And Then I Remember Angel

by Mario A. Campanaro

And Then I Remember Angel

A bus ride monologue from a boy or girl’s perspective, capturing the vibrant, ever-shifting mind of a sensitive artist. They navigate its twists and turns, until, amidst the chaos, they remember the grounding of truth.

by Mario A. Campanaro

Dear You, Me, Them, Us, and the Rest of the World...Our Selves,

I don't know.

That just feels right.

I'll go with that.

It's about time we spoke. I keep listening to you speak in my head, and I’m not really sure how to deal with this loop of mental chatter. Sometimes I feel like you’re not on my side at all. I listen to the way you speak to others—as if they are your very best friends, and some of them are—but so many of the others are complete strangers, and you speak to them with support, optimism, love, care, inspiration, and upliftment. Then you speak to me in a way that I can only define as close to how any enemy would speak. Why? I don’t understand why I let this go on.

I sit there and listen to you, and then it evokes my feelings, and my feelings get caught in the same mental loop as the thoughts. It's like I'm trapped in this garden that’s withering away to nothing.

I’m sensitive. Don’t you know that by now? I am very, very sensitive. I don’t like this day-in, day-out feeling like my world is going to cave in at any moment and I’m going to be stuck in a well, screaming for help but only hearing echoes from the same voice that got me down here in the first place.

Rather than throwing me down, lift me up. I get one life, I think, and I want to make the most of it. I don’t want to be on my deathbed thinking I’ve spent my time here thinking I've lived my life wrong, constantly trying to conquer myself. I want this time here to make a difference, to leave footprints, to leave my mark, to change the world in some way—just to leave it a little bit better than before I got here.

What will it take? Does it take tragedy just to find a metamorphic growth spurt? How do I know when—or should I say if—that will ever occur?

Why do I beat myself up so? Why do I look in the mirror and see more of the things I don’t like rather than focusing on the things I love about myself? Or worse, why do I not like anything at all about myself? How did that come to be? When did it start, and why have I chosen to adopt that way of thinking?

I look in the mirror like it’s this broken piece of glass, and I’m choosing to accept the distorted image as if that’s the truth. You do understand that it’s just the mirror that’s broken, not the observer (me) looking into it, right?

Why does it hurt so much? Why does my heart ache for something that I am not? Why does my heart search to become something other than I am? Why do I want to die to myself so I can find the real me? Why do I feel like a complete alien in a world where everyone else feels like they are home?

I struggle. I struggle a lot. I look around at the rest of the world and I see faces living their lives with smiles, laughter, hands held, and eyes closed shut. And here I am, with a frown, tears running down my cheeks, and my eyes wide open.

Do I even make sense?

It’s like I’ve been abducted by some extraterrestrial who said, "Listen, Mack, I’m going to send you to this place on Earth so you can feel what it’s like to feel like shit every day. And when it’s done, you’ll know what it feels like to feel like shit every day."

And then I ask, “Well, what’s the payoff?”

And it says to me, "Well, you’ll know what it feels like to feel like shit every day. What do you want me to say? That’s it."

I don’t know what to say other than your eyes are open, but sometimes the light is blinding. It hurts, even. I guess it’s the shadows that allow us to know there’s even light to begin with. It’s all reflective. Light and dark. Up and down. Inside out. Maybe the opposites are the detours to learning to appreciate what the truth really is.

I think about childhood. Yes, this and that happened, and yes, it sticks in my mind incessantly. Maybe that’s where this mental loop is stemming from. Maybe those are the seeds planted in the garden that keep growing the same weeds. I don’t know, but it’s time to weed this garden.

I cannot keep living every day with the cinderblocks weighing me down from what I know in my heart I am supposed to do. I need to weed the garden. To pluck out every single thought, habit, behavior, relationship, and environment that does not serve my highest potential—not to mention my overall well-being.

