Wake up.
I am going to say this once. You breathe, you walk, you talk like anyone else would breathe, walk or talk. You choose topics no different from those seen in magazines, and you use the same God-damned words you read. You see the pilot of several new TV shows, but you never see the second one; where’s the follow-up? If they happened to have been dramatic enough, you shed your tear or two, but everyone has cried; if they are sitcoms instead, you laugh, you say out loud “my life´s a joke”, and I can see your eyes shifting to a depressive mode. But everyone has cried, everyone has laughed, we have all said, “my life´s a joke”, and most importantly, we have all been in depressive mode.
However, you are here with me, and I can see you. I see you. I feel you, no one else. We share the same air when we need no more than a few millimetres to measure the distance between us. During those moments we share the same words that everyone else has sheared, and they are precious to us. When you cry, I think it’s my heart the one broken. When you laugh out loud, I think it is my soul the one that has gotten some relief. I want you.
You are unique to me.
it was a storm, the way all of those possible reactions twirled around his head. He picked the worst, though he had no way of knowing back then. There is no way for him to know until the end. Now, when the expected resolution is not there; how do you tell someone he’s been playing a solitary game which no longer has a possible solution?
Her name starts with an A.
The thing with windshields after a cold night is that one cannot see anything in or out because of the layer of moist on top of the glass. The sun was barely starting to rise, and I couldn’t tell what was happening outside; I was bound to crash. I messed up, and now that the sun is at its highest point I think I am suffocating. It was there, the sun was there, I couldn’t wait for it to be obvious. Now, I do not have the shadow of your great love to cover me from this burning sun. It is overwhelming how clear it all got, and it is frustrating, as well, knowing that knowing is of no use now.
The adventurer and the writer.
I would say that the panorama of a writer’s work life can be compared to the life of an adventurer climbing the mountains and volcanoes surrounding the valley of my beloved Guatemala. There are some high peaks the hiker would like to face, like the writer would like to face the writing of epic poems, or the bringing to life the most interesting characters. But every peak has its downfall, and the higher the level reached, the cruelest the downfall is.
An attraction is The “Volcán de Fuego”, a peak that raises 3763m above sea level. It is quite an impressive view if you stand on the summit, be it you standing on the volcano’s peak or the writer boasting after the success of his work; there seems to be no one alive who would trade such feeling for something simpler. However, such state is not permanent; it is lost, and soon he or she who stands there finds him or herself walking down, getting away from such sight, or falling down into a void where no one seems to know about his or her writing. When the base of the volcano is reached, or the bottom of the void is hit, grief conquers. The adventurer does not seek for another volcano to climb, the writer for another challenge to overcome; they mourn. They dwell under the false premise that there won’t be sight beautiful enough to be compared to the one they’ve left behind.
I write these words tonight hoping they bring peace to my mind. Maybe if I know what the adventurer or the writer does wrong. While they focus on what they’ve lost, I can aim to what’s there to come.
I can only wish for something to come along.
I think I’ll edit this later on tonight, if you have a comment on how this piece can be better, feel free to send your thoughts to my ask. Thank you.
It was a matter of disenchantment.
Bright. Everything was colourful. but out of the sudden a monochromatic scale took over the atmosphere. Black, white and an uncountable number of shades of grey surrounded him in a second. He didn’t even notice. While the colour-shift-happening took place, he was taking a sip of coffee. He put his cup back to where it was before taking it for the final sip, and then he noticed.
There was a new shadow over the window in front of him, it was moving quickly. he feared for a second, though that second went by too rapidly; He had no life to fear for after she ended him.
His wife cleaned the knife she stabbed in her husband’s back carefully. left him there, and went away. Her husband had given her reasons, though He never imagine she would find out.
I’ve drank poisonous liquids that tasted heavenly.
Pain, it invades me whenever I see my cup empty. Depletedness I despise, therefore I kill whatever brings that sensation to my heart, with a sudden move of my hand the stillness of the cup that stood on my desk got interrupted, it is falling down, and I am only waiting for the imminent clinging sound. The cup lies now on the floor, it has been shattered into a million pieces that I set myself to count; soon, blood; It was only logical. Now, what is precious to me lays mixed with what tortured me some moments ago; how ironic. I cannot see clearly for I have drank poisonous liquids that taste heavenly, so I take for diamonds what is only the shinning of the broken crystal and the reflection of light on my blood. I believe I’m rich now, when in fact, I’m only dying.
To my heart, I carry the key.
It is now that I realize, by being inside of this four walls after having locked down the door while carrying the key, that no one has an easy way in. Then again, should anyone ever?
