"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

"Aventuras Con Depresión"

Here's something that lightens up the mood when I feel this way. I like to read this little strip and laugh at myself. Sometimes, that  makes it better. Click on the image to read the post on "Aventuras con Depresion."

10 Minutes

 Sometimes I look down in my hands and it reminds me of what I've done to myself. My hands aren't soft and supple. They are discolored in places with patches of melanin here and there, the outskirts recede in whiteness. There's grooves and ridges. They remind me of my great grandmother's hands. They remind me of all the roads she as traversed and all the suffering.

I never took care of my hands. I would dig deep into the earth to plant and replant my mother's garden. I would wake up early in the morning to make her garden beautiful. She loved plants. She loved when verdant scenery peppered hour home. I remember the longest I possibly took doing the garden was about four hours. I uprooted two bushes (they took over an hour to take out) that didn't fit with the tiny garden the property had. I would run my hands through the deep dark earth until my short nails were filled with dirt on their underside. Yet, I loved it. The sweat scurrying down my temples, and the sun pressing itself against me. It was bliss, especially when my version of fun was running everyday of the week with my fellow team mates and tending my garden on the weekends. My french homework always kept me alive. The world of language is quite beautiful.

----

I'm fighting to keep that love alive. I've run more than I've ever done since I quit my track team in high school, and I'm finally taking a reading French class. Here's to not giving up running and reading French because in all honestly for a long time that's the only thing that kept me going. Here lies the crux. My self- hate needs to turn into love. I want to cultivate love so badly, I'm running with it and not looking back, even if it means making a fool of myself.  A tout a l'heure!

There Are Some Remedies Worse than The Disease ...

Tragically Beautiful Emotions. 

Borrowing Writing Utensils.

Is it too soon to celebrate?

No, after beating myself up over so many things in my life, I want to revel in this little, uh, gift, let's say . You came to visit  today, err, yesterday, and it meant way more than you probably believe. It was kinda cool that my heart did this little summersault thing, with a bit of kicks here and there, and this time it wasn't because I felt impending heartbreak, at least yet. Perhaps you weren't necessarily coming to see me, just to use something quickly, but let me believe you came to say hi.

'Cause you know, it's not like I missed you or anything. It's not like I've brushed every guy off cause for some reason you are still wedged in between the arteries of my heart. It's almost like a reflex, and I was beginning to chip away at that wedge, cause it's time. I am still allowed to miss you though.

+)

Anxiety Will Not Run My Life.

Colonization: can bring about cultural, economic retardation. Pigmentorcracy:  is another hierarchical ladder that is forced upon you due to colonization.  But you know what they say Vanessa, you know right?, (the only dark skinned student in the class, full of Mexicans) money sure whitens. In Mexico during the .... As a dark skinned Mexican I had to constantly show that I had obtained a Ph.D in order for institutions to allow me access their archives, and even to have mutual respect in the Chile . Wheyou are dark-skinned, it always stays in the back of your mind.


----

I remember the lecture. The room seemed to be closing in on me, and my classmates. My professor would not stop picking on me, secretly I thought I was his favorite. My labored breathing was not helping my cause, I had already come in a good thirty minutes late several times, and I had missed quite a few classes. Unconsciously,  I tuned him out. Oxygen along with Nitrogen and a few other pals of his were coming into my lungs a bit unenthusiastically . They seemed to think that the journey was too much of a pain. My heart panicked and pounded on my door. "HEY, where the hell is O?"

I tried to calm down. I tried to draw pictures, along my paper's margins, for my heart. I tried to write soothing and calming words, then later anything, scribbles, mad layers of ink. I even tried to silently hum a tune inside my head, yet nothing worked. The incessant pounding from my heart told me that it couldn't take it anymore. I shot up, and quickly stepped out of the room.

The sky was already putting on its blanket. It even turned askance, what's wrong? Before I had a chance to respond, the sky fell into a deep stupor, in quite a melodramatic way, as its hues turned from hazy blue, to orange, purple, red, to finally a deep blue, almost black. Well that's the end of that, I thought. I just remember looking at my hands, they tingled. Or did they just tingle this last time my heart resumed its pounding again. I'm not sure. Those twenty minutes outside of class, I don't remember what I was thinking. Except I felt lost, almost outside of my reality. Once I got back in to class, the pounding resumed.

