Re-defined Life

They say that once you find that person who so seems to make your mind go numb, your stomach flip, someone you can actually picture yourself with even when you are old and crippled, you will always find a way to be with that person. They say that once you find all that, you will never have another lonely night. Yet, in the distant I hear a laughter that annoys me, and, near me, I hear the words “I need your loving like the sunshine” being uttered. I seem to be standing still while the whole world revolves around me, confusing me, making me dizzy; it seems to be spinning with happiness, while I’m standing with sadness. Slow-motioned people move around the room, smiling, laughing. I see everyone; I see no one. I see a girl of about sixteen, letting her head fall back while her shoulders move up and down and her mouth opens and closes, showing off her coffee-stained teeth. I don’t move while everyone seems to do so. She’s placing her hand on the shoulder of a guy, brown hair, blurry face, laughing also. She leans forward, opening and closing her mouth at odd intervals. People talk and I don’t listen; the words go on annoyingly, but I can’t listen. The constant nagging of everyone who doesn’t get enough in life – it makes me wonder if there is some purpose for all of those who do so, any at all.

I Never Thought

That lovely face, round and decadent, I could not imagine dead. Those glistering eyes I cannot see how they can leave me. The love your lips pursued over mine will never be there anymore that you will.
I should’ve known that this utopia could not last forever. I had to know, somehow, that your skin would fall and that your skeleton will be bare and soon decrepit. I knew in my heart that you would not live forever with me, that you would have to leave sometime, but my soul seems to not have known; it feels that a part of it has gone missing.
But you just lay there, not knowing. I miss you and I want you back. You don’t seem to hear me, even if I spend all my days just wishing and waiting. You are gone and I’m still here. You are gone; you left me, and yet you are still with me somehow.
I should be well aware that you loved me. Most of all, though, I never thought you could be so peaceful without me.

A Retrospect

The piece you are about to read was written about a year and a half ago. It was inspired by my then book about a lonely woman who travelled restlessly trying to avoid contact and feared a commitment to anyone might turn into a horrible hurtful mistake. Needs a bit of work, but I thought I might share it. Maybe I'll use it in another book. Who knows...

All my life, I have proceeded in a state in such which let’s me not regain in me the most horrifying truth about myself: I am alone. I see no one; I love no one; I befriend no one. I ask myself if I have come to regret doing this to myself. And I do. I regret it a little too much.

I do regret it, and I feel ashamed that I do. I feel as if I would be regretting what I have built through the time of my being. I don’t know why it is that I do, but I just do. I have come to realize that I have built a wall in which I let no one come through and I’ve been proud of that for my whole life. I have come to realize that I’ve just been torturing myself for these past five years by believing that I would be happier if people stayed out of my life, or if I stayed out of other’s lives. I guess it never crossed my mind that one day I would come and be lonely. So, here I was – somewhere new, somewhere different, yet I was still the same person. I think that I was the only thing that I wanted to get away from when I decided how my life ought to be lived. I was the monster I was hiding from. I was the one I wanted to get away from. And, now, I look back and I seem to forget that I need things in my life; some things just ought to be there like friends, and maybe even family. I ran away from all of those important things, when I was really trying to get away from myself.

This all came to me a little bit later than the proper time for it should’ve been. This was just a meditation in which I have concentrated on what I want. No, not what I want, but what I need.

But is it going to make a difference now, after all that has happened?

Yes, this had to make a difference. It just had to.

Hey there, readers! I just wanted to share this poem I wrote a few days back. It's in Spanish, so bear with me. Hope you like it. Here goes nothing.

Me quiero perder en un mar de sábanas contigo.

Arrastraremos la noche en riversa evitando el olvido de nuestro profundo clamor.

Nos morderemos los labios; nos olvidaremos en el placer.

Es éste un mundo desierto en donde reinamos sólo tu y yo.

Y solos nos atraparemos en el encanto del placer carnal.

Me quiero perder en un mar de sábanas contigo

Y, así, no dudes, que encontraré tu corazón porque será uno con el mío.

The Party Upstairs

Funny how I'm all alone, yet they are all together. I am an involuntary solitary. My friends? They don't know the real me. I try, I really do, to let myself be known to them, but, all in vain. Just a slight revealing makes them distant and ignorant. All in all, my "friends" are not my real friends, since they know me not. Thinking truthfully, I'd rather them not know who I am. I am a failed writer, a philosopher - a thinker. I am not nearly as what I ought to be. I never finish any projects. I fancy myself smart, yet I feel like a fail class compared to those who truly are smart by nature. I am confused. I am alone.

