Aside

Feelings

The wait for the words that may never come remains. Words and facts forever bind, as true as anything else can be.

Hope falls with me, scratching its knee. Loneliness by our side, padding our heads, gently pushing our backs. Routine whispering wild stories of feelings and thoughts in our ears, so foreign, so close.

A liar feeling guilt, taking the option of becoming what she never expected to be; wrestling lust, fighting love, numbing the heart, ignoring her mind… Miserably losing at it all.

An enthusiastic child that believes his quest has come to an end; feeling it all right in the moment, idealizing possibilities only he can see.

A life companion, another broken beauty that chooses to be distant to an actual piece of himself; knowing nothing at all, forever being on someone else’s mind and heart.

A shy dog that retreats and does not say goodbye; feeling the bond, not showing a thing.

How probable is it to be the only soul wired like this? Feel with me, stay by my side; so close, look at me, inside and out.

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Clock

Life is very good right now. Life could be better though.

New experiences and new hopes have been born. But also some of the old; the secondary clock in my computer is still set on Amsterdam’s time.

The alarm goes off in the mornings, waking up is as difficult as ever, but there is so much to look forward during a working day.

Yet… I’m in love with love. Feelings imitate chameleons. What’s up? Move on, walk on, fight, grow. Keep hoping for the best, prepare for the worst.

Dearest ally and enemy, oh clock.

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The real world

One of my great dislikes is to see how my writings show me as a negative, cloudy sky person; but I can’t help it, words are my only scape when it comes to on-the-edge feelings. I tend to feel things so dramatically, and here I go again…

It is really strange that no one I know feels the way I do, about loyalty, about cruelty, about a life companion, and about many other things… It seems like only fiction matches my personality. I must admit that I have even researched for a syndrome that might describe me; but none have completely matched.

Despite that I’m not so young, my life has been sheltered in a way, having experienced this cozy and chaotic world that is mainly composed by my family, and no other permanent relationships. Much too comfortable with myself and much too incompatible with everyone around me.

I should have known when my mother heard me cry when I was still in the womb -only if I could remember-. Someone should have suspected something when I was born with one incisor tooth. It must have given me a clue when I would turn soviet red because I was asked to give a reading demonstration in preschool.  I should have known it when I was the only one feeling bad about my classmates teasing a child who wore glasses, and not joining them on their so child-like evil teasing. I should have known when people’s eyes spoke to me and made sense the way their words hardly ever did.

Who’s to know if genes or circumstances made me the way I am?; both things perhaps. I was born strange. I didn’t know, I just felt an itch inside me, somewhere close to my soul. Knowledge has come to me little by little through my life.

More than a couple of decades have passed, and in the core, I’m still the same kid. Do we ever truly change? My worries have changed, my hormones have woken up, my responsibilities have increased, my disappointments have piled up, but I’m still the same.

I’ve gotten more in touch with the real world the present year than I have ever been before. When I was this shy, smart, bright-eyed and inquisitive kid, I used to feel there was something dangerous about letting myself out of my own mind, about trusting others… I was right.

I’ve figured, I insist so much in not letting myself trust, because in fact I trust as easily as my heart bruises.

There is something about the work environment… People turn into back-stabbers when their monthly income is involved.

And there is something else about love and sex too… People turn into… people, when their physical pleasure or the utopia of true love are at stake.

Some things that happen, I still can’t believe. My poor thoughts-right-out-of-my-mind filter hasn’t helped at all. The fact that I look 5 years younger than I am, reflects exactly my insides.

People with kind words and toothy smiles can hide so huge lies. People say words they do not mean. People do low things to feel above you at work. People bid farewell in the most easy and cruel way, not caring if half your heart is with them. People are capable of stealing with little or no charge of conscience.

The real world kind of sucks, but bring it on.

Almost it all

Unsuccessfully repressed anger. A constant and unrelated -if soft- headache.

Awake. Sleep chasing after me. Do not think. Do not feel. The bird and the fish.

Frustration that built up with desires of flesh and soul that have not been met.

I have not failed to see the easy coming beauty. Precious ephemeral rose beds.

Memory needs strength. The reasons. The differences. The love. The needs.

Life. Mind. Heart. Body. Trusted to a sense of certainty. Certainty and hope.

But cursed I am. Cursed it is. The feeling. Curiosity met by creators of doubt.

No one understands. Compounds. Same elements. Different arrangement.

Tears have stopped coming down while seated in uncomfortable bus rides.

The kite has been cut from the cord. Repeat the words. I do not care anymore.

Let it hurt. Let it burn. After one -only one lifetime- it will be gone. Almost it all.

