Today I felt empty again. I keep feeling like I can't talk to anyone,so I talk to youin that segment of time that splits slumber and awakening.I hate that the years have passedand that I can still feel like I have something left to tell you,right before you disappear and I have to go back to reality and deal with disgrace. Where are you?In my mind. I crave, I starvefor that feeling I had back then, all you made me feel, so authentical, so fresh, pure, hurtful, tragic and then...Nothing. And I keep feeling like there's something I haven't told you yet. Did I tell you that I loved you?'Cause I did, like I've never loved again.The passion...I can't help but feeling like there's something wrong with me,'cause I can't feel it anymore. Even if I try to catch it,like your breath when you talk too close and I feel your warmth on my skin, it just flies away.I just fly away, like a paper plane. Like a duck migrating. Like a fly looking for shit to land on.Like now... Wait. I was talking about you. I can't even write anymore, all that comes out is this graphic prose, as if every bone that holds my flesh was powder and I couldn't hold myself for long.I hate myself,I have to confess this before it becomes unreal. It's like I'm in a house and I've lived here for years.I'm tired. Let me out.Not even I think I'm right, so don't dare to tell me you did it because I told you to.Can't you see I am such a negative person? Why would you let yourself be influenced by me?Don't make a fool of yourself. Sorry. Don't ask the ill to shut up when they hurt. I wasn't ill when I talked to you, I was exploding, like thousands of volcanos of vodka,and you were an alcoholic crowd gathered around my crater, opening your mouth to receive the sacred blessing of my outrageous personality. We were two holes on the earth.I passed by your house when I was in school, everyday for six years and we came to meet so far from where we had thousands of possibilities of coming across each other.And we weren't holes anymore, we turned into the highest mountains, and there was snow over our summits. Tonight I'm wearing that old damn shirt you gave me when I was at your house.I remember like it was yesterday... You and I at truancy class, naked in the shower.I gave you a hat, one you wore for a couple picturesque scenes of you masterfully playing the guitar.We smoked pot in that broken glass bong you insisted on taping over and over, because we were so young and poor at that time. I hate everything,I have to confess this before it becomes unreal. I am like a house a man built with his own hands one day of january.A house that was always in the same fucking street, in the suburbs of some forgotten city. But you're still my finest muse.
We haven't taken much seriously the fact that we hurt each other so badly. And it's fine, cause the branches of the trees don't have eyes, and they don't look back to see how much they've grown and what leaves have died in the process.They just grow new leaves, and I write new stories.
I am not a tree, not even a branch. And I can still remember you. No matter if I like it or not. I do, my bodie does remember.Somewhere deep inside me, there's a guy jacking off to the soft porn videos we recorded in a jacuzzi, at a motel with a name in Spanish, the name of a girl no one ever loved. Somewhere else, even deeper, another guy jacks off with two videos, videos of us making out with strangers. It's weird how you can lose control of the deepest feelings, just as if it happened outside your flesh. But I'm okay, you are too.And we write new stories. We are cold, after boiling like geisers and reaching the highest.We come down, because everything that rises, falls equally.
You were loved,like a girl named Valerie with a boyfriend named Joe.Like a shore without rocks, and a seadancing in front of it, with turquoisemovements and white clouds watching them from above.
I have no poetry left inside, but I can easily imagine this words forming picturesque landscapes into your mind. I certainly do.
I make echoes, they sound empty inside your ears, but I fight a war that remains unholy, and it seems like I can't make mistakes.I fight a war that remains unholy, and I am a stranger to myself,I am a stranger to the world,but I recognize my face reflected in antique mirrors and songs that I heard some weeks ago.
Everyday I live different emotions, and I think this isn't bad,because a guy named Andy said once thatsomething is special if you do it once in your life or absolutely everyday. Otherwise it loses its magic.I think he's right, just like everyone who talks from experience.
I wake up too early to notice I'm already late, I like all colors of flowers from pink to gray, and no one has pity there's only the illusion of always counting on yourself.
This might seem senseless and dumb to some, as well as other posts I will write the next 30 days. But I need to discover myself again, because I feel like I lost sight of what I am. Just as if I was writing a long book and suddenly forgot what I was doing, and when I try to read what I wrote in the past, I can't read, it's written in another language. It feels as if I forgot how to read. So I want to use writing as a way to rediscover my insides. Let's see if it works. I will ramble around and hope you people understand how I feel and perceive the world.
No one reads this anyways.
Now I'm going to talk about the magnetic attraction, or in other words the kind of people that attract me.
I am bisexual. I have always been. I can remember I used to kiss a girl I played with when I was a child, and I still see her walking around, sometimes with her boyfriend. I used to kiss boys too, and I fell in love with some on the way. However, I have always had a strong preference towards girls, I think it's easier to find attractive girls than men, at least the ones that fit my taste.
I get easily hunted by beautiful women. I've met the perfect woman a thousand times. But I guess that's just the glass through which I see, because none of them seems to be charmed by me. I've fallen in love with many, but I know they won't ever fall for me, because I'm just too awkward for people. I like colorful hair and flowers growing inside their skulls. And I know a couple people who are just like that, but for some reason they are spending their time inside the wrong underwear. I love tiny skinny girls I can hold inside my arms, like they're so fragile they could break if I don't hold them close. I like girls who use makeup in a way that reflects their personality, using crazy colors on their lips, and almost talking about themselves without even opening their mouths.
I love strong and deep voices in men. Built up bodies and long hair are also very appreciated (lol). Also, abadass attitudewithout leaving chivalry behind. I like to be treated like a friend, but still, like a princess. I like men who know how to treat others with respect without being too tender.
I like artists specially. Someone who makes art is someone who has a young but wise soul, and I'm definitely attracted to that. I'm very protective though I'm a very bad influence too, so I like people with open minds and warm hearts. I look for someone who isn't afraid of dying, a wild heart that flies against the wind, that acts even against everyone's will.
Everyone calls me beautiful, but no one will kiss me with honesty, no one really has time to see what I have to offer as a human being. I'm not really compatible with anyone I know to this day. I'm not asking for a date with this. I just want to take all this out somehow, and talking (or writing, in this case) helps a lot. I guess some people will think this is negative. But remaining positive doesn't mean that you won't see the dark side of every situation, for me it means that after all, you wake up everyday to look for new possibilities, knowing your weakness,remaining strong. This is the way I explore my feelings in order to fix them. I want love, even knowing it will always be temporary, I'd like to feel enough attraction to someone so that maybe at some point we could love each other. But it's just a thought. One that walks around my head most of the time. I'm too honest when I write about myself, and I suppose some people will feel like me, and that's also good. Now you know you're not the only one.