sunday madness


Prep for the upcoming week, do all the things I have no time to do – or, more realistically yet, all the things I keep telling myself I have no time to do – during the week. Hide in my little cubicle of a room, where I feel safe, where I shut myself off from the rest of the world. Analyze and reminisce about past events; fantasize and daydream about impossible future events. Wash my clothes, dry my clothes, fold my clothes. Wash my hair, comb my hair, dry my hair. Drive around, put some gas, wash my car. Organize and throw away, read some books, make some lists. It’s the same things, but with a little sense of inner peace – just a little.

In the meantime, texts with my boyfriend. Think about how we’ve known each other for sixteen months, and have been officially dating for over ten months. I’m always thinking about things like this, doing some math, help pass the time. Wonder if he will ever propose, but knowing I wouldn’t care if he doesn’t. Knowing, with certain fear, that we’re okay just like this – seeing each other around twice a week, living separately, each of us busy with other things as well, not being too committed, too attached. Well, who am I kidding – emotionally, of course, I am very attached, since he’s the best I’ve ever had. And he keeps reminding me that every day, every time he texts me, exactly at 4 pm (give or take a few minutes), telling me to get home safely from work.

And I try to be the best he’s ever had, too. Not bring so many problems, not give him too many headaches – I’ve learned from my past mistakes. I sometimes wonder if I allow “too much” and then remind myself that I’m not perfect either. Get along with his friends (the male ones, of course), get along with his family. Be there when he needs me, allow him to be there when I need him. And plan, of course – for the future, for things to do, for ways to keep it exciting. Boredom, monotony and dullness scares me. It’s where everything goes to waste. Burn some candles, do some breathwork, stretch a little. Blow away all these thoughts – I’m not my thoughts, these fears aren’t real, everything will go to waste either way.

And then, a text that brings me back to right here and now.

“Have you heard of the shooting?”

My heart instantly sinks. Well, no, of course I haven’t heard of the shooting. It’s why I stay away as much as I can from social media and the news – I don’t know how to deal with the “real world”, with everything that happens. It’s why I burn my candles, read my books, daydream. I also wonder which shooting he’s referring to, because the weekend before that, we had been at the beach and I had heard noises very similar to shots going off, and when I asked him if he’d heard that and what it was, he had acted so nonchalantly. Everyone else acted with nonchalance, too, as if I was the only one who had heard that.

“No, I haven’t, stop, amor.”

Of course, by “stop” I mean “stop telling me these things, don’t talk to me about these things, stop reminding me of the real world.” We talked just a little bit about it, and then I ignored him, mainly because I had nothing else to say. Yet also, I didn’t want to keep talking, not about that at least. A while later, him asking me if I was okay. The truth: I had stayed in my bed all that time, thinking about all this stuff, trying to take a nap, trying to shut myself off from the world. So, no, realistically I wasn’t entirely okay. Yet I told him I was. Because, who knows – what can he do anyways, about all the things that aren’t under his control, about all the things that happen and affect me a little too much? So, I just pretend some things don’t really bother me, or at least not that much. Don’t want to bore him with my sensitivities, either.

Yet, a few days later I bring the subject back, because I had learned something about the shooting from social media, and I wanted to discuss it with him. Of course, I wasn’t “trying” to learn this – these things just pop up, they’re everywhere, one minute you’re seeing someone have fun at the beach, and 0.5 seconds later you’re reading about a mass shooting against black people.

It’s also getting kind of old. Same old problems, same old protests, same old complaints, same old hatred, and I just don’t know where I belong in all of this. Where do I belong? How do I play my part? What do I do? Trying to ignore this stuff only helps avoid my feelings, but nothing else. It helps no one else but me. Sometimes I wonder if it really does help me.

And then, praying I don’t hear about it at work. Because, well, there’s only so much you can do to try to avoid the news and avoid social media, but you can’t help the conversations that go on around you. You hear about it all – the politics, the wars, the suicides, the robberies, the shootings, and it’s a never-ending list of mishaps, a never-ending list of life just being life. “It is what it is.” Yes, but why can’t it ever be another way?


Prep for the upcoming week, do all the things I have no time to do during the week – wondering if I will ever find out how do I belong in the midst of this madness. Trying to convince myself not to take myself out from all this madness.