There is a party upstairs. All I hear are people laughing and talking, loudly. I think back at all the opportunities I had to be like one of those people who enjoy life and then I regret not making friends with the popular crowd, not accepting to hang out with them or go to parties with them simply because I thought I was above them. Am I? Let's see: They have fun, they are faithful friends, they enjoy life; I, on the other hand, don't have fun, do not have loyal friends, and I do not enjoy life. Who's winning here? The "philosophical writer" or the popular air-head? I think we all came to the same conclusion here. Lonely bitter me has achieved nothing in this miserable life, while they have achieved life and friendship. The party is upstairs; I am downstairs.

Forms of Communication

It seems somewhat a curiosity to me how, with just a click, you can be published, you can be read, you can be known. Now all your thoughts, all your feelings can be viewed publicly with or without your knowledge and then you become aware of how vast the world may be and how confusing and how seemingly differently it is from what you expected it to be. Now, the world can just be locked up in your archive with just a click of a button. But then, why is it that when our world can communicate so easily we communicate even less then when we didn't have these advances and we couldn't reach each other so easily? We've improved them method but deteriorated the art. So many things have been done to improve our communication; people from China can now talk to people in South America so easily; it's hardly a struggle to do so. But, even though we can talk so easily, none of it's really talking or conversing... Are we really listening or are we just talking away? Most of what we do is a monologue which no one really cares about or listens to. We talk our hearts away without getting so much as a response from anyone. Is this what our communication has turned into? Are we supposed to enter a world in which all we do is talk to ourselves in this vast black hole that is our universe? Why can't I be heard when life is making it so much easier speak? We can talk all we want here, but can we learn to listen? But, most of all, are you listening to me?

Confusion

Why do you always get me so high and so crazy? With just one word, just one, you turn my world upside down. I was fine, you know, before you said anything. Why did you insist on communicating incapacitated words to me? I need not your pity, nor your abundance; I need you when you're with me and not at all when you're not. Ay, me! You are the pure embodiment of confusion, yet you have made me understand myself. I love you still, my darling, and you know that well. So, why do you insist on destructing the life I made after you? Why, after all you put me through, do you ask me if I love you still? February 17th has come and gone, yet my heart has never left yours. Trust me darling, at night, I lie awake and wish with all my might that you would be there next to me. In the afternoons, I day-dream of dancing with you and kissing you and being happy. Why must you ruin everything I have accomplished without you? I proved to myself I could do it! I truly did. So, why now? Why? Am I just some sort of experiment of love to you? Ay, me! So many questions, but no answers whatsoever. Here's another one: why do you get to pick when we talk? how come, when I need to speak to you, you're never there, and, if you are, you ignore me? The least you owe me is your friendship. But why?

The Sound that Flows Through Me

The sound flows throughout my body; it travels like electricity inside of it. With the touch of a key, you make love to me, and that love gains access throughout my solemn body and feels you swaying the music to your liking need. Sweet sound, take me away into the night and make me believe that you and I are not that far away. With the music, speak to me of love, of emotion, of sensation, and never stop. I'm in the height of the world when you're playing and caressing those keys. I'm high in the mountains, travelling through forests, and all because you embodied me with an instrument -your soul.

An Old Beginning

Dear reader,

I'm sorry to have neglected this blog for quite some time. I've had a major writer's-block. It's funny how I consider myself to be such a writer when I'm so lazy with it... Sometimes I feel as if my writings weren't good enough, but then I re-read them and, though I find a few errors and "disparates" here and there, I realize what an amazing piece of work it is. So, now, let me update you in my life...

Since the last time we spoke, it rained, I went to Houston to visit my aunt, I decided to writer another book, I got into all honors in my classes, I became a Junior, I did my homework and my summer assignments, and I lost my grandfather. The latter was the saddest part of my year so-far.

It's raining here in Puerto Rico. I love it when it rains since everything becomes kind of chilly (chilly here me is 89 degrees...). The rain is so rhythmitic and it gives you a sense of calm no other person of work of nature can give you. I have a theory: I believe that rain was created to help cleanse us, not only physically, but also emotionally. It always rains when I feel sad or lonely; the weather always seems to mold with my mood. Outside, I hear the cars racing up and down the streets, I hear birds chirping, I see drops falling down and splitting as they hit the orange tiles. The sky is grey and my orchid is dying, at least I think it is since it's turning yellow. The cars...doesn't anyone slow down? Doesn't anyone just stop and listen to the music of nature or look at the green hiding behind all the urban grey and the cable black?

