It's been months since I last your his smile.

He holds it a bit nicer now.
Not so tense, not so reserved, not so much filled with rejection.
I was hoping he would be here.
behind the counter.
the Starbucks guy.
While I fill out forms.
while I move in my chair
to the rhythm of the Pharcyde.
while I was awake.
when i was done.


------

old posts. I havent seen that guy in months. but he seems tender. I feel that way of all tender souls.

The Self (part 30025)

Something radical has been happening. It's molding me and it's making me a bit anxious, more so than usual. It's making me spit with rage. It's making me more quiet than usual. I already survived some of the foray. I want to write but it it's all coming to fast. I wake up and heaviness presses against me. nothing new, really. How come I can't seem to function in the normal everyday life, of paying bills, working, getting stuff done throughout the day.

What's wrong with me? Nothing. Nothing. The madness of this world becomes difficult to handle everyday. I can't ignore the poverty the injustice. yet, I'm not helpess. I know that.


-----

I feel as heavy, but not the suffocating kind anymore. It's bearable. Things have changed. I've let go. of people and memory. Nostalgia. 

Sleep.

Sometimes I wake up with the intention of not. I feel heavy, almost always. Since I can remember. Sometimes it's incredibly easy to get up. Sometimes, it becomes laborious to breathe. I can't understand how people find it easy to live. To work, and come back home, and sleep and eat. I want to break down and cry. You can't understand how this feels. Unless you suffer from it as I do.  keep busy. Or else my life quickly becomes more heavy, unwilling to move. I can't even cry sometimes, because I'm never home it seems. I'm a stranger in someone else's home. I feel this sadness settle over me, how are people able to find happiness most of the time. I have to fight for it. Every day. But maybe not. More every other day. I have to fight to just live. It's hard. I don't want to sometimes. The safest thing to do in those instances are to sleep. For a bit. Life becomes bearable. It becomes. It helps to have lovely friends. And I feel guilty and not being a good friend. But how can someone be a good friend, someone like myself? I'm so tired. I'm tired of loving, even myself.

Cumpleaños.

My mumma texted me at 6:45 in the morning. Happy Birthday mija I luv you and I miss you y te queremos mucho. She said. No, wait. She wrote. It was an electronic message. Where nothing could probably even touch my heart. No voice to tell me love. no words were to touch me. No caressing of the heart.  The comal was cold. it was sunny and I was alone.

Get chocolate wasted, happy birthday he typed. he typed. He

Birthdays? What are they? Why so much pump and circumstance. Why so much celebration. Nothing to celebrate when you have accomplished nothing this year. The two people. Two people mattered, yet were muted. were constricted to that device that could not with the most beautiful and curving words move me to feel anything. Not even the hearts or the smileys that are are shaped into symbolic love could make feel like I mattered. So as usual, this day affirms to me, that birthdays are insignificant. If they did matter, does that mean I don't matter? I refuse. I refuse. Even if to me I am the only who I matter to, who remembers. If it's only I the one who cares. Because an electronic message doesn't convey anything. It conveys, I have to write, but I do not care to love. I do not care to love. I do not care. I am to lazy. I am too busy. I am too. I am. Not you. Perhaps guilty of this myself, once or twice or more.

So i've chosen. I've decided. Birthdays do not matter.  I don't care to tell anyone my birthday. I don't care to tell anyone when my birthday is.

I never cared to tell anyone.

Someone call my Ama, mi mama, my mum. Someone tell her that yesterday her daughter was born. Someone tell her that no one called. Someone tell her she forgot. I never cared to tell anyone. Oh, I forgot. I'm not supposed to care that she didn't call. The only one. The only i cared to have a feliz cumpleaños from. the only one of two. Im not supposed to care. I'm not. Im. not. I forgot. Perdón, Ama. 

Stamps.

I need to create a new space. because this space no longer is ok. It's a different time, it's time. I'm tired of recycling feelings and thoughts. I need to grow, i've already been, am breaking. How many times can a person break? Yet, I don't have that luxury anymore. to fall. the fall is a kind of privilege? Isn't it? No time for tears, or fears. I have to keep moving. Wether it's with those I wanted to come along with me or alone. Even if it's without my family. It's going to be a lonely yet incredibly growing and nurturing year for me. It's going to be lonely. man. I thought those years were done. They're never done, until I'm ok with myself tho right? Hm. I still feel like a child. 

Hey, Kid.

Im always the kid. 

the one that doesn't have it right. 

the one they leave alone. 

who is left alone to cool.
is uncool.
unkempt.
socially inept.
inept.

knows little of the real world.

whatever they mean.

Feels little.

but have you seen 

the feats of little things?

of aunts that can carrytheir homes on their backs?

I carry my home.

i am my home.

home is where the heart is.

i carry it everywhere

anywhere

i go.

have they not seen it?

i carry it sometimes in my belly.

as a kid

i could never find a permanent home

just like ants

i learned to carry heavy things

in my heart

yet

walk lightly 

with alacrity

towards 

home

Im strong.

I am the sinew and the meat.

have they not seen?

There's not time.

to unravel.

when i unravel.

i fold myself together

nicely.

They'll see.

always a kid.

but ive always been the sinew and the meat.

Coffee Shop Windows.

The beauty of this. There's three guys (men?) with a stroller in tow, and two precious little boys along for the ride, right in front of the coffee shop i frequent alone on Friday afternoons. Imagine. To my left that are three men as well. Two seem older, rough around the edges kind of men. They are talking to this young student (i imagine), most likely in his early twenties. Before they settled down on a park cold bench, the first man was there along with his bike and belongings. I've seen him before. He usually sits right outside of the coffee shop. He usually sits alone. He usually uses the internet outside.  The youngest man brings a manila envelope with him. Takes a couple of things out and shows him. I'm too far to see. Yet it's inescapable. It's probably computer parts they are sharing. Or super secret powers. Or friendship gifts of some kind. I want to sit here and bask in the beauty of this encounter. See. Because if people would see what I see they would be baffled. They would question the simplicity of it all. I've met people who have been baffled by it all. I want to live here where these things are normal. or is it that I no longer partake in that? As i once did. Where I talked to strangers. and I formed friendships seamlessly. without judgement.

See. The two men are light skinned. and the third man is a stocky black man. He can skate like no one's business. Tall and sturdy. He grabs the oldest baby by his tiny hand and and helps him climb his skateboard. The brother or the uncle, or the father films the skateboarding tricks (attempts) of the skinniest boy.

The men in the bench. A white man, a black man, and the young Mexican man. They smoke a bit, they laugh (i know they laugh because their glistening white teeth shine from far away), and they chat, they look over each other's shoulder towards the laptop and the smartphone. They marvel at whatever it is that has captivated their complete attention, oblivious to my gaze, or not. The Mexican man looks like a middle class boy, guy, man. The other seem to come from less money, most definitely.

----

and i leave before they all disperse.