A typical(y epic) conversation between ghey jesus and myself.
Me: ….I made pancakes for bfast today! And fish fo' dinner lol. Cooking mah life away
Denis: Haha ye’. I made honey bunches of oats. And cooked chicken wings, microwave style, and yeah. #HOUSEWIFE. Getit.
Me: #whenniggasshouldobviouslygetatwittah
Denis: #itsnevahtoolate. Maybe one day. But I feel like I might overrap the system.
Me: #HATAHSGONNAHATE
Denis: #GAYJESUS. #whydopeopledothiswhentheyrenotontwitter.didn’tthisstartontwitter?
Cuz. #wecoolasshit
Lol. Hmm I see. #bored. Buying music on itunes. Whatcha doing?
Writing. Or attempting to…cuz I seem to be spewing out uninspired garbage #sad. Lights are flickering on and off hurrr #worried
#youwouldbe. Lol jk well don’t overthink just #getitin. One of the best writers I know.
<3. #theonlybestfriendIknow #wearesoridiculoustogether
Lol. #itthinkweareridiculousperiod. I wonder what God was thinking when he created us
He was probably drunk. #alcoholic
I would believe that. Probably getting head at the same time #epic
TRUTH. Damnnnn so do you know if this snow is supposed to stop soon?
Haha sometime tonight, I think. #IHOPE
I wanna go to #IHOP because I’m aboutta get my period so im a hungry, ravenous bitch at the moment. #menstrualcycleblues
#suckshavingavagina. Don’t read that as shaving a vagina. Sucks having ok?
#LMAO-age #mystomachhurts #ouchtattoo
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Monday, January 24, 2011
but things just get so crazy, living life gets hard to do
Two floors up, the light filters through the window screen in patches; surprisingly perfect rectangles of brighter tan crisscross the table.
I came up here seeking isolation, thus perpetuating a habit of expected necessity. The spring in my step is often fresh and my clothes clean and my ears vigilant, but my insides are slightly messier. Sometimes, most times, I need these moments of almost-quiet, my phone on silent, and the cursor blinking to rearrange organs, and stitch up scratches. Tuck flyaway pieces of intestine into orderly circles.
No one ever said it was pretty.
Some days are life lessons. My idealistic self wants to say that all days are life lessons, but that is a lie. Some days are lessons in pulling yourself together when you’re not so together because doubt has crept into the spaces between the decisions you have stacked side by side, guided by pure instinct, instinct acted on by pure guts, their impending result dictated only by the passage of each day, also known as the future.
My problem, lately, has been finding that balance between logicality and rawness. They are mutually exclusive concepts, as one demands careful brain function and the other requires the knowledgeable undertaking of the risk of smashing your brain in.
Raw logic, then, usually finds me in rare moments of clarity. They are fleeting fragments of time so completely elusive, so unexpected that they refuse to be held. It’s the synchronization of various complicated parts, soul and mind together, interlocking motives to churn the wheel forward.
My timely arrival.
The frigid air, no wind.
Maps.
The privilege and sought after opportunity to sit in a classroom and learn shit.
That friend I made.
This hand on my back, guiding my steps. My God, I have never believed in God, not fully, but there’s something bigger out there.
And these patches of light. A sunny day, my one desire fulfilled. The light hits my eyes, yellow fragments obscure my vision.
Today’s Lesson: Faith.
I came up here seeking isolation, thus perpetuating a habit of expected necessity. The spring in my step is often fresh and my clothes clean and my ears vigilant, but my insides are slightly messier. Sometimes, most times, I need these moments of almost-quiet, my phone on silent, and the cursor blinking to rearrange organs, and stitch up scratches. Tuck flyaway pieces of intestine into orderly circles.
No one ever said it was pretty.
Some days are life lessons. My idealistic self wants to say that all days are life lessons, but that is a lie. Some days are lessons in pulling yourself together when you’re not so together because doubt has crept into the spaces between the decisions you have stacked side by side, guided by pure instinct, instinct acted on by pure guts, their impending result dictated only by the passage of each day, also known as the future.
My problem, lately, has been finding that balance between logicality and rawness. They are mutually exclusive concepts, as one demands careful brain function and the other requires the knowledgeable undertaking of the risk of smashing your brain in.