God, I miss my grandfather so much. He died with Alzheimer's disease and Parkingson's disease - a deadly and destructive combination. Somtimes, I don't mind so much that he passed away, but that he was tortured so much before leaving. At least now he's in a peaceful slumber where nothing hurts and nothing can be forgotten... Sweet, sweet viejito...can you see me from up there? I love you still, so much.

The Contributions of Mankind

The contributions of mankind are not eligible for humanity. In such, times will cease to only be a memory of great contributors to life. And a life badly lived will resist to end for such a catastrophe, and, so, bad lives will come to dominate the world we know today. With lives, they will thrust themselves upon the good moments, making each one disappear. The lives of despair and dismay will keep on going, much to the liver’s annoyance, and such kindness they have shown through acts of courage shall be forgotten or, worse, stolen. The ones who continue to live on their own behalf will only live in mishap and so we will turn our judgment upon ourselves. We will see reflected upon the great enchanted mirror of everything only nothing. As such we shall remain.

Describing a fear is an unusual thing; it becomes a reminiscence of what you never wish to encounter. Then again, it also gives you a reminder of what you seemingly intent to avoid. Nevertheless, sometimes, once in a while, as frequently as the mind can stand, one must encounter fear. By doing so, the simple fear is what remains, and the possibilities are as stable as the pages chosen to disengage them. They will remain in those pages, comfortably living a life of mystery and thought, until the action overdoes the thought and the fear becomes a memory itself.
I forget whether I ever wanted this. Was I ever as foolish as to actually desire this suffering? Was I as blind as to think that everything would work out fine?
I should own up to every little detail of everything that has occurred during these past five months, I should. Another disappointment; another let-down; yet, I cannot believe I even had hopes for this great dissatisfaction; it is a completely unbelievable act which I frown upon myself now.
And, once again, I attempt to escape it all. Why is it that nothing ever turns out the way it should? Why can’t I, most of all, conform to what I have received – a friendship?
Who killed the future? Who made it into what it is now? It certainly couldn’t have been me? Me – is that all I talk about – myself? When did I become the centre of it all; the challenger of the future; the devourer of the past? Have I been so crude? It pains me to think of all this, believe you me; I have absolutely no idea why I make myself the centre of it all. For now, I trust myself to know that within the psychedelic rapture that is a life, one will always be the main specter. I do not know why it is so. I do not know many things, yet, it seems, that, what I do know, constrains me, not what I don’t. It is a pity that it has become this way. My enchanted nothingness has betrayed me – trapped me within its regime. It seeks to punish me for I do seek from outside its four walls. All these thoughts, they are too much for me, at this very moment. All they seem to do is restrain me and separate me from the people whom I most appreciate. It repulses me, what I have become. It was always my full intention to leave this place as soon as I found a reason to, but, here I lay, with reasons left to spare, yet leave I cannot, and will not. Suppose it sufficient to say that I wait for something, although I am not quite sure of what. I am a foolish person; that I cannot deny.

A Lazy Occupation of my Time

While I await dispute, I seem to be quite fond of the description as a lazy occupation of my time. It’s all quiet and somehow sad. The television seems to be having all the conversation at the time and, to tell you the truth, I’m glad it is because I’m the only one in the room and I shouldn’t be in a conversation if alone. I like my disorganized organization: books all scattered on the table with Dickens nearest, Wells and Wharton to the farthest side, my hair brush is close where I can grab it just in case one of my hairs fly off toward the wrong direction, of course I also have my trusty, empty glass of water and my deodorant from my previous encounter with odor; on the floor I can see my heartless, miserable work grappled in pieces of worthless paper, shoes over worn including my infamous boots (I shall be buried in them) and a bag of the remainder of my trip to Texas concealing gifts still yet to be needed by my affection; the photographs are nearby: there’s Veronica, and Veronica again, and again, then there’s my Papu and my grandmother Luz Marina, a picture of my baptism, Titi Cuchi, my parents’ wedding, and my parents kissing; underneath all that (apart from the collection of lifeless magazines never to be used again they being so old) are lovely paintings my father created when in doubt of his creativity and his time, and, of course, there is the time consuming rotation of pens, most of them being out of ink, others I ignore, and the amounts of paper I consume in exaggerated form. Oh, it seems it has started to rain, or maybe it was always raining but I was too consumed by my inside atmosphere and not my outside one, or maybe the rain is just a figment of my imagination telling me that it’s fine to cry because the heavens can cry without shame, as I have never been able to do so. I forgot to mention all the cables and wires, some on the floor connecting the television and allowing me to observe Diane Lane in the role of Frances Mayes. And here I am, on the leather couch, pressing against lonesome pillows. The two lonesome pillows are always there, and so am I. There is also the never revolving but still revolve-able chair in which no one currently sits on. There is a door and I can always walk out of it if I ever want to, but I get too scared. I’m scared that I’ll be even more lonesome outside than I am in. I’m also scared that I’ll never go out of this my beloved sanctuary. Yes, there is a door, but I’ll never walk out of it.