Should love be taken as a war, one were doubtful and courageous soldiers spill their blood equally for the Oh-so-loved-land’s freedom? Should it be savoured as bitter-sweet as it is savoured war’s victory when one sheds confused tears, some of them falling for the lost and some of them falling for what was accomplished? Should it be mapped out as mapped out is the path warriors follow on their way to conquer new territory? Because in a way, that is what I am doing, hiding behind these walls, just as if they were a bunker, as if I was seeking for protection to the weaponry my enemy holds; planning out, whilst I hide, mindful phrases, phrases that just as bullets would penetrate your heart’s shield. However, I think and post myself the question, “should love be sudden?”
Should it be sudden, sudden like a bomb levelling the ground, leaving none of the soldiers alive, therefore exposing the target as vulnerable? Should it be unexpected just as rain is when it falls during combat lowering or increasing our chances of winning? Should it need no help for it is able to nourish even when planted on the deserted land we trace after walking? Should it be natural and resemble the seasons of the year with their impossibility of being stopped? Because in a way, I would love to consider that having left the window open is reason enough for love to come inside, be it in the shape of a bomb, rain, spring or fall, and conquer me.
Be it as it may, warlike or sudden, love is a waiting game.
The sun will always lead me to despair.
Night would rather ignore the howling of my desires. tonight nor ever she has been able to satisfy the craving, but still she gives in to my calling, and I give in to her weakness. I bite, she cannot bite back. I scratch, she does try to do alike; unsuccessfully. So when the playfulness of our encounter does reach an end, I walk away, and she sighs waking up like that the cruel cold wind of the before-dawn.
The wind blows as if it were trying to revenge night’s sadness, it makes my fur-coat dance and myself move faster to avoid the chills. Land is my friend, it provides me with shelter. I find in my way a cave, to where I move in. There, after having let my guard down, I wonder if it was all only a scam. The void in this old cavern gives wind a voice, a terrible voice that resemblances the crying of the dead. I quiver and sob. Defeat. Have I been defeated?
That was the last thought I remember having before the waking up of the sun. it’s heat warmed up my paws, and I woke up to new day. I woke up afar from night and it’s sadness, from night and it’s friends; my enemies.
I say I woke up then, and every day, free. Truth be told, I wake up fooled. The sun will abandon me today and everyday. The sun whom I consider my friend will always lead me to despair.
A thought that conquered him.
A thought invaded him that afternoon. He told me about it. He said it was lovely. He used words to describe it that I had never heard before, so what I’ll rephrase -pardon my poor vocabulary- is what any other mortal would have understood from the Godlike phrases he used then…
I day-dreamt white as light that ran free through the twirls of her hair and around the dinning room; painting, as it did, a lovely atmosphere… …I imagined our strength, harvesting delicious ideas from the vast lands our minds are, only to cook, with such rich fruits, even more tempting dishes(*) From where she was sitting, at the other end of the dinning room table, she called my attention by saying that she had prepared the tastiest of them. I believed her; first, because I believe in her; and second, because preparing thoughts that anyone would consider nourishing was usual for her.
Such was the end of the striking thought he had that afternoon. Before he decided to change the topic of our delightful conversation, he did let me know how he had felt fuzziness taking over his self-awareness after letting that thought possess him completely.
(*)My friend believes that words are souls’ nourishment, and that they posses a flavour that when drawn together, in the right proportions, words are able to please one’s palate.
After a single-serve.
One knows one has won when greatness is served, as a delicious and unique blend, into a cup of coffee, and the smell fills your lungs, and its taste takes your thoughts to wilderness, and its hotness warms you up, and its bitterness is the kind of bitterness -the only if I may add- that draws a smile upon your face, and its colour -even when it is as dark as night- brightens up your day. I know I have won.
For my lungs feel as if prepared for diving into unknown, my thoughts now wander around colourful land, cold conquers my soul no more, the sad expression that once washed away my smile vanished and predicts no returning, and the night I was submerged in died after the most promising dawn. I know I have won.
Exploration.
I cannot remember when nights stopped being good nights; I even have a hard time remembering if they ever were. Nowadays it seems as if silence is surrounding my existence, it feels as if even crickets have found other fields where to chirp. Therefore in my thoughts I dive, looking for something that might bring comfort, joy, or just warmth- even if it is momentary, even if it fades away as we go deeper in this night’s veil.- And I give in, just like I always do. I give in to…
It dulls my thoughts exactly how a lullaby soothes the desperate crying of a baby who does not know how to fall asleep peacefully by itself; It numbs my sight that does nothing but to look for a figure that is nowhere to be found; it merely pleases my senses, but it does do the job. So I give in to fake. I give in to mundane. I give in to what any other human has already given in to. I give in.
