, to pour myself into someone else’s dreams and realities. I could remember to live, to share laughter and sorrow. I could remember to stay awake. And remember the inevitable question before sleep: What keeps you up at night?
What keeps you believing? What made you believe that your happiness is hidden in someone else’s hands? I found literature to be a permission of my being to know humanity more than being a dust in a galaxy. To see the sunset first than any eye in the world. To appreciate life in all its forms, so passionate, so well, so into its beauty that has led me to the ends of its prism. For humanity has found a refuge into books and papers that no other creature could grasp. That the pen understands the story more than your own mind.
Our lives belong to the hands who worked marvels etched in our ego. The beauty of our lives dwells in our capacity to transform into more than what we think we are. I found that adults made us believe that happiness lies in loving ourselves. But in reality, they all made a conspiracy to hide the reason that we believe it only when no one else is there to love us. An escape into the tragic life we loathe. As for me, I hope to be remembered in my battle for the reason of my life. The reason to love. The reason to exist.
Submitted to ArtParasites by Leo Sevilla