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  • Writer's pictureMariaelena Comaroto

If Only So

The worst part about being an artist is facing the possibility that no one will see you until you're gone. I don’t know what to say to those who have gone before me. I knew so many of you, and I hear your stories retold by your loved ones every day.

I can no longer imagine one path that I could have taken in life that would not have led me here. For everywhere I go, everything I try, has taken my breath away to the point of no return, only to find out, this too shall pass. And life will go on.

My heart hurts tonight. So deeply. I have spent one day on Twitter with my new profile. I avoided Twitter before and I couldn’t make sense of why. I understand myself well enough to know why, but to be very honest, this time it felt different. It felt like someone was there, listening. And I liked that.

It reminded me of when Mark lived on Amherst while (they) grew in the corner location for a while. He’d sit outside the house he was renting, and read the paper. With his now wife, and their dog at the time. No one in the neighborhood knew what to expect with what was growing in “our backyard.” But there was something comforting about seeing the family outside so often. They looked peaceful and attentive.

I felt a deep sadness for Mark when we’d cross running paths years later on Hamilton. I wished there was something I could do to help him. I tell this story because it happened. Just like this. And my point is not just that if I exist it matters. Damn it. Everyone who exists. MATTERS.

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