Raw logic, then, usually finds me in rare moments of clarity. They are fleeting fragments of time so completely elusive, so unexpected that they refuse to be held. It’s the synchronization of various complicated parts, soul and mind together, interlocking motives to churn the wheel forward.
My timely arrival.
The frigid air, no wind.
Maps.
The privilege and sought after opportunity to sit in a classroom and learn shit.
That friend I made.
This hand on my back, guiding my steps. My God, I have never believed in God, not fully, but there’s something bigger out there.
And these patches of light. A sunny day, my one desire fulfilled. The light hits my eyes, yellow fragments obscure my vision.
Today’s Lesson: Faith.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
World Spins Madly On
At work a couple of days ago, with Pandora open in one of my tabs. Locking stuff up before going on a smoke break. When suddenly...
Woke up and wished that I was dead
With an aching in my head
I lay motionless in bed
I thought of you and where you'd gone
And let the world spin madly on
Ever had words literally shake your insides? It's like letters smashing into auditory sensors, pushing, frantically, into your brain. The signal of recognition as they wreak havoc down your throat; you swallow hard.
Vertical
Free
Fall
...into your stomach. And they sit there, and they simmer.
And I stood there, humanity moving around me, propelled - always - by blissful ignorance, and I couldn't move.
The whole word is moving and I'm standing still
There was a time when I thought this song alone would make up the playlist of my life.
One year (and counting at times) is a desperately long time for broken ribs to heal.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
In Hindsight.
I spent three years sweeping hair.
I am enchanted by the romance of the idea, as I am enchanted by most things that retain within themselves a spirit of sentimental endurance. Maybe I am just strange (I am just strange) but it has taken me far too long to understand how I see to give up on the habit now; this romanticism with the seemingly mundane. It’s a one-sided love affair, a daily passionate embrace, a lustful collision with the beauty fighting for control of each second.
And sometimes, regular words and simple sentences fail me. I, then, spin webs of verbs and subjects, delicately working left to right, connecting the threads of thought that catch the adjectives that I bend to fit my purposes.
How do I explain this? The significance of the countless days I spent basking in yolk-colored walls. On the contract written on my brain, I signed off my weekends and my sanity. But mental health is a concept of relative perception. It’s just that I was a kid and I wanted green fields and muddy cleats and it’s just that simply existing sometimes demands sacrifices of daunting proportions.
Society likes to call that growing up.
Acceptance, letting go in its most polished state, is a remarkably difficult concept to master, however, so I suppose the early start won’t hurt, though it certainly pained at the time. Acceptance, for me, has been a journey of hundreds of days spent practicing discipline within four glass windows and behind a red desk. Fitting it is, that arrival at my destination meant letting go of my place of learning.
Lessons learned, practice outside the glass, the figures drawn on the walls yelled at me. I hit a wall, just like they hit the wall when their mysterious creator (artists, they are called) splattered them alive. So I guess they know a thing or two about stuff. Conviction, the fire that began at the pit of my stomach and pummeled out of my mouth, is a far easier idea to embrace than acceptance, for conviction demands action instead of surrender and I am better, generally, at making burning decisions.
And conviction dictated moving on. That tug in my middle, spreading to my chest, because my decisions are made with the heart, which is another romantic concept, as I am in love with life.
Here, convinced, but unsure, and so completely accepting of the contradictions, that…
Good things gonna come.
I am enchanted by the romance of the idea, as I am enchanted by most things that retain within themselves a spirit of sentimental endurance. Maybe I am just strange (I am just strange) but it has taken me far too long to understand how I see to give up on the habit now; this romanticism with the seemingly mundane. It’s a one-sided love affair, a daily passionate embrace, a lustful collision with the beauty fighting for control of each second.
And sometimes, regular words and simple sentences fail me. I, then, spin webs of verbs and subjects, delicately working left to right, connecting the threads of thought that catch the adjectives that I bend to fit my purposes.
How do I explain this? The significance of the countless days I spent basking in yolk-colored walls. On the contract written on my brain, I signed off my weekends and my sanity. But mental health is a concept of relative perception. It’s just that I was a kid and I wanted green fields and muddy cleats and it’s just that simply existing sometimes demands sacrifices of daunting proportions.
Society likes to call that growing up.
