Friend 1: "Oh damn, that chick has been staring at me the whole time"
Me: "What's the problem, shouldn't you be flattered?"
Friend 1: "No, it's really creepy, just look at her"
Me: "What's wrong with her"
Friend 1: "She's black"
Me: "Don't you like black girls?"
Friend 1: Didn't you know that? I hate black girls, I mean, I'm just not attracted to them"
Me: "How come?"
Friend: "Well, they're just too ghetto"
Me: "Well, why don't you try to date an educated one?"
Friend: "I still haven't found one"
Now, here's a picture of my friend: He is the black dude on the left.
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On the coffee shop on campus
Sorority Girl: "Oh Hai!" *gives flyer* "Would you be interested in joining Phi Kappa Omega?* we're having a rush event next friday, all the info is in the flyer!" *big smile*
Me: "Oh that's nice" *sees her shirt* "By the way, are you a Phi Kapp?"
Sorority Girl: "Oh yes I am!"
Me: "Can I ask... are any of your sorority sister getting married soon?"
Sorority Girl: "Yes!" *big smile* "We had like 5 engagements last semester" *giggles* "Why'd you ask?"
Me: "Oh, just out of curiosity, cause one of those girls hooked up with my ex-boyfriend, and that's why we broke up. Good to know that she's still getting married" *Smile*
Si mis letras rayan esta hoja, si mis teclas escriben como tinta, si desbordo mi alma en vocales, será que mi alma raya la tuya. ¿Sera que tengo alma? ¿La creatividad es una muestra directa de algo abstracto que se nos fue dado al nacer? O no es más que una manifestación de las inquietudes de nuestra mente.
¿Cómo es posible que tengamos dudas? Que queramos descubrir lo que no existe. Por una parte, creo que nos da curiosidad saber cuál es la respuesta, pero por la otra, creo que simplemente nos conformaríamos con saber si hay una respuesta en sí.
Quizá la cuestión no sea saber cuál es el propósito, sino si hay alguno.
Quizá solo hay dos posibilidades, estamos flotando como hojas indefensas en el viento, o existe una guía trazada para nosotros, o es el azar, o es el destino, existe o no existe una razón. De cualquier manera, cualquiera de esos dos enfoques, son demasiado abrumadores.
Hoy por hoy, creo que me iré a dormir sin pensar mucho en el asunto. Si te pones a pensar demasiado en ello, de que rayos nos podría servir la respuesta a la razón de nuestra vida, si lo que importa es que estamos vivos y no el por qué.
Para que quiero saber si tengo o no tengo alma, y que si de ahí viene o no viene este escrito, si aun así lo puedo escribir.
¿De qué sirve analizar sentimientos, si siento como una lagrima tibia se desliza sobre mi mejilla desconcertada?
As we laid relaxed on top of all of our worries, we looked at each other’s eyes and we realized that there was something new ourselves that we had only discovered on the other.
The world isn’t perfect, and it would never be. Love isn’t perfect, and in my opinion it is only misinterpreted oxytocin, but in that moment, that ephemeral and volatile space of time, we were happy. A little bubble of bliss that is destined to bust and vanish, a wave of joy in the universal pool of sorrow.
The terrible thing about flying is that when you come back to the ground level, it’s harder for you to accept reality.
It was a very interesting day, as you may all know I have some kind of deep-set fascination or studying people. Observing their behaviour, seeing how they interact with others and how they interact with themselves. On this case, the context was Valentine’s Day, or as many like to call it: Single awareness day.
I would like to say that I am single, that I have no ties or emotional dependence to a significant other, no need or obligation to give them a material symbol of my appreciation… but sadly I do. I’ve been trying to keep him as distant as possible, and to keep myself as detached as I could, but it’s basically impossible. I tried to keep it as Summer does with Tom: I do also believe that relationships are messy, people’s feelings get hurt and we’re young and free so we might as well enjoy it while we can.
As always, we fail on our emotional suppositions. I ended up baking a cake. It says, I care for you enough to get you something nice, but not enough to place a deep thought on an expensive gift. Most importantly, I did not make a card. I want no written proof of all of this. I want no statements.
Anyways, I helped some friends that were selling roses, heart shaped balloons and baked goodies for a fundraiser. Opportunity I also used to observe people as they walk by. Valentine’s Day does a number on people. There were coupley-doupley pairs walking with giant grins on their faces like if no one else around mattered. Girls walking around with rose bouquets, balloons and teddy-bears. There were those who bought roses for themselves, there were some that bought cookies to eat their loneliness, there were even some that plain straight yelled that we were Satan for perpetuating such a terrible holiday.
I have mixed feelings towards Valentine’s Day. My happy and artificially naïve self likes to believe in the good feelings and intentions of humans, regarding valentine’s day as an excuse to celebrate and show the people you care about… well, how much you care about. On the other hand, is a terrible manifestation of commercialism, why should you spend X quantity of money on someone if you don’t really want to, but it’s just some kind of obligation or social requirement you have to fulfill.