Caterwaul

There was caterwaul herd from distances all around the senses. Heard it was as the sound that could and would always be the best in all the land. Romance was stirred in its wrath, with a touch of frustration that tickled the strangest sensation in ones renegade ears. Such sound was indelible to the mind of even the most forgetful creatures with no brain amongst head. Lovely and so frightful was the wail that, even the ones in peaceful slumber stirred and then proceeded to be awakened. Suspended in the earthly animation and in the breath of those so holy in our intentions, the provocative emotions would agitate in the pride of its journey. Perplexed by its intuition, creature above and below were. By definition, it was the only perfection in the day, the only perfect sense of stability.

Nature's Orchestra

Running in circles is what my head seems to be doing right now. My pulse seems to be exhilaratingly overwhelmed in so many distracting ways that it even feels that my breath is being lost on the sea of inner continuance. I know not what I seek to highly. The only thing I know is that this is not just temporary, just prolonged. There seems to be a variation of sound (Nicanor Zableta) and a distant humming believed to be that of the dead and ceased. What I think is a beautiful black piano delivering my end becomes a dead violin only heard by the crowd of fortune. The deep sea collapse in between figures only the sound of screams, those of the water itself, only not being more like water or less like so. The romancing tones of the wild forest, with the wind being the director of the orchestra, moves the pine trees up and about, left and right, with the tone only known to the mother nature. Everything gets quieter and quieter, until I hear nothing. Quiet is all there is, but, in a manor of seconds, death rises once more producing the sound which had ceased earlier, only still in a quiet way. Strange is a sound known to be quiet, I can assure you. You fall in love once more with the rising quiet and then tear drops from the sky make a sound, like a solemn piano, with each heart break and each oddity known to it. The trees begin once more to play the soft tune to which it dances to, screaming and waling like a traumatized violin. Ode to the Living Sufferers and the Dead Peaceful, is it not so? Shrieks of the howling masters who suffer are among us now. Can you not hear the fulfillment of dreams so sinister? They are represented thunders only not so. The shrilling sound is filling your every nightmare with white so catastrophic that there seems to be no use for the fear anymore, so to speak. The voices of those yet-to-be are heard for miles and miles beyond singing all as one and nothing higher. No one can understand what it is they try to say, but, none the less, they listen, and closely. They find the art of the dramatic to be fascinating and largely accommodating, but few realize that these are crying out for their lives as yet they don’t have. Collective and beautiful as they come to be, they have no life of their own as they are yet-to-be and many for a long time. When they are to-be, though, they will not remember ever having been yet-to-be and thus their knowledge of our world will be as limited as the living was to them before. Run away while you can, my child, as this place is why they suffer those among us and the reason for the suffering before us. This is nature’s orchestra. This is the reason we die those who bare the aspects of humans. We all fall to the deepest sleep and then the stars bid us a good night with the falling of the sky and the harp of the night.

Stacks of Achievements

Though there were stacks of it, each one more horrifyingly bigger than the other. All wiggling about, threatening the mindless dweller of their attack in all possible way, the stacks were. Chasing the eternal clearing of them, it was making it quite clear that at any passerby they would attack without judgment and without the knowing of why. It was just the threatening of the movement that would make them have ignorant visitors who claimed, without their consent, that they could climb it or that it was as high as this and that this and that. All the need of the whispering was nonsense and all the looker-on people who themselves were threatened by the power of a fall ignored the fact that the greatest achievement of theirs could one day fall on them, hard. It was senseless to ignore this but that is what ignorant people do, isn’t it? Fall on them they did, and the greatest achievement passed out to be the greatest fall, the greatest disappointment.

