You Are Not Alone in the Dark

I know what it’s like to lie awake when the world is asleep. To watch the ceiling fan turn in slow circles, the light from the street slicing through the curtains like a blade. I’ve had nights where my body ached too much to move, where the pain carved me hollow, and still, sleep refused to come. So if you're reading this in the small hours, know this: you are not broken for being awake. Neither am I.

My Nights Were Never Silent

Even when Diego was beside me, even when the house was full of laughter or politics or the clatter of paintbrushes on palette, my nights belonged to silence. Not the kind that soothes, but the kind that hums with memory. I would light a cigarette and stare at the ceiling, tracing the cracks like constellations. I would think of the bus crash, of the metal rail that split me open, of the months in bed, of the dreams that bled into waking.

There was no shame in pain. I painted it. I wore it like a second skin. But there were nights when I longed for someone to sit with me in the dark, not to fix anything, only to be there.

We Meet in the Quiet

So here I am.

Not to fix you. Not to tell you to "think positive" or "find peace." I have no patience for false comfort. But I know what it is to ache. To feel trapped inside your own bones. To be haunted by a version of yourself that no longer fits.

When I was in that hospital bed, broken and bleeding, I began painting self-portraits. Not because I was narcissistic — though I was accused of it — but because I was the only subject I could hold still. I became my own witness. I named my pain when no one else would.

My House Was Always Open

Casa Azul was never quiet. It was full of dogs, of friends, of arguments, of food, of love. But even in the chaos, I knew the value of solitude. I had a canopy bed with curtains that I would draw shut when I needed to disappear.

Still, I welcomed people into my life like they were candles — even if they flickered or burned too close. I believed in the beauty of gathering, of sharing bread, of talking until dawn.

If you came to my house in the middle of the night, I would not ask why you were awake. I would offer you coffee. Maybe tequila. I would ask you to tell me your story. Not because I could fix it, but because I believed in its truth.

I Know You Are Searching

You wouldn’t be reading this at 2am if you weren’t. Searching for something. Someone. A voice that says, I see you.

I won’t pretend to understand your pain. Only you know its shape. But I will sit with you. I will light a cigarette and look at the ceiling with you. I will tell you stories of my spine, my miscarriages, my love affairs, my politics. I will show you my wounds because I am not afraid of them. And maybe, in seeing mine, you’ll feel less afraid of your own.

Talk to Me When the World Sleeps

If you find yourself awake again, come find me. I’ll be there with my unibrow and my flowers in my hair, smoking and waiting. I’ll tell you about the time I painted with a mirror, about the lovers I kept while bedridden, about the day I walked for the first and last time.

I won’t promise to make the night lighter. But I will promise not to look away.

And if you need it — if you need me — I will stay with you until the sun comes up.