Posts Tagged ‘english’

it’s my birthday today

25/05/2017

I am, at last, 30 years old.

A day I never envisioned
coming
but always hoped to get to.

Isn’t life a hoot?
I like to think so.

***
as a gift
I dedicate to myself
an itsy bitsy part of my very favorite poem:

“(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)”
– e. e. cummings

 

senses #4 – taste

14/04/2017

don’t tell me what I like
or dislike.

it’s my tongue:
i’ll put it
wherever I want.

senses #3 – touch

13/04/2017

when I was a child, I collected the strangest things. a million objects, from the normal to the unimaginable, with a health dose of improbable. I collected fragments and trinkets, everything delightful to the touch, rugged and smooth, what I could have and hold, grab, feel the edges dig into the palms… pretty much all that could be carried all over town inside my pockets.

my selection was more physically selective than emotional. I didn’t carry a photo locket on a necklace, nor a memorabilia keychain… i’d prefer weight over sentiment, and carried things that would remind me constantly that they were solid, heavy and there. I carried with me shards and shrapnel of the world: screws, sleek river rocks, sticks. at the age of 13, a bullet i’ve found in the gutter. emotionless things, but not meaningless (nor, to me, useless). I curated a simple misfit collection of broken things nobody wanted, but that had, once in the past, had their own importance.

nowadays, i must confess I’ve emptied my pockets. adult practicality goes against carrying heavy garbage among the lint of pockets. age also seems to have killed the pleasure of touch in favor of the imagetic delight of a memory. so I carry other things, images, immemorial touches:

I collect the breath in my neck,
the coffee foam in the cup,
the salt of the sea on my hands,
laugh lines and crow’s feet,
some abandonment issues, here and there.

in a way, everything that appeases not to the skin, but to eye of the mind.

senses #1 – smell

11/04/2017

i remember you
distinctively by your smell:
skin
and your earthly sweat,
the tangy cleanness
of generic white soap
on your neck
and clove cigarette smoke
mixed with aftershave
below your mouth.

this took me a little while to decipher

04/04/2017

Image

my handwriting is specially bad when I’m in a frenzy

from the past

04/04/2017

my father was a funny man.

so unlike me:
with no affinity for
Tennessee whiskey,
cured meat,
cigarettes
nor knives.

a soft-spoken,
well-humored little man,
that never got into a fight.

so unlike me:
a gentle man.

a.m.

03/04/2017

i like the early morning,
when there are no people talking;

the only sounds that break the silence
are the ones that tend to lull
us back to sleep, in a slow rhythm:
white noise from the fan,
breaths, hot and soft, on the pillow.

i like that, when the first rays
light up the bedroom,
usually there is only
content quietness.

I am reassured
by early mornings,
by the simple routine of
hot water flowing to the ground coffee,
the clinking of the mugs on the table.

i like the brief moments
when my body is still infused
with the confusion of dreams:
consciousness still seeping into reality.

I am comforted by
the smell and warmth of the sheets,
of the shampoo and soap you wash with,
the brewing coffee,
the sizzling waffles.

it’s one of the very few moments
when I get to just be.

private

22/03/2017

you are not entitled
to my name
until I decide
that you are invited in.

strangethings

13/03/2017

let’s measure
your loneliness
by how many likes
you get in social media
versus
how many people
like you
in real life.

below the mouth

10/03/2017

harsh, like being run over by a train, is the realization that i haven’t felt good in a while. that none of us have. that the world is hard, that society is mean, and that we are crumbling under the pressure of what others want and expect from us, in places and stances that are both amazing and miserable.

it’s hard to acknowledge that we are the adults we dreaded becoming, our parents, our authority figures: empty, cold and emotionally exhausted from running drastic scenarios over and over in our heads, for eating and drinking paranoia, fears and anguish, due bills and other responsibilities that stop us from sleeping. but, either way, we don’t mind insomnia, for sleeping is the cousin of death and i am not ready to die.

i am not. i cannot. i should not. or should i? maybe there is no point in existing, one may conclude – and, just as easily discard, because one must live, for one has hopes and dreams. one has roles to play, no time to rest. i should spark, i should be rich. i just cannot be. i must excel, and achieve. or so i was told by my mother, father, my church and my state. and by my self, really, in a stern convincing voice in front of the office mirror while i have cold sweats in the middle of the day.

maybe i am not mediocre, just stupid. maybe it is the lack of sleep, it probably is. maybe it’s the drugs, i should do a cleanse. maybe it is normal and i am just tired of having no clarity, or no answers. maybe i am thinking too much and can’t rest this thick muscle inside my head, can’t shut up the tiny voice that just tells me “there is no escape, this is it”. maybe i am doomed to be weak and never have the strength to get better.

i don’t know. how one can know? who has these answers? what is the path?

mine is apparently down, for my steps are tumbling down a slope. me, that was forever strong, a staple of sanity and solidity for others – i am going down with the whole bunch of my generation, and i don’t even know if i should fight this or just be glad. if i should prepare to vanish, to be gone, forgotten… just accept the fall and, as i go, say all the things that i have always wanted to say but never did. (never had the guts, never had the need).

maybe i won’t fall, but have to try something else. 180º turn, mix and mismatch. deny destiny, never drink the fate. maybe i should fight this all with my bravest arm, for i never waited for things to fall from the sky. “it is not who you are” i can hear them saying. at the moment, i think i can’t, but maybe i do. maybe i should rely on others, i don’t know. would you be willing to listen? to talk to me? i feel that you won’t, and that i will feel bad in your presence. i feel bad in other people’s presence: i don’t know if i should offer sorries, or if i should pretend i am well.

the question is: why is no one asking, really, if i am ok? I’ve given plenty clues that we are not ok. i get angry because of that. i feel like no one ever wants to talk about those things, no one wants to dry their tears. i feel like we aren’t allowed to cry, that it’d be shameful. is it? i have no etiquette.

truth is i don’t know if i want to speak the words either, to open up. if i have the will in me. i paradoxically want both the silence and the chaos, to be alone deep down a dark whole and a party and to be surrounded, be enlightened. i want it all and i want nothing, that’s it. maybe i just want a hug that i don’t know how to ask for. will you hug me if i ever stand up to the way to your arms?

all i know is that i don’t want to die alone. i am an ok person, i don’t deserve this. aren’t i? adulting is hard. self-esteem is hard. being abandoned is hard, and leads to more abandoning. things are turbid, the future is blemished, murky: i can’t see a single feet in front of me, so maybe i should stay put. or maybe i should walk until i find someone.

so what can i do?

for now, sit down and cry.