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.


Where are my lines?

My lines have gone to a wild land that I do not know. No one does. They have been gone for months, for a lifetime.

Those words that hug each other forming multicolor lines that have hidden under the velvet flower vase, inside the brown treasure box, and beside the imperfectly peeled oranges.

The lines have crossed my face instead of my fingers, in a period of time where growing up was not an option. Though, stubborn child I still am, with a wronged soft heart and a sharp mouth. A child that could never adapt quite well, no matter where. A child who does not understand life and all it takes. A child that feels too much for her own sake.

They -my lines- have gone to find what they know I am still looking for. It fails to come to me to finally figure out if it exists at all. Oh, lines! You are in my mind, across my heart, sailing away. Away, somewhere, away, disguised as prayers made of light and inaudible songs. You have kept away while I selfishly calm down my heart, treat it well, keep the doubts at bay.

Cursed be the wait and the bad earthly faith that touches the great souls that only good deserve.

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.


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.

I ran out of words

Lately, it’s been harder for me to write a couple of paragraphs for my blog. I enter lifeandwonderland in the username space, followed by the password in the space below, and then I press the Enter key… I read posts (that takes a while), and later I go to the dashboard (you, wordpress bloggers, know what I’m talking about). Being there, I stare at the tiny statistics bars for a second, and then, with my fingers properly positioned for a fluid typing experience, I intend to write… and it all stays in intention.

I ran out of words; they are all staying inside me again, dangerously building up… It becomes a complicated quest when you run out of words.

Sonnets went away with my struggle for a wider perspective, along with the absence of phantoms that haunt me on the places where the walls of the house I grew up in get together forming a corner. And perspective folds itself back, forming a lemniscate, with only one evident side to the pen.

Aware of the fact that I might sound like a person with a measurable level of lack of sanity, I say: What a case of “that isn’t chocolate flavored… it is coffee savored”! I do not like the taste of coffee.

Going back to the post… I recall a thought of mine: When something is very important, it feels eternal, building the sin of qualifying itself with forever. The corollary, which one is it?

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…