Quando??

Quando iremos poder morar juntos? Eu irei poder escutar sua respiração enquanto você dorme, te abraçar quando estiver frio, e pedir que você me proteja quando eu tiver medo depois daqueles filmes de terror. Eu irei poder te acordar todas as manhãs com um beijo, eu vou estar sem maquiagem, de pijama e descabelada, mas eu sei que você não vai se importar. Eu vou tentar cozinhar pra gente, mesmo sabendo que não vai dar certo, então no fim vamos acabar comendo miojo ou pedindo uma pizza e mesmo assim você vai rir. Eu vou chegar todo dia reclamando das coisas chatas que tive que enfrentar e você vai sorrir e dizer: “calma, amor” e então vai me abraçar. Mas sabe o que mais irá me satisfazer? Poder encostar no teu peito, ouvir seus batimentos, olhar nos teus olhos e dizer: “eu tenho você, você me tem, e isto vai durar pra sempre” Eu te amo, eu preciso de você, eu quero você, assim.. Pra sempre, pra todo sempre

Dicen que el mejor remedio contra las cicatrices son los besos. Dicen, que si besas todas las cicatrices de alguien, desaparecen con el tiempo. Habría que dedicarle tiempo claro, como a todo en esta vida. Empezaríamos el día con un beso en las del cuello, a media mañana seguiríamos con las del pecho. Veríamos qué hacer con las de los brazos, y las de la espalda las dejaríamos para la noche. Al final, pasaríamos más tiempo dando besos, cuidando de hacer desaparecer las cicatrices que creándolas. Daríamos más amor y heriríamos menos. Claro que, como siempre, puede que solo sea una simple habladuría, pero merece la pena intentarlo, ¿no?.

In the end, it wasn't death that surprised her but the stubbornness of life.

Welcome to my silly life

Algunas veces no termino de entender como es que ciertas personas pueden llegar a sitios a los que no deberian ni haberles permitido la entrada, pero entonces recuerdo que yo tambien soy una outsider a mi propio modo, lo cual basicamente me llena de una enorme satisfaccion.
Encajar nunca a sido lo mio, lo acepto. Y si de vez en cuando me llega la nostalgia por no encajar en el molde en el que los demas viven pero entonces recuerdo que justo por eso mi vida es asi de genial, porque decidi no encajar en ningun molde preestablecido.
Esta  vida mia, que pasa entre libros canciones, legos y juegos a sido la que escogi vivir y a la que me encanta despertar cada mañana.

It's hard to convince yourself that you're not in love when the only time you smile is when you think of the one who broke your heart.

7 olvidos… 7 dias para olvidar

Nada más alejado de la realidad en este momento de mi vida que la nostalgia, la tristeza o la resaca emocional, sin embargo, al igual que el resto del mundo -sin excepción- he transitado la ruta del despecho varias veces. Estos poema-pastilla surgieron luego de destilar por años, una y otra vez, esas emociones.
Instrucciones: Tomar uno dos veces al día por siete días. Si los síntomas persisten, consulte a su psiquiatra.

Lunes
Cuando despierto, encuentro sueños regados en la almohada, visiones oscuras, húmedas. Me sacudo la nostalgia y cepillo mi ya lustrada tristeza, como queriendo encontrar nuevas excusas para el olvido.

Martes
Mientras recuerdo, tu presencia fortalece el débil nexo que aún me ata a la realidad. Cuando ya no te piense también yo me habré ido.

Miércoles
Colgué mis silencios en tu ausencia, hasta secarlos de recuerdo y poder volver a usarlos sin que me hablaran de ti.

Jueves Cientos de hectáreas de piel cultivada a fuerza del roce y el contacto. Vastas extensiones desiertas sin otra presencia que un par de sombras que aún parecieran labrar caricias en lugares imposibles. El espacio cruel que separa nuestros cuerpos.

 Viernes
No equivoco el olvido. Sólo lo confundo para no sentirme triste.

 Sábado
Te pienso de nuevo, agotando lo que queda de realidad.

Domingo
No es lo que siento sino lo que temo sentir si suelto las riendas de emociones que se destejen en tardes frías cuando se hace evidente que ya no estás.

Yes, man.
I have completely abolished the thought of her.
Eradicated that summertime face from my psyche.
It means nothing now, it never was anything.
It was ridiculously easy to forget.
I couldn't even believe how easy it really was.

I mean the only times I think of her now is when I drink and write. Perfect!!!

Hello i love you

Wont you tell me your name...

Si tan solo las cosas fueran tan faciles, si pudieras sacarte a alguien de la mente justo asi y poner a otra persona en su lugar. Pero ni la mente ni el corazon funcionan asi, es como si pidieras que por un momento la tierra girara en el sentido contrario.
Para amar a alguien debes conocerle primero, dejarte empapar por esos cientos de miles de pequeñas cosas que le hacen ser la persona que tienes en frente. No puedes solamente pararte delante de alguien y de buenas a primeras declararle tu amor eterno.