I ran. No. Sprinted to my car. I didn't quite care to see anyone of my way. All I needed was to get home as quickly as possible, I needed to see the reassuring face of someone, of my pup, of home. I needed to know that I was going to be okay. There's things that are supresed deep inside, not even I can touch them. I hide from myself. This time around, it's all coming out, because I simply can't live a mediocre life, or else living like this is unbearable. I want to love passionately, at least once. I want to love myself. That night I found out you were gone, something dried in me. I'm trying to nourish it back to health. I realized that it is no use to mourn and to ask after so much time, I have the right to be sad, and the right to be depressed, and the right to have anxiety.

Yet, there's a point where I must move on and get rid of those things. Like a new sheet, I need clarity and optimism. I've already lost a grandparent, a father, and a great friend, and when i die, I want to make sure that I'm ready. I want to look death squarely in the eye and tell him "I've always been ready." At whatever time it comes to take me.

To this year, so that perhaps I can finally love.

Iced Green Milk Tea...I mean Green Tea? Iced. Please =)

Sit Down, and write.

-----

On weekends, I usually go over to this coffee shop (yes I keep talking about them lately, I seem to always be at one, outside of one. Literally, they've become my second home). It's hard to think of a place that can provide me the solace I seek. It's hunger. For what? I am not sure.

-----

I come in, and every time I'm flustered as I take out my wallet. Every time, it happens: searching my backpack for my wallet, leaving a book at home, losing material things all the time (the reason why I cannot own expensive things). Strands of hair are always inching to come closer to my eyes, ruining my vision, giving me a blurry view of the  person I hand over the one dollar fifty. Green tea, please, but sometimes, hot green tea latte - either, or. It never changes. I never bother. Their drinks leave something to be desired. I always feel like a smooch if I just casually walk in to steal their internet, but dammit, sometimes I wish I would. The tea is not even good.

Once I hand over the money, I plop my bag on the floor, my books on the table, and start my screen. I tap my foot incessantly, creating a beat that jars with the casual conversation of the place, with the awful Christmas songs they've put on lately. I usually stay there until I can no longer bear the cold - because of course we've become so attached to air conditioners, we cannot stand any temperature above 75 degrees. It's almost like we want to insulate ourselves from nature - the wind. It's ok folks, a little sweating won't do you harm. Besides, we are  meant to perspire, it lets the bad things go. I always wan to tell them, but they'd scoff at me. Instead, we waste precious energy, even wearing a sweater while at it.

The routine never drastically changes.

It was summer, and the air was stifling. I was flustered, but less so than usual. The lull of summer drew me inside, as I usually sat in the outdoor patio sitting outside. My damp skin didn't complain, remember it's ok to let bad things go?

"An iced green tea please with one pump of sweetener."

 My voice always projects out of my control. My voice can be extremely loud, and barely audible. My order came out as an feeble whisper. He seemed pensive, serious. He inched closer to the cash register. His thick eyebrows raised a few centimeters above their state.

"Iced green tea. On pump of sweetener, please."

He took my money, and I turned around intent on finding a table in the corner of the place. One thing I dislike is being in the entrance of places. All the while I was envisioning his expression, it kept replaying a bit. He seemed like a guys' guy - if that makes sense. You see, I've grown with a lot of men that were vastly different. I couldn't help it, but I stereotyped him. This guy probbably likes to drink beers with his bud, and sit around and talk about cars and girls, and girls, and other manly stuff. I mean, he had the muscles, and a tattoo. His smile was trembling a bit, as if it was a stranger that came to visit his face.

It's been numerous weeks, now, almost the whole quarter of me going in once in a while to study in that specific location - which is a bit out of my way. I like to see his smile. His smile is a bit flat, probably due to the fact that he works at Starbucks and his smile is worn out. His eyes curve a little when he smiles, and I can see genuine friendliness oozing out from the corners of his eyes. Maybe he feels sorry that I always come in to study alone, at random times of the weekend, wether it's late at night or noon. I think he as seen me sit there for hours, reading, writing personal pages, sometimes sitting outside and people gazing. I like it that way though, being alone. Most of the time. So far I've felt okay. His smile always lingers a bit, and sometimes so do his eyes. I love his eyes, for just meeting them straight on those couple of times. His eyes warm mine, it's kinda weird.

I'll probably stop going soon. When I start to notice comfort I flee. It's an instinct. My heart is so jaded, even without having gone out with many - hardly any guys and it's not really those guys' faults. My life keeps everyone away. Sometimes, i'm horrible that way. I've always done this, and sometimes I don't know how to stop.

His eyes will stay with me, still. I don't know how to make that stop either.