Sweet Symphony of You

Sweet symphony that keeps me alive at night and awake at day; you takes me places unknown to any other but us two. Smiling, everyday after you make me yours, I am. Riding every night my emotions; the train ran up and down my head and, as though it was not enough, it continued to swirl. You know what this causes in me and, yet, still you continue. Riding my life, as a passenger might ride a train. Take me where I have not been before. Suddenly, day break comes. One summer never ends; one summer never begins. Sometimes I feel the day pities me, but then I feel the weather comforts me with irrational sensations. And the beat goes on to become only a sensation of no meaning. This is the only way I can be kept alive. Pity the poor one that is me, don’t you? It’s not that bad to be tied down by emotions. Chasing dreams seems to be a crazy mistake, doesn’t it? It comes to be the tear that comes down my cheeks at this very moment and the screams I can feel within my heart. I come to depend on a dream of a feeling that won’t be. Worse than to feel this way would be not feel anything at all, right? And today, in this very moment, as I pour my heart out to combine in words not even close to expressing the true feeling, I feel myself sink a little more within each word, within each thought. How I wish these feelings would just evaporate, these feelings that are simply too unbearable to obtain within each desired kiss.

Love is such a Wonderful Thing

Facebook is the network site that people use to find love. Those who already found it, use it as a method of entertainment. I opt for the second treatment of Facebook. I’m always looking for entertainment since I already found love, thank you very much. In fact, just a few minutes ago, I was taking quizzes on Facebook – Ultimate Tarot Card Reading – and my result was “The Lover”:

The Lovers is predominantly a card of the emotions, and it often portrays love that is divinely blessed, either by Cupid, an angel, or by God Himself. This seems to imply that nothing but good can come of this union, though with such a dualistic card there is always the potential for a sad conclusion, despite the best of beginnings. After all, love is like a flame because it can ignite the blaze of passion, but also because it can consume and destroy if used carelessly. Love is a wonderful thing, but profane or unrequited love has the power to tear families and lives apart. The Lovers has within it the potential for such love and we must always be cautious of it.

At least I’m a lover, not a hater. I wouldn’t change my love for anything in the world. Really, I wouldn’t. Most people would say that love was a pejorative thing – you’re either extremely up or extremely down. But, I don’t care. I rather love hatefully than hate lovingly.

Harry Potter - Past

Past. (Although there are a few feelings that remain present.)

When I was growing up, I was one of those kids who didn't need much to be entertained. In other words, I would entertain myself easily - by myself. Sadly, that habit of being and playing alone stuck to me, and, like any leech, it would suck the blood out of me. I didn't have many friends since I really didn't know how to make them. People would use me to help them with their studies (and, normally, I don't mind if someone asks for help, just as long as they do it to understand, not to copy off me COMPLETELY). So, one day, I was looking at my scolastics magazine and I saw that they were selling the fifth J. K. Rowling book - "Harry Potter and the Order of the Pheonix". I thought, "Ah...why not?" And so I bought the book. Now, it took me three hours to read 32 pages - pathetic, I know! - but you have to remember that I was in fifth grade and I was not much of a reader in those days. I left the book in a corner, frustrated, and there it picked up dust, and more dust! That summer, I began to be bored because my parents would bring me to their office after my art camp would end at 12. I began to bring the book with me. Slowly, but surely, I read up to the 100th page, and I was so satisfied with myself. I began to read it all the time and could not put it down. I became lost in that magical world that is Harry Potter, and I just suddenly had a world that I could belong in. I know it may sound a little stupid, but (tears fall down my cheeks now; I'm a dodo!) that book became part of me and still is. I was one of them - I was Harry; I was Ron; I was Hermione; I was the kid in the corner who would obsess over people she wished to be and who she was. I lived in the fantastic land of Harry Potter, and I am proud of that fact. Harry shaped my life and J. K. Rowling and her mind moved me in such a way that I will always hold a place for her in my life. I admit that I became a little (tiny bit) obsessed, but I had a right to, since my life wasn't that great to begin with. Reading it gave me such a brighter aspect of life. I began with the fifth novel, then the first, the second, the third and so on until the seventh, which sadly ended only a little while ago. It's funny how I started with one of the most mature books of the lot. I guess I was too mature for my age, and so I had to read the fifth one to be able to start at the beginning, which is very similar to what I do in life. As a matter-a-fact, my life always begins in the intermediate parts, and then goes to easy, then intermediate again, and then hard - end.

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