Hey – you ever get the feeling you’re just reliving the same day over and over, only with minor variations in details? I bet animals feel the same way, too. I mean, if they could analyze and resonate about their days. The wait is always there for something exciting to happen, something new, something different, and when it does, the exhilaration only lasts so long. And then boredom, routine, mundanity, over and over again. nothing and no one can take it away permanently. You feel like crying, asking yourself why oh why, but also deep down knowing that, were things exactly the way you wish them to be, you wouldn’t be satisfied either way. It’s the permanent dissatisfaction of human life – or just life, all life? Who knows. That’s why we plan, it’s why we buy stuff, it’s why we do things, it’s why we set goals, it’s why we start wars, it’s why we fight, it’s why we cry, it’s why we kill, it’s why we create, it’s why we destroy, it’s why we, it’s why we, it’s why we. Because of this permanent dissatisfaction – only paused ever so shortly, and never so long enough for us to enjoy it truly. I know I wouldn’t be satisfied if all my so-called “problems” were solved away – my debts gone, more money in the bank, a house for myself, a complete guarantee that my boyfriend will never leave me, a body I love one hundred percent. I will just find something else, some other reason to be dissatisfied, something else to be bored about.

raw vulnerability

And so I’ll look at the elders and get fascinated by the resilience of the human being; and so I’ll get frustrated and cry about the meaninglessness of everything, and later that same day find meaning just in the way a dad gets on his knees so his son can hop on his back; and so I’ll wonder about our future and get anxious and scared because I’m terrified of compromise, terrified of it leaving me broken the same way it breaks millions of others; and so I’ll pack a few stuff for the beach and drive and drive and drive, and become amazed when I find out about the way motorcyclists greet each other when passing side by side on opposite directions; and so I’ll wonder if you truly do love me or maybe it’s just you not wanting to be lonely, but then remember that there’s nothing wrong about not wanting that (we are social beings after all); and so I’ll look at my present and realize the many ways in which it’s better than my past, and thank myself for it; and so I’ll try to take it day by day by day by day until the day I die, and fantasize and wonder about death maybe a little too much; and so I’ll persist, like the song says, and hope you’re there for me for a long long time, or at least long enough ‘til I learn how to live without you, in case I have to. 

do you take this wild ride?

you’ll hurt so bad you’ll wish you were dead
your soul’s hollowness will be too much of a dread
you’ll wonder why you were brought into this mad mad world
and no matter how bad you try you’ll feel you can’t fit into any mold
you’ll feel joy but it will be so brief you’ll ask yourself if it was real
you’ll cry and scream and wish there was a painless way to stop the feel

you’ll smell the sweet scent of coffee and rain and moistened wet ground
your lover will hold you so strong when you can’t stay safe and sound
you’ll cry of happiness too all in the same day
and stare at the astonishing beauty of the sunsets at bay
you’ll look at the sky and wonder how can so much beauty exist at the same time
you’ll feel the fingers of your lover caressing your face like a delicate chime

do you take this wild ride?

This gets the best of me, trying to feel love but sometimes I can’t, most I can do is give it, trying to care but everything seems careless, I wonder how I’ve been able to survive so many years of this, I really don’t want to do what others do and become addicted to some strange substance, I really don’t because that scares the crap out of me, I’m trying to deal with this the best way I can, reading, writing, taking showers, sleeping (but I’m taking sleeping pills and that scares me as well), I don’t want to rely on someone and feel like I’m bothering, I don’t want to feel useless because I can’t function «properly» due to this, it’s like something else inside my true self, some stuff made me happy and I can’t feel it anymore, I’m sorry, to who? I don’t know, I’m just sorry.

Escritos variados: XXIII.

Mujeres pagando por tener grandes las tetas cuando hay niños en países pobres que mañana no despiertan 

a quien queremos lo queremos porque queremos que nos quieran 

what you choose to believe can either drown you or save you 

you’re the kind of man that I would forever feel indebted to 

i would listen to the sound of stars coming from inside my ears 

¿quieres ir a la playa y plasmar todos nuestros problemas en la arena?
ojalá se fueran de la misma manera que borra las huellas las olas del mar 

i don’t know how to live without you 
I’d like to, but even if I try, I just don’t want to

la calma ANTES/DESPUÉS de la tormenta 

I started believing in all the shit that happened in the Bible when I started getting high cause I understood that anything can happen when you’re high – perhaps all those mfers were high af !

The past is unchangeable, the future is undefined: the only power we hold, if any, is over the present.

