within pixels, i exist

by CLARISSA RODRÍGUEZ ABREGO

layout SHUER ZHUO photographer KAITLYN MARCATANTE stylists CALEB ZHANG & ZAHA KHAWAJA hmua GABRIELLE DUHON model KRISTY THAI

"THE GOOD CRIES, THE UGLY CRIES, THE STRANGER WHO SMILED AT ME ON THE STREET — ANYTHING THAT, EVEN FOR JUST A SECOND, REMINDS ME THAT THERE’S MORE TO THIS BODILY FLESH."

Joss Fong, a journalist and curious at heart, says that for three years, she recorded every time she cried on an Excel spreadsheet. She sectioned her tears, color-coded them accordingly, and made graphs out of them — converting them into something more translatable, at the brink of understandability.

“When I cry, it feels like I’ve become a different person,” she says, smiling at her own intricacies.

Perhaps it’s that fear of one's rawness that led her to try and make sense out of her tears. Perhaps that’s why, when I’m turning into more soul than body, I open up my phone’s Notes app and keep snippets of life with me. The good cries, the ugly cries, the stranger who smiled at me on the street — anything that, even for just a second, reminds me that there’s more to this bodily flesh.

More times than I’d like to admit, I prefer to pour everything out onto a rectangular piece of glass and metal than to have it weighing inside of me. Since 2016, I’ve kept notes of the times when anything has kicked me out of numbness: when I've flown up high and could almost be celestial, or dragged down low, falling into the arms of my own labyrinths.

I can’t say my records are as readable as Joss’. They’re messy conversations with myself on Facebook Messenger and misspelled, quick jots on my phone’s Notes app. Still, I suppose that says something about it all — how urgent everything seems and is, the sudden racing on my heartbeat, the tingles down my arms. Call it a ritual, second nature, or attempted escape: all is true and the same.

I’d like to think that I do this with hopes of breaking free, like a heroic writer typing for the sake of it, eager to pour down some universal truth onto a page. But more often than not, it starts out of fear. Fear of not feeling the same way ever again, fear of forgetting that this ever happened — that I, we, happened.

I want to always have January 7th, 2020, when I unconsciously said to my mom, “te quiero mucho,” and she, undoubtedly, replied, “yo te amo más.” Not once taking her love a step below. How she showed me, in a matter of seconds, the truest form of unconditionality.

I don't know where my fascination with pickand-choose remembrance comes from. Sometimes, it doesn’t come at all. Sometimes, I rely on the fragility of memory to comfort myself. I train my brain to understand that I’ve forgotten pain before. I’ve lived through the awkwardness, the shakiness, and always, always the tip-toeing. And still, I have made it to the other side alive.

"FEAR OF NOT FEELING THE SAME WAY EVER AGAIN, FEAR OF FORGETTING THAT THIS EVER HAPPENED — THAT I, WE, HAPPENED."

"I WRITE THE TIMES I’VE FELT THE PUREST HAPPINESS BECAUSE I CAN’T BEAR THE THOUGHT OF THEM NEVER COMING BACK TO ME."

But then again, there are the times I need to remember.

The conversations, the way my sister always lets her coffee get cold just to reheat it all over again. The way my father started randomly signing in the car on that December of 2018, and how my mom and sisters laughed, how we all did. The way I consciously looked around — everyone with their glistening eyes and silly little smiles on — and I could almost taste the sweet tanginess of happiness in my mouth.

On Christmas of that same year, at 5:16 p.m., my grandfather told me he’d like to still be around for my graduation. He was sitting on the porch of my uncle’s house; I know for sure it was cold, but when I think about it, all I can picture is the warm orange paint on the walls and colorful plants attempting to overcome the cemented floors.

There are the bittersweet successes, too. How 2019 was the first year I didn’t remember the birthday of the first boy I loved and who inevitably broke my heart. The one who lingered, filled my ears with little sweet nothings, and held my hands and books after class. Then, left me to ruminate around my own mind, yearning for

"I OFTEN FORGET THE HEIGHTS WE CAN GO TO. BUT IT ALL HAS TO BE TRUE — I HOLD THE PROOF OF ITS EXISTENCE."

the times I didn’t know my heartbreak had its home along the crevices of my throat and my stomach.

I know all of this because I keep it all with me, encapsulated within the black and white pixels of my Notes app. I turn to technology because it’s the easiest thing to do. It’s less daunting to interact with my insides when I do it through something so opposite, something that I’m always holding. The beats of my heart almost get lost in the clickings of my keyboard.

I don’t know who decided that all burdens stem from pain. Sometimes, the mere thought of dealing with the finality of something good makes me sick to my stomach. I write the times I’ve felt the purest happiness because I can’t bear the thought of them never coming back to me.

Still, I probably should tell you now that I rarely ever open my Notes. That, whenever I stumble upon one of them, it feels like an out-of-body experience. That I often forget the heights we can go to. But it all has to be true — I hold the proof of its existence.

Like an anchor amidst the come and go of the ocean, I cling for dear life. Then, I press the home button twice, swipe up, and go on. ■