To those who are not around.
If at one point or another we called ourselves friends, do believe that it meant a lot to me. Life, it has a tendency of setting things apart, our relationship was not anything different. Who had it wrong, who had it right is obviously not important now. Please, do consider that if anything were to happen to you, to any of you, I’d mourn if that was the case, or I’d help if you needed any. Because, I still treasure the moments we shared.
Illuminate.
Sorrow conquers the heart of the living, just as shadows do with the streets of this city during night. Even though street lights are sufficient for some of the late night walkers; in one’s heart, I find it hard to believe, renters would like to live with the lights turned off.
Detailed moment
Shy is the sky that hides behind grey clouds, and stubborn are the beams of light that fight their way through. Distant are the mountains that mark the horizon, and envious are the trees blocking the sight of it. Fresh is the grass upon which we are sitting, and lovely is the company that you are giving to me today. Nervous are our hands stumbling into one another, and joyful are the smiles such act brings to our faces. Warm is the rush I’m getting through my blood stream, and away can perfectly describe where my worries lay. Thankful I am to what time has brought along, and expectant I feel to what might come next.
At age 10.
There he was, standing, fingers tangled in strings that created a net. A net which separated her from him; poetry from mundane, beauty from ordinary. There he was, hanged upon his first conscious illusion, hanging around the age of ten. Speechless, mouth opened, just as wide as his eyes were; and breathless even though he was certainly alive. Alive still when his selection of clothing stated otherwise. Alive in spite of what the color of his skin might have implied. Alive because no one has ever witnessed, and will never do, something which sprang so easily inside the glimmer of his deep brown eyes; something selfless that I could have only name after a feeling; love.
There she was, queen of the bouncy-castle, queen of his day, queen of the entire day; she was turning 10 that Saturday. She was feeling free and flattered. The dress she was wearing made her feel free and flattered, plus the way with which everyone was jumping helped her jump even higher, and that was something that pleased her. She was happy, you could conclude that from the indescribable smile lighting up her face, from the way the sunlight seemed to caress every strike of her golden hair and every inch of her skin. He was delighted.
She stopped jumping, though there was no reason for her to do so.-He wondered about her thoughts at that moment; little did he know that soon he would find out.- She noticed his presence, it was only obvious since he was the only kid not acting according to the unspoken agreement on kid’s behaviour whenever finding themselves at a party with a bouncy-castle situation; you were supposed to jump, not stare! and everyone knew that, he knew that, she knew that. But, he could do nothing else, because her beauty hypnotized him in a way that if a command about looking away were to exit his brain, his eyes and the rest of his body would simply not listen. So she noticed, and for a second, a smile was being built around the corner of her lips, but the intensity of his sight turned that unfinished smile around. turning it into mockery: wiggling tongue out, babbling sounds; the whole deal. His heart broke for the first time.
The spell got broken, his legs hadn’t realized. he wanted to run from that spot but he couldn’t, he even wanted to fly but the wings he thought he had earned simply vanished never to return again. Seconds turned into minutes, minutes into days. The mockery was a non-stop show, and at that moment, everyone was already staring, pointing, and laughing at him; at our little dreamer. One leg moved, he felt how the other one followed, and just like a train that is set to go, he swore he wouldn’t stop for anything in the world. His steps were precise, light but conclusive. However, his tears were heavy, redundant. and clumsy on their way down his face.
Instinctively, he ran around the backyard were the birthday party was being held; in between tables, legs of guests and a few clowns that failed at making him feel any better. His speed was increasing then; it seemed he could have teared a wall down if only he had stumbled across one. From afar, his mom saw that something had not ended appropriately, therefore she decided to go and, leaving her lunch behind, the coffee on the table, her bag on the floor, and a half-way-through conversation, be his saviour.
Even when the space there, for a kid, would seem to be enormous; for an adult, it was just a backyard; so the only thing his mom did was stand up and wait for her son to show up in front of her; and he did, not minutes later, but just a couple of seconds after. As soon as he felt he was being wrapped around familiar arms he set himself to cry; just like waterfalls let their water fall, without control.
She articulated a few phases:”It’s all okay honey!”, “It won’t happen again sweetheart.”, “I love you” phrases that used to make him feel a lot better whenever he was feeling down, ill or hurt; though that day he was feeling heartbroken, and such phrases could have never mended his broken heart.