Most of my February 14ths have been quite forgettable, the most recent of them just being characterized by baking treats for my friends and staring as a confused expectation as I saw hearts break and souls mend, tears falling and smiles appearing.
February 14th 2009: I had my first “true” celebration of Valentine’s Day. I got my flowers, my date my significant other to call and wish a Valentine’s Day to. Later, I realized it was all an act, just a little part of his whole bigger plot.
February 14th 2010: I moved here. Everything changed. If you go by the definition of loneliness, that day was one of the loneliest days of my life. The next couple of months weren’t much better. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be here. It was just that I was scared. And I still am.
February 14th 2011: Oh well, you know the story. It was pretty honest, pretty simple, pretty nice and perfectly adequate. Oh shit. Not. Again.
Why this does always happen? Why the hell do we get attached to someone? Why do we end up needing they? Why do their reactions affect us? WHY DO THEY HAVE AN EFFECT ON US?
I didn’t ask for this, I did not sign up for this. I do not have the soul, the heart or the time for this. I don’t think I’m capable of breaking this off, there is no reason to do so, I know I’ll return begging to be taken back.
And here I am, awake at 2am, listening to music, typing this useless manifest of my mistakes.
I guess that it is noise, it is pain, and it’s this blues I’m singing again.
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I don’t like to use the word Love that liberally, but just refer to the song. It’s pretty powerful stuff. Whatever we decide to call love is not necessarily something good, but it’s definitely something else, something different, noise in our routine, pain that reminds us that we’re alive. And oh all those moments who makes us feel blue.
Nietzsche said that women make the highs higher and the lows more frequent. I think it is entirely true when applied to general human relationships
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I had almost forgotten my immigrant anniversary. When I was coming back to the ground suddenly I realized that there was something that was bursting out of my mouth. I had to say it.
-"I miss everyone. I miss everyone so fucking much."
-"Well you have me, you have new things"
-"No offense, It's not that I do not appreciate you, or that I don't like my new life. Is that I miss my old one so much"
Moments of silence, some mute tears rolled through my cheeks, he kissed me softly and looked at me quite puzzled. He sometimes acts in a condescending way towards me. I guess I am too much like a careless and weak child.
-"I guess I'll forever have that melancholy that characterizes those who left their motherland and left their old lives behind. Anyways, it was a very nice day. Happy Valentines day" I said while I whipped the tears off my face and grabbed my heart shaped helium balloon.
¿Y qué pasa si hoy no quiero salir de la cama? ¿Y qué pasa si me da miedo lo que hay allí afuera? ¿Y qué pasa si me dieron las oportunidades en bandeja de plata, y ni siquiera pude aprender a servir el té? ¿Y qué pasa si no tengo el valor de superar los obstáculos? ¿Y qué pasa si esta vez no puedo salirme con la mía? ¿Y qué pasa si hoy me doy cuenta de que hay consecuencias pero no quiero afrontarlas? ¿Y qué pasa si no tengo a nadie que culpar? ¿Y qué pasa si tengo miedo? ¿Y qué pasa si no estoy acostumbrada a fracasar? ¿Y qué pasa si no me importa nada? ¿Y qué pasa si no se qué hacer? ¿Y qué pasa si estoy temblando? ¿Y qué pasa si hoy estoy tan fría como el álgido viento del norte? ¿Y qué pasa si soy débil? ¿Y qué pasa si no se vivir? ¿Y qué pasa con todas esas ilusiones? ¿Y qué pasa entonces contigo? ¿Y qué pasa conmigo?
¿Saben pues que es lo que pasa?
No pasa nada.
¿Y qué pasa si lo único que puedo hacer es escribir para no caerme a pedazos? Hay un nuevo post en el blog.
No, it’s not that I want to cry, or I’m feeling like it. I need it.
I need to let my soul burst into my eyes, helplessly. I feel like a box sealed with too many nails, impossible to crack open, impossible to let anything out, but about to explode.
Sewing needles trace patterns on the flesh, exposing a thousand roads where emotions should be able to travel, trying to separate the skin, to see if some tears can wriggle out. The only thing that manages to slink is the pain, but never the sorrow.
There are so many lies and so many truths I’d like to tell you. But I’ll let the silence hide in the sound of my casual conversation. There’s so much emptiness it would be impossible for you to fill it. There’s so much going on, I don’t think you’ll ever know how to handle it.
I think I held so many tears inside that now it’s impossible to let it go, as if the gates had become to rusty for a simple human to open them.
I keep on carving, it’s not the right way to let it go, but it’s the only way right now. I cannot control the world, I cannot control myself, my emotions, but that I can control, I can control the pain. I want to feel it, I want to feel something real, something human.
This is a journey, but more than a journey, it’s a battle. A battle with myself, and no one else.
Vamos, déjame sentir, déjame llorar, déjame sufrir, déjame encontrarme con la carne viva de mi alma, déjame saber que sigue viva, déjame saber que yo sigo viva, déjame saber que no soy invencible, déjame saber lo obvio de mi fragilidad.
