Guernica

Guernica, 1937 by Pablo Picasso

My memories are either sharp and bloody or smudged into nothing. My brain, courtesy of bipolar disorder, prefers chaos over clarity.

I walk alone through Bilbao. The streets are uneven; my Tevas carve red marks into my feet—proof I existed, at least for a minute.

Pebbles grind under my sandals. Every step unearths old junk I thought I'd buried.

The air is thick, smoky. Everything's in pieces—objects, people, me. Blood on metal, heat burning my knees. The world leaks in, and my insides scatter to match.

My world is tiny: love, grief, memory. The stuff I actually own. Words and air, too—like snowflakes, gone before I can grab them.

It starts like a party. People show up with food, flowers, booze. They clean, cook, ask questions. Books appear, someone suggests a walk. The memorial gets planned. People stick around, like a birthday, except the guest of honor is missing.

After the burial, memories get buried too. Everyone goes back to their normal lives. Texts trickle in, replies slow down. I still walk, but now I'm just a ghost with sore feet.

People ask how I am, voices hushed, but they don't wait for an answer. Their words run off to errands and dinners. I'm left outside, watching, like I'm some museum exhibit behind glass.

My life isn't coming back. Lost is lost.

Whom am I cooking for nowadays? No one is with me. The kitchen is oddly quiet. Initially, all I experienced was shock; now, the phone is cold and silent, with no more silly messages. I feel everything and then nothing, getting used to the space. Routine shapes me. Outside, life goes on as if nothing has happened.

Eventually, things look normal again. The world keeps spinning. I watch from the window, still unsettled. I cry less, sometimes even laugh, but the hollow sticks around. I listen to podcasts, eat breakfast, try to patch the emptiness with rituals. Outside never matches inside.

Life goes on, and I do too; I carry the loss and the strength I possess, making my way step by step.

Shock and disbelief have left. I'm not numb anymore. The wounds are hidden, but the gap is still there. My mind clings to blurry, aching snapshots.

Memories. Trees. Babies. Food that looks too good to eat. Love. Hate. My worlds get filtered through whichever bipolar lens is in charge today.

So many valuable emotions are disappearing and crumbling, just like old photographs. The ones I used to see in clear detail now become blurred, changing from bright color to a faded black and white.

I know I'll remember again. Every time I grab a memory, it mutates. Nothing holds still. Old pictures get swapped out, blurred by whatever I'm feeling now.

My friends eat out, drive to the lake, have dinner at someone else's table. Then they go back to their own lives. Mine is too quiet. Deafening, really.

I stand in front of Guernica, stuck on Bilbao, looping the same thoughts. Maybe I'm just hunting for the memories I lost.

When I look at photos of the Guggenheim Bilbao, in my head or from when I was actually there, I see the soft lines. I can almost feel the curve, cool and smooth under my hand.

The horror caused by war is never completely erased.