I Don't Feel It Anymore

It's a William Fitzsimmons kind of day.

Feverish.

The earth's position around the sun once again have confirmed that it's summer. School is out, and no longer do I have this undeniable tie to school, and in turn, to people at school. They no longer have to see me again if they wish, nor do I have to feel that awkward moment where I wave hi and they deliberately turn away. Why? My fault? Perhaps. Maybe. Yes in some, not at all, in other cases. Yet, I'm a bit sentimental about it all, who knew this would happen.

I wonder what will happen to all those memories. Should I leave them in Parking lot K? Open for anyone to stumble upon? Or should I leave them on Temple where so many precious memories have been kept since my college career began? Should I do that instead? Maybe I'll tuck those memories in between the rolling curves and hills of school, maybe with time, earth's tectonic plates will move fast enough to change the topography of the school. This way the memories could go deep in side the earth, and they will not resurface whenever I come visit this school, to my school.

I still have one day left, maybe I'll decide between now and then where I should tuck them in for the rest of times. Maybe, I'll come back in the middle of the night, bury them, only to desperately search for them at dawn or dusk, when light artfully comes to say its last goodbyes and newest hellos.

I have work to do this summer, and not languish as much as I did the last summer months. I want to indeed sharpen my skills. Talent in writing I hardly have any, yet, weirdly enough, it made me a better person. More sound, skillful, thoughtful, which I've desperately needed this past year. I feel like a child. I open my eyes anew with the coming of a new season. It's time again to be reborn and not dabble in heartless things, it's time to grow into an identity that I want. I struggle incessantly with myself. It's horrible especially since I felt I've regressed into a being that I can't quite identify with or am comfortable being around with during waking hours.

What I want is a little corner of a book shop where no one bothers me, or questions the reasons for me being there and I want to read, read for hours undisturbed. This would actually be made exponentially more awesome if I were able to seek refuge in some dense park with trees that become alarmingly more alive as the sun says its goodbyes for the day.

I want a little niche in some naturely lonely place where I can be overwhelemed with the beauty that needs no explanations, that needs not words. I want to corner myself there for a couple of hours and nap, and feel embraced by something that cannot lie, that can't betray or intentionally hurt me.

I want this the most, because sometimes, the only beauty in the world cannot be seen in someone's eyes. Sometimes, they deny you that, and you have to seek it elsewhere within the pockets of the earths, where it's soft and elusive, yet it's palpable.

Aca Estoy.

Siempre me encuentras en la esquina del mismo lugar. Siempre tiemo ir a mi casa. No estoy segura porque. Pero aveces es porque necesitio que mirar a alguien en la calle. Aveces siento que la gente en la calle tiene mas fe en mi que eh sentido en mi propio hogar. Nadamas una horas mas, y me voy.

Azucar Amargo

Oye.

Holy flying falafels. I've repressed so much, I'm like emotional vacum. Yep. This is gonna be harder than I thought. Oye. Someone please send me off to a feeling-free emotional empty place. 

Never Felt This Way.

My words are lingering on my fingertips, they're almost a congealed state, where they refuse to drip drip out of my tips. It's so hard to let go of them. They reveal my insecurities and my pain. Sometimes I want to write about beauty and wonder. Sometimes I want to write about a fresh whiff of air. Instead, I have longing and regrets that have filled my attic and my basement, where the sutures are becoming undone. It's calling me to do something, clean it, organize it, but I keep pretending those aren't mine. I keep making excuses in my head. I always did. I always rationalized why I shouldn't do things that made me happy. Why? Perhaps I'm unsure how I would handle happiness. What is it? It's something foreign that I avoid at all costs. I  walk with a defense that orbits around me at all times: happiness not welcome. I think I might tremble and lose consciousness. God, I'm horribly dramatic. But yes, I'm scared of happiness. I hate myself for being scared of it. I pranced around you so many times - I've fully realized now. I hate myself for it. I'm sorry. I was the worst. Yet, after all these years I want you, and no one else. No one has that place in my heart like you have.  I'm such a stubborn idiot. You already broke my heart, as surely as I have yours - now I know, and I might be horrible at these things, but I'll finally let you know. 

Shit. I'm gonna panic. 

"But on the other hand, you came"

I'm so self-concious about my writing now that I hardly feel the care-free, mistake prone writing that I was so accustomed to in the past. It becomes increasingly difficult to write in this space ever since my life fell apart. Plus, I found out about this nifty google account that allows one to see who views this blog - down to the city and server. I freaked out a bit.

I know it shouldn't be a problem, because I'm ultimately writing for myself. Yet, I cannot help feeling a bit of anxiety when a specific person might be viewing what I have written , it changes everything. Why do you all of a sudden show up? Is my writing meant to change the way people think of me? Honestly, that answer, shouldn't matter. Yet, it does for a specific person (s). 

I don't know that I want to change your mind, you can make it up yourself, without needing some sort of evidence on here for being my friend or not. I don't want to change your mind on what you decided about me a long time ago. I'm beyond tired, and I don't want to play that dancing game anymore. I'm trying to find meaning in my life right now, without finding my worth in others. I sound like a high school girl huh? Welp. 

 I leave you (mostly the empty space of the internet) with one of the most sad poems I have discovered recently. 

Enjoy. 

St. Paul and All That Frank O’Hara