The Sun

A mi niña favorita,

Fyodor Dostoyevsky (this very old and famous Russian author) said that he can see the sun, but even if he cannot see the sun, he knows it exists. And to know that the sun is there–that is living. Most say that he is speaking of religion–of how one is comforted by the simple existence of God, without any proof. I have always wanted to find some association with this idea. It sounds beautiful to commit to something with no real restriction. To adore a being with no limitations. To build a whole life on the existence of someone.

I have always spoken to you about my struggles with religion, especially with the concept that God is real. I have undergone too much suffering to justify the belief in a higher being, one searching for my happiness and well-being. I feel I just wanted a savior–a being that might save me from the internal turmoil that has chased me for so long.

The closest I have gotten to being religious is my complete devotion to the sun and moon. These celestial bodies have been with me through every single event of my life, reminding me from afar that, despite my lowest moments, I am never truly alone. I would often speak to them, especially to the moon. I would ask her for a companion that resembled her beloved: the sun, a bright burst of energy that kept me warm whenever I needed it.

I once read a quote that said: “You kiss the back of my legs and I want to cry. Only the sun has come this close, only the sun.”

The touch of your fingers on my skin feels as warm as the rays of sunlight I played under as a child, before I shut myself off from the outside world. Your calming words in a moment or panic are the comforting sunlight after weeks of Ecuadorian April rain. Your smile is brighter than the burning sun on any summer day at noon.

I know now that the familiarity I have always associated with you has not been imagined. My prayers to the moon have not gone unanswered, as you stand before me now, still loving me a year later. She sent me my own sun.

I do not need a higher being to save me because it is you who saves me every day. Not just figuratively–you help me wake up in the morning, remind me to take my medication, refuse to let me forget to call my family–but also literally. You have helped me live another year. When I cry over the sunrise, I am also crying about how I get to experience it with you.

I am more emotional each day, more unraveled, more messy. Every day, I can point out a dozen flaws in my actions, smudges in my notes, spelling mistakes in my writing, wrong notes in my guitar, and messed-up eyeliner in my eyes. Yet nothing I do can ever be as bad as I think it is if you still sit next to me, wiping away every tear, brushing every strand of curly hair, reaching the spots on my back that my joints will not allow me to touch. You truly and utterly complete me.

You exist in the sunrise that undoes my depression and the white clouds that protect me from getting sunburnt. You exist in the perfume that everyone around me compliments. You exist in every single one of my tears, because every time I have felt inhumane, you have reminded me of how deeply I can feel.

I promise to devote the rest of my days adoring you endlessly, as I hope I have done every day until now. I promise to continue writing you as many love letters as my fingers can type and handwrite. I promise to make you feel like the luckiest woman in the world, today and every day for the rest of our lives.

And most of all, I promise to always find a whole life in knowing you exist.

Manu <3