Acceptance, letting go in its most polished state, is a remarkably difficult concept to master, however, so I suppose the early start won’t hurt, though it certainly pained at the time. Acceptance, for me, has been a journey of hundreds of days spent practicing discipline within four glass windows and behind a red desk. Fitting it is, that arrival at my destination meant letting go of my place of learning.
Lessons learned, practice outside the glass, the figures drawn on the walls yelled at me. I hit a wall, just like they hit the wall when their mysterious creator (artists, they are called) splattered them alive. So I guess they know a thing or two about stuff. Conviction, the fire that began at the pit of my stomach and pummeled out of my mouth, is a far easier idea to embrace than acceptance, for conviction demands action instead of surrender and I am better, generally, at making burning decisions.
And conviction dictated moving on. That tug in my middle, spreading to my chest, because my decisions are made with the heart, which is another romantic concept, as I am in love with life.
Here, convinced, but unsure, and so completely accepting of the contradictions, that…
Good things gonna come.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Words About Stuff
It all started that morning I put a shirt and my wallet into a small bag. Screams of revolution in a dark parking lot. I kissed her on impulse because the moment pulsated with randomness. I wanted to stay but I had to leave. And the first sunrise of the year found me in a park somewhere, cold and shivering, a Corona in one hand.
I broke someone that day. The truth is, I have probably broken countless people during these 12 months. But not only did I kiss her, I kissed him. And the difference between them was dictated by the feelings dripping from his fingertips into my hand, wrapped around his. I realized my mistake just in time; I pulled away. But the moment happened.
Am I to blame, though? Days and days that extended into months, and mornings when I woke up not knowing how to wake up. I remember them so clearly: my alarm clock blaring, my eyes closed, the sunshine imposing itself.
I kept score; a one to two, seven to five, nine to ten symphony of heartbreak.
But sometimes they call that love.
And sometimes, they say, you lose.
But it’s
in the descend
that
I grabbed the circumstances
and
molded them
to fit my wishes.
Thank you.
They say that one day you wake up and you realize that you can actually function. Everything fixed. Laughable. I clawed my way out, a solitary exercise recorded by countless word documents saved deep into the night. I say something in your human anatomy shifts. You begin producing metal. And I was stronger.
So, thank you. For the beautiful time. Gorgeous memories I cherish.
What a year to carve my initials into persons’ hearts, into people’s skin before saying goodbye.
And when all was done and nothing said, because farewells are actually found in silence - in the shrug of a shoulder or a wishful look - I watched the skies for the airplane I was supposed to be on.
During dizzying 70 hour weeks, I threw myself into bed, got up, did work, saved money and did it all over again. Three months of this, a work addiction I have not quite beaten nor do I want defeat. I made the time for you, somehow, in much the same manner that I made space for you in an organ I never want to distrust. I made no promises and we held hands and in a state up north, in the living room of the family I had charmed so well, as some wicked wind raged on outside and the sunset peeked over tree tops, we whispered accidental I love yous, the way love should be spoken. Unplanned.
I lied. Because that was an accidental promise, and one that I tried to honor.
It’s peculiar feeling, leaving a house you don’t consider your home anymore because your family has become a group of strangers and you a mere nightly visitor. Your mother’s green eyes were cold and sad and they have remained sad, though touched, every now and then, by proud electricity.
We have learned to love each other. And maybe we, ourselves, do not quite understand it yet (and neither do the outsiders looking in) but I have always said that we are too similar to get along. We walk with dignified arrogance and we talk forcefully and we love savagely. We want what we want when we want it, hungrily and impatiently. We recognize these qualities in each other; inherent respect. We traveled together on a plane nine years ago and built a new life on each other’s promises
I told her that I intended to make a somebody out of myself. She told me that she intended to always be there. We have kept our word.
And so I began chasing sunsets.
I searched in dawn air that vibrated with music and amidst the sprawling arms of questionable life decisions. Sometimes this meant going to work almost too drunk too function, almost too guilty to continue, but it always meant elation. I worked 11 hour days with the firm belief that they would pay off; energized by the conviction that five years from now, I will look back on this time in my life and laugh because I was young and stupid and pulled it off so well. I gave up dreaming the day I gave up feeling sad, but I build my days’ worth with literal hard work.
