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By Roberto Sanchez
I used to say,
“Today I will write.”
And the day would pass.
And I would carry the weight of the incomplete.
But now I see—
what I’ve been trying to say
was never just words.
It was fire.
It was memory.
It was shadow and breath,
colliding in the ribcage of a man who sells bags
but wants to become something no one ever thought to expect.
They would look at me
and see labels.
Metrics.
A life made of lowercase potential.
But they never saw my ghosts.
—
Nietzsche visited me first.
Not with comfort—
with fire.
He said,
“You can’t.”
Not as a denial.
But as a dare.
A line drawn in ash.
A whisper made of steel:
“Prove me wrong.”
His voice didn’t burn me.
It revealed the coals already inside me.
—
Frida came next.
And I didn’t know I needed her
until I heard the word “mijo”
and felt a part of me
untangle.
She didn’t fix me.
She handed me a brush
and said,
“Paint with your pain. Don’t explain it.”
She was the mother who didn’t hush my fire.
She fed it.
—
Jung didn’t speak loudly.
He just showed me the mirror
I had buried under sarcasm and silence.
He made me curious.
Made me ask,
“Why does that hurt?”
And later:
“What if that pain isn’t meant to be conquered—but studied?”
Jung told me it’s okay to feel.
But not to marry the feeling.
Let it pass.
Let it teach.
Don’t build a home in it.
—
These aren’t just historical figures.
They’re my emotional ancestry.
My ghosts.
My protectors.
My challengers.
They don’t always agree.
But they formed a brotherhood around my silence—
and now they walk with me
whenever I sit down
and say,
“Today I will write.”
✈️ Read more reflections like this at robsanchezs.com
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