Life is not as you read it in books

As pieces of art stir dormant ideas of mine, colorful bed cloth keep me warm in a lazy saturday morning, and feelings are pushed to numbness very meaningly so… I break the streak that has keeping me away from the necessary occasional purging –a new post– for a while now.

I do not like that word, purge, it has a rudeness about it, but right now I can’t think of any other word that suits best with I wanted to say.

Life is not as you read it in books, or as you see it in the movies. Wake up from delusion. There is a moment in life when most of us are faced with this universally accepted fact.

On one side… Most people’s lives are not major book sellers.

And to be honest, I have found it absurd how inspiring, helpful and/or reassuring fiction characters can be for me, feeling in my element with them more than with my own flesh and bones life companions; and also, I have found myself blaming the words that have encouraged the validity of my own idea of love.

On the other side… Lives –real or invented– just happen. Books aim a detailed explanation of them. And there are many types of books.

My own monotonous life, simple to the common eye, has enough material to create a book; my single unimportant life has a storage of thoughts, events, feelings, hopes and eye witnessed recollections to fill an encyclopedia sized novel.

You are allowed to say that my life is too boring to make a good book, that my inclination to loneliness, early night days, and home nesting happiness is unnatural; that the stories you read in adventure books, the passionate romances in others; the shocking happenings, the great ambitions… are all missing.

But there is so much that happens in life that no one ever gets to see… a thought that was stored in subconscious to oblivion by the same person who thought about it; a 300 meter walk home that held a life changing event; a 40 year spam life that went on without thrilling events, public glory or defeat; a person who lived taking care of cows until death came. Get into written intrusive and elegant detail about them, and that life is to be read on a book.

Try to describe someone watching a sunset and the sunset itself, assume that’s all this person used to do in life. Describe how it looks, describe how it looks to him; describe those minutes, describe him and what he feels; describe what you feel towards him. You have got a book right there, and a very good one in the right writer’s hands.

I conclude life is every bit as special, dramatic, exiting, impetuous, peculiar, and any other qualificative you know a book can be. A book just gives us the time and space to realize it, to elaborate it. A lack of big events in the physical world is possible, but a lack of events in the heart or the mind is impossible, whether you are aware of it or not.

Life is not as you read it in books. False.

…After all, I have seen long ago married 70 year olds that still hold their hands walking by.

Life

Such a vivid thing; so true to the place where hopes and feelings belong. What had been said, I shared with her on one of those nights that are split in two, both in time and space. She said she never dreamed, I swear to you she did. And so I dreamed for me, for her, and for a thousand more human beings.

Now we are once again fools of what it seems but is not. Write to me no more, I do not crave for your words. True as the line before, I do not wish for your voice.

She is called by many names, and one of them is life… You, life, simply don’t know how much mine you are.

She hurts me deep, a kiss followed by a slap on my cheek. I’m afraid that of her, I’ll never have enough. I’m afraid that of her, I’ll soon have enough.

Oh sweet life of mine, for a love eternalized now, don’t leave my side. We’ll find some peace, an opened space by crafty tools, between your stone wall and mine.

Abstract life at present, and a little further

The words have been hiding from me; they went away with feelings better locked away than felt. This acquaintance took me by surprise at the beginning, now not so much; and as I remember the day when a small group of girls tried to smoke a cigar, being unsuccessful to even light it, I come to think that some things are for the best, and we get to see that in time.

I find myself, along with the rest of the world, not far away from the second month of the present new year; a year that promises more than the  novelty of 366 days instead of the usual 365. Changes and options are approaching in an unusual speed, most of them mostly good. Others, like vampire love stories, tire me, for they have been the same too often, for too long.

And as the sun sets and the breeze gets colder, so do I, submerged in this world of mine so filled with double binds.

I was talking the other day with someone who told me he believed it was true the world was coming to an end this December. I suppressed my laughter; his intellect (yes, we carbon based entities hold huge amounts of contradictions in ourselves) helped me do that. But I don’t want to talk about the conversation. I want to think while I write… Anything that I could truly want to do or to have in case the world was truly coming to an end, is not something I have any control over. I can’t control it, and this bothers me, me, the person who can tell if her orchid has been moved 1 cm from its original place. No, I will not tell you in specific what lies in the deep bottom of my heart. At least not in this post.

So, I guess life is like a book. Why do I always create a simile between complicated things and simple things? Who’s to know? But well, a good book can describe water in a bowl, simply that, and marvel its readers while at it. A life and a book can be composed of simple things, but nonetheless be meaningful and worth having. Both are unpredictable and give you surprises, and not all the time what you wish to happen will happen. It’s neither good nor bad; it’s just how the story goes…