It is far better than slumber that wants so much it hurts.
And in this chase of a beautiful ideal, I offered no explanations to no one but myself. But maybe this is me saying it all on the record.
It’s damn a shame that people are so scared of speaking their hearts, though. I tell my friends that I love them and I go to sleep every night with my mother’s “Te quiero” still ringing in my ears. I thank those who feed me with heartfelt hugs.
People aim to live without regrets. Thing is, I have realized that I specifically aim to die knowing I said it all, the dirtied heart on my sleeve still beating and my smile shining.
Maybe it’s too much to expect: To live intensely and to live unapologetically.
But, for fucks sake, give me the chance, 2011.
I broke someone that day. The truth is, I have probably broken countless people during these 12 months. But not only did I kiss her, I kissed him. And the difference between them was dictated by the feelings dripping from his fingertips into my hand, wrapped around his. I realized my mistake just in time; I pulled away. But the moment happened.
Am I to blame, though? Days and days that extended into months, and mornings when I woke up not knowing how to wake up. I remember them so clearly: my alarm clock blaring, my eyes closed, the sunshine imposing itself.
I kept score; a one to two, seven to five, nine to ten symphony of heartbreak.
But sometimes they call that love.
And sometimes, they say, you lose.
But it’s
in the descend
that
I grabbed the circumstances
and
molded them
to fit my wishes.
Thank you.
They say that one day you wake up and you realize that you can actually function. Everything fixed. Laughable. I clawed my way out, a solitary exercise recorded by countless word documents saved deep into the night. I say something in your human anatomy shifts. You begin producing metal. And I was stronger.
So, thank you. For the beautiful time. Gorgeous memories I cherish.
What a year to carve my initials into persons’ hearts, into people’s skin before saying goodbye.
And when all was done and nothing said, because farewells are actually found in silence - in the shrug of a shoulder or a wishful look - I watched the skies for the airplane I was supposed to be on.
During dizzying 70 hour weeks, I threw myself into bed, got up, did work, saved money and did it all over again. Three months of this, a work addiction I have not quite beaten nor do I want defeat. I made the time for you, somehow, in much the same manner that I made space for you in an organ I never want to distrust. I made no promises and we held hands and in a state up north, in the living room of the family I had charmed so well, as some wicked wind raged on outside and the sunset peeked over tree tops, we whispered accidental I love yous, the way love should be spoken. Unplanned.
I lied. Because that was an accidental promise, and one that I tried to honor.
It’s peculiar feeling, leaving a house you don’t consider your home anymore because your family has become a group of strangers and you a mere nightly visitor. Your mother’s green eyes were cold and sad and they have remained sad, though touched, every now and then, by proud electricity.
We have learned to love each other. And maybe we, ourselves, do not quite understand it yet (and neither do the outsiders looking in) but I have always said that we are too similar to get along. We walk with dignified arrogance and we talk forcefully and we love savagely. We want what we want when we want it, hungrily and impatiently. We recognize these qualities in each other; inherent respect. We traveled together on a plane nine years ago and built a new life on each other’s promises
I told her that I intended to make a somebody out of myself. She told me that she intended to always be there. We have kept our word.
And so I began chasing sunsets.
I searched in dawn air that vibrated with music and amidst the sprawling arms of questionable life decisions. Sometimes this meant going to work almost too drunk too function, almost too guilty to continue, but it always meant elation. I worked 11 hour days with the firm belief that they would pay off; energized by the conviction that five years from now, I will look back on this time in my life and laugh because I was young and stupid and pulled it off so well. I gave up dreaming the day I gave up feeling sad, but I build my days’ worth with literal hard work.
It is far better than slumber that wants so much it hurts.
And in this chase of a beautiful ideal, I offered no explanations to no one but myself. But maybe this is me saying it all on the record.
It’s damn a shame that people are so scared of speaking their hearts, though. I tell my friends that I love them and I go to sleep every night with my mother’s “Te quiero” still ringing in my ears. I thank those who feed me with heartfelt hugs.
People aim to live without regrets. Thing is, I have realized that I specifically aim to die knowing I said it all, the dirtied heart on my sleeve still beating and my smile shining.
Maybe it’s too much to expect: To live intensely and to live unapologetically.
But, for fucks sake, give me the chance, 2011.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
