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.