I have to let go of the past. I have to let it go. It is not alive anymore. I give it life by adopting its perspective during a time when it doesn’t even exist—the now. I give way too much power to the past, and now it’s completely shaping my present. In fact, because it’s shaping my present moment, it keeps giving me more of what I don’t want. The exact thing I’m fighting against is giving me more of what I’m fighting against.

Why wouldn’t it? My thoughts plant the seeds for the garden I’m walking.

Change my thoughts, change my outlook. Change the frequency, change the channel.

I remember a very long time ago, we were just sitting on a bus. You, me, and the rest of the world. A man walked up. Do you remember that? On a bus, a man walked up and sat down next to you and introduced himself. At first, you thought this guy was crazy. Of course you did. Because you were busy creating thoughts that didn’t even see this guy’s piercing blue eyes. You smiled, but just tried to ignore him so you could get back to all the negative chatter about what was wrong with you and the world. But he persisted.

After he sat down right next to you, even though there were many other empty seats, he chose to sit beside you. You remember that? And he smiled. You put on your Walkman. He smiled again. You looked out the window. It was raining. He smiled a third time. Your Walkman died, and you entered a tunnel. There was nothing to look at through the window. You took your earphones out. And all of a sudden, you smelled roses—the faintest scent of roses. The man was looking away but then turned, and your eyes met.

He said hello again. You said hello. You asked, “Do you smell roses?” He said, “Of course I do.” Then he introduced himself. “My name is Angel.” You said, “Nice to meet you.” And then you started looking in your bag for something to do.

You felt strange. Your heart started beating. And you felt like you wanted to cry.

He said, “What is your name?”

You looked up and said, “I don’t have a name.”

He said, “Yes, you do.” You didn’t know what to say. He said, “I know you. I’ve always known you. You may not remember now, but one day you will remember who I am. And once you remember, things will start to change.”

He then went into his bag, I’m sure you remember, and pulled out a book. “Here,” he said, “I want you to have this. Please take it. It’s a gift from me to you.”

You didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to do. And then, all of a sudden, we were out of the tunnel, and the bus pulled over. He said, “This is my stop.” He smiled, left the book on the seat, and said, “Take care.”

I looked out the window, the sun was out, but I didn’t see him. Maybe he walked left, maybe right, but I didn’t see him outside. There was just a small prismatic rainbow in the sky. I looked to my left and picked up the book. The Alchemist? I don’t even know what that means. It was a brand new copy. I opened it and started to thumb through the pages, and then I noticed something on the inside cover. He had written something.

I read it:

“You may not remember me. That’s okay. One day you will. But I am here nevertheless. I have never not been here. And I know you. I see you. It hurts my heart that you hurt. But if you only knew the truth, you would come to realize there is more than meets the eye. Way more than meets the eye. There is a truth far more beautiful than you are letting the veil show. But that is the point. For you to want to see the truth. You will. That I promise.

But until then, there may be some trials and tribulations, some pain and suffering, some tears and screams. But I promise you, if you keep your eyes open, they will lead you to where you want to be, to who you want to be. If you knew how much you were loved, you would not cry out of pain. You would cry out of bliss. I see you. I know you.”

With a tiny but very fragrant dried rose taped next to his name.

So now, I sit here, and I remember: You are not the truth. I am the truth. It’s time to weed the garden, to find the rose, to remember who I really am.

And then I remember Angel.

I think about him often.

I think about him when I’m lost, when I’m sad and depressed, when I’m frustrated. When I’m angry at the world, at myself, at my choices, my thoughts, and, consequently, all my perceived circumstances. Every time I feel completely alone, as if I’m the only one in the world who feels like this, I get a random waft of rose. And I am reminded. I remember. And I smile. I laugh. Sometimes, I even cry in bliss. For in that moment, I remember Angel—and therefore, I remember my true self. And I carry on, in gratitude, knowing that I never walk alone.

There are many out there named Angel, there to help us remember.

And so I can remember.

And so we can remember.

And so I will remember.

And so we will remember.

And so I do remember.

And so we do remember.

And then I know.

And so then, yes, we now all know.

I Am...