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

"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.

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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!