At times this human madness is funny, at times it’s desperately nauseating. 

you don’t seem to care
that I was interested in your friend at first
or maybe you don’t know 
yet I know 
I got the better one 
the one who texts me late at night 
reminding me of his love 
and in exchange I’ll send
pictures of your favorite sight

A drugged man pointing to a porcelain dog from across the shop window 
I wonder if he heard him when he growled back at him 

life expectancy: between 0 and 120 years sounds pretty realistic

We’ll fuck so good we’ll love so hard 
We won’t believe our luck
The neighbors will complain
But we won’t give a fuck 

so ill shoot myself in the head because my heart was never the problem

He estado pensando en querer aislarme en una isla por semanas, y morirme allí de hambre. O irme a un desierto y morirme allí de sed. O irme al Himalaya y encontrarme con una avalancha. Pero he estado leyendo acerca de los efectos de la hipotermia, y no suena divertido en lo absoluto. Le tengo miedo a la sangre, a las alturas, a las alucinaciones, a no saber qué es real y qué es mentira. Al pánico. Pero debo entender que al fin y al cabo, la mayoría de las personas no experimentan una muerte ‘placentera’. El vacío es demasiado, y la muerte es otro vacío más. Volver a la inconsciencia misma de la cual nací suena interesante, hasta que los pensamientos de una “nada” absoluta me incomodan. Quisiera tenerle rencor a mis padres por traerme aquí, quizás sí les tengo. El nihilismo me empieza a afectar y el sinsentido de todo toma lo mejor de mí. Una paz momentánea no es suficiente, sólo dura segundos, y esa paz siempre viene acompañada de pensamientos de muerte. 

Para el día de mi muerte habré llorado, quizá, 357345719030920 lágrimas, gritado 2875 gritos de desesperación, haberme hecho 3928 preguntas, y nada de esto es especial. Un día siento la necesidad de estar aquí para estar allí para quienes me necesitan, y al otro intento convencerme de que nada de esto es mi responsabilidad. Yo no decidí nacer (pero claro, tampoco nadie más). Yo no decidí tener una hermana. No he traído a nadie al mundo, y de eso me enorgullezco quizá de una manera un tanto molesta para los demás, quizá hasta sintiéndome un poco mejor que aquellos que sí lo han hecho. En un mes y un día cumplo veinticinco, y cuando veo a personas ancianas por allí, me pregunto cómo han llegado tan lejos. Es quizá un poquito exagerado decir que la vida era más fácil antes, porque no lo sé, no he vivido en tiempos pasados y la incertidumbre, me parece, siempre ha formado parte de la vida. Llegar a veinticinco ya es lo suficientemente tortuoso (a veces), como cuando no puedo dormir y sólo me queda fumar, manejar, caminar en insomniosos pasos, con mi madre haciéndome preguntas que no sé responder. Y ella lo anota como pensando que hay algún patrón (nada de esto es un patrón), como intentando dar con el por qué. No creo que haya un sólo por qué. Sus teorías: brujería, la horrible relación de mi papá con mi ¿ex?-madrastra y su separación, que no me guste el trabajo (¿y a quién sí?), mi relación amorosa (pues a veces, pero quizá son cosas mías), algún demonio (jajaja), etc, etc, etc. Y me pregunta cuándo empezó todo esto y no lo sé. Puedo decir que a los trece, como también puedo decir a los dieciséis, como también puedo decir a los diecinueve, como también puedo decir a los veintitrés, como también puedo decir a los veinticuatro. ¿Acaso importa? Puedo asustarme pensando que estos pensamientos suicidas han cobrado demasiada vida en los últimos ¿meses?, pero mi memoria me falla siempre, y quién sabe si estos pensamientos han sido parte de mí desde hace más tiempo del que quiero reconocer. Porque quizá (sólo quizá) antes los enmascaraba con otras cosas: trabajo, estudios, gimnasio, una relación. Pero ahora sólo tengo el trabajo y una relación y demasiada apatía como para empezar el gimnasio, demasiado pensar «de qué me serviría eso» como para continuar con estudios. Hago planes para tratar de tener algo por lo cual seguir, y al día siguiente digo que se me es imposible aguantar hasta el día que ese plan se cumpla.

mom, come help me. a half-bald man has got me writing love poems on a Monday at 10am.

existing with you, my favorite pastime
right after making love at nighttime
and then some pillow talk,
drinks talking or heart talking?
you, talking about how we’re meant to be
you, asking me to be yours for eternity
and me, realizing how long eternity really is
«forever is a long time… but sure»
your words of reassurance never cease to please me
the way you smile and laugh, and moan when you’re inside me
I spent the entire next morning thinking about how good it was last night
I’ll cry of happiness, for real, perhaps I might

but something deep inside me is still scared and thinking «too good to be true»
like how did I get so lucky, what did I do to deserve someone like you?
it’s the same thing you say to me, day after day
but you have to do nothing special to deserve me, we can just lay
perhaps the future will be good to us and this can last for a long time
but if for some reason it doesn’t, at least I had the chance to call you mine for some time
‘cause if I ever do lose you, I don’t know what I’d do, might also lose myself
and leave all my joy peace and calm, my plans and resilience, forgotten in an old empty shelf