A girl who writes

Date a girl who writes. Date a girl who admires the calligraphy of Ancient China more than the latest fall line. She has ink smudges on her fingers, sometimes on her cheeks. Date a girl who comes with a list of unfinished poems, underdeveloped characters, incomplete plot lines, who has been writing since she could read.
Find a girl who writes. Look for the girl with frazzled hair and a pen behind her ear. She’s the one who spends hours deciding which new notebook to buy, only to cave and buy three, the one who rarely makes a grammatical error. If you were to search her bag, you’d find scraps of paper with incomprehensible notes and pens whose lives have ended a long time ago. That’s the writer.
The girl who writes can be seen anywhere, if you look for her. The girl who writes is always looking at you, and anyone else. She knows inspiration can be found in everything. She’s the girl you’ll find on a park bench, pen behind her ear, another in her hand, jotting down things with great, great concentration, just because coffee shops are loud. She will however be carrying coffee in a travel mug. If you looked inside the mug, you’d notice the coffee was finished – the girl who writes needs caffeine like water. Bum a cigarette off her. Notice her eyes give you a full appraisal before she hands you a cigarette. She’s profiling you.
Say something.
Don’t ever start by asking to see her writing.
Tell her something you’re sure she never knew before. A random fact, even. This will grab her attention. This will make her think, ‘what kind of plot twist is the stranger offering to the protagonist?’ When she brings up e.e. Cummings and Plath, don’t act like you know who they are if you don’t. She will test you. Ask her about them. Ask her about her favorites. Ask her if she’d like to go see a movie with you.
Always surprise her.
In reality, it’s not that difficult to date a girl who writes. Accept that she will not show you anything she’s written until she’s ready. Understand that sometimes her stories aren’t developing the way she wants and she will be angry, bitter. Be patient, be jealous of her love for worlds you can’t even begin to enter. Buy her new books, new pens, new notebooks. Surround her with words. Dedicate songs to her. Leave little notes in her lunch bag. Words, for the writer, are more intimate and personal than a sensual touch. She hears their whispers, feels them, embraces them.
If one day, you walk into the house, and she’s in a foul mood. There are pages scattered everywhere. She’s watching TV, which she never does. Don’t ask. The words got the best of her. They put up a wall and as much as she pleaded, as much as she paced, drank coffee, took a bath, went for a walk, pace some more, as much as she played with synonyms and antonyms, made comparisons, expanded the plotline then brought it back to where it was, she could not get through the block. Don’t bother comforting her. Buy paint and a canvas, let her attack it. Carry her to the bed and let her attack you. The girl who writes does not need soothing and comfort, she needs an outlet to rid herself of the overbearing emotions that are sadness or anger. Before she can write again.
The girl who writes knows exactly when a break is needed in a story. The girl who writes expects a climax. But the girl who writes is also almost never in control of her story. The characters dictate to her what they would like to do next. The story is as thrilling for her, the writer, as it is for her close sister, the reader. She relishes in these surprises, in these sharp turns, in these unforgiving assesments. She dreams of the day when her story, her life story, will be as classic as Poe or as tormented as Brite. This day that she waits for, this will be the day her story will begin.
On the day when she timidly, a deep blush rising on her cheeks, extends a bundle of loose sheets of paper, some old, some new, towards you, you’ll know you’ve successfully captured the heart of the girl who writes. Read everything she has given you, unless she stops you. Recognize, and tell her, about the beauty of her words, the conviction of her prose, the pain behind her poetry. Don’t look at her with pity when she hands you a poem about a broken heart – following it, you’ll read one about you and how maybe her heart was not so broken after all. In any case, the girl who writes does not accept pity. She is the amazon goddess of the writing world. She is the soldier, the fighter, the good guy. She is stronger than a house of bricks and her writing keeps her demons in place, holding them down and releasing her.
Date a girl who writes because she will change your world. She will bring color into your grays. When you propose, she will have known for months that it was coming. She could read your body language from miles away. She will say the simplest phrase you have ever heard her say – yes, I do – and then she will begin to carefully craft the story of your lives. Through ups and downs and births and deaths, through funny family moments and trips to unknown places (in search of new inspiration), through misadventures and inky cheeks, through everything, anything, and all that is not yet written, the girl who writes will be the doe-eyed, love-struck narrator of the story and you, her forever after knight in shining armor.

You Should Date An Illiterate Girl

Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her.
Let the anxious contract you’ve unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi, and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale, or the evenings get long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn’t fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.
Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn’t, smile all the same.
Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail, frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return, or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn’t read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.

Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent as a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, god damnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.
Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.
Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.
Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so god damned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life that I told of at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. I hate you. I really, really, really hate you.