Una lágrima casi cayo por mi mejilla, luego se arrepintió y regreso a su guarida, supongo que es una cobarde, así como yo. Anda, refúgiate, encontraré la manera de hacerte salir de ahí.
And there I was, my innocent brown eyes staring at yours. I find them fascinating, deep blue with a greenish tint; they’re so bright, yet, so opaque. They have that kind of sparkle proper of those who have quick wit and confidence, and yet, they reflect fear, they’re scared, dubious. It’s logical for it to be that way.
A stranger will gaze at you and see a pretty mellow and laid back person, nothing much, but just a second glance and you can clearly see the scars. Life has already hit you, but none of that really matters now.
On a split of a second my fingertips are drawing delicate figures on your shoulders while your hands trace my waist. I sense your breath on the back of my neck whilst your strong arms holding me against the wall. Somehow, you manage to touch the deepest parts of my instincts through my layers of winter clothes.
And then I see my face reflected on your wall mirror, I see the scars my nails have left on your back. For a second, I feel bad, guilty. But that did not last long; those feelings of self-awareness were eclipsed by your sweet kisses, exploring my neck.
______________________________ Quick google: Hyponychium-> The thickened layer of epidermis beneath the free end of a nail
La respuesta podría serlo, bien, mal, mas o menos, ahí ahí, un gesto, una mueca en la cara, dos pulgares levantados, la boca que se pone como una tajada de toronja o el premaxilar de un bacalao. La mayoría no piensa dos veces antes de preguntarlo, a pocos en verdad le importa.
Es una cuestión de educación, costumbre, y modales, te enseñan que tienes que preguntarle a los demás como se sienten, como para no ser maleducado, como para no parecer de mala calaña, desinteresado y egoista. A veces, es mas por hábito, habituarse a abrir conversaciones con esas frases, porque si, así es como se hace, así es como debe de ser.
También por educación y por costumbre respondemos, decimos bien cuando estamos excelentes, para no restregarselo al otro. Cuando estamos mal, de igual manera decimos bien, porque realmente sabes que al otro no le importa, o porque sabes que le importaría demasiado, y no querés molestar. Soy de esas que contesta bien para salir del paso, o contesto irónicamente mal para que no pregunten mas, pero si mi eleccion fuese, no contestara nada.
Y es que la mayoría de las veces no lo se. Creo que para saber como estás, tienes que saber en donde estas, y la verdad es que no tengo ni la más mínima idea. No se donde estoy parada, si busco en un mapa, encuentro mis coordenadas físicas, pero mentiria al decir que en verdad estoy ahí. En verdad no estoy en ningun lado, no estoy presente, mi alma flota en algun sitio desconocido.
Siendo honesta, nunca me he sentido presente, como si perteneciera a algun sitio, como si me identificara con mis alrededores, pero por lo menos antes tenia cierto sentido de pertenencia, una minima nocion de que ese era mi sitio. En este último año, siento como si fuese una especie de sueño del que nunca despiertas.
Siento que cualquier noche me iré a dormir y al despertarme vea aquellas paredes azules, y aquellas estrellas que brillaban en la oscuridad, que voy a ir al closet de color beige, a ponerme la franela del mismo color, con respectiva falda y medias. Siento que caminaré a esa cocina, comeré mirando fijamente aquella ventana. Siento que bajaré ese ascensor, caminaré esas calles sucias, cruzaré esa reja verde y veré a los mismos que vi por tanto tiempo, sin darme cuenta de que eso cambiaría.
A quién engaño, que terrible esa mierda. Vamos a levantarnos, esas paredes blancas, vacías, como si no se quisieran llenar. Esa peinadora indiferente, sin adornos ni más. Vamos a ir al closet, vestirse, jugar a ser otra cosa por un día. Bajemos esas escaleras, busquemos un desayuno apurado que te puedas terminar de atapusar en el carro mientras te terminas de peinar y vestir en el trayecto. Vamos a esa universidad, enorme, gigante, donde es común saludar a conocidos que te encuentras por la misma acera, y ya hay conversaciones de confianza con aquellos que se sientan a tus lados. Pero donde si te da la gana, te puedes sentar en la parte de atrás del salón y pasar desapercibido completamente, mezclarte, disfrutar del anonimato, y de nada más que ti.
¿Cómo contestar como estoy si no tengo ni la más minima idea? ¿Cómo saber dónde estoy, si no siento que pertenezco a ningun lado? ¿Cómo saber si esto es un sueño si nunca me despierto?
Si de todas maneras nunca sé como me siento, y probablemente no lo descifre en un tiempo cercano, ¿porque me molesto en llegar a conclusiones? Si de todas maneras nunca sé donde estoy, y probablemente nunca lo sepa, creo que por ahora es preferible decir “bien”, no creo que la mayoría le importe demasiado las implicaciones para mi representa responder esa pregunta.
Sigamos flotando en compañía de la soledad, contestemos para salir del paso y regresemos a la hermosa ambigüedad, y a la libertad de no sentirte obligado a pertenecer a nada.
He is the black dude on the left.
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