e-mails, texts, and love

-

The Seahorse and The Kitten

an e-mail reminded me of how frail life is. I saw this little boy strolling by and his hair was straight, disheveled by the wind. I am becoming used to not missing things anymore. music is my enchanted place. Baltimore was fun. I love to look at buildings and photograph them. It's hard for me to decide what I want to be. A writer, a photographer, an artist, a dancer. Being myself is hard enough. Or not so much, depending on the day you ask me. I bite deeply into a fig. I want a lover. A husband. I want to be deeply in love, like honey in my skin. I want to know that a person is right for me. I understand Fado so well. My dad is visiting and we are once again strangers. Your photography i(n)(s) my house. Boxes of jewelry. New makeup. My dreams on hold. My trip to Europe was canceled. I can't decide if I should be happy or sad. Try to understand me. You were wearing an impeccable white shirt. Your unforgivable cold and distant attitude. I gave you a compass. We went out on a couple of dates and you couldn't fake passion. Who can? I am doing everything I can. At least the things I am aware of. We carry our history in our faces. Our fate in our actions. Our worst nightmare in our words. We dress ourselves either with courage or fear. We feel the consequences, we pay the price. We shrink at. I am living in my mind, and I get goosebumps. I don't recognize being cold, it's like my body doesn't belong to me. The distractions of life have held me captive. Paralyzed. Have I lived in fear all my life? I doubt that. I listen to some Jazz in the background. Being (a) haughty is not my choice, my aim. I am not. I force a smile. Regret takes space in my hands. These are the perks of having an abstract mind. Four eyes on me. Two sets of twin eyes on me. Fiction and my reality is all gone. White chocolate. Candles. A dream shattered. I loved the movie Trishna. So sad. Intense. I have discovered a few new blogs I like. He probably knows what my flaws are. Where I lack. What I lack. I have read the Greek myths. And philosophy. And reality sinks in. Once and for all. I need a cold, dark beer. I liked the way he walked. Softly and fast. You reminded me of a sea creature. We are connected, I feel your pain deeply in my heart and I asked you how you were doing. You became a black and white photo. Lost in the distance of dust. Secluded in my soul's attic. Submerged in the ocean of lost, forgettable things. 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

To Someone

-
Image
The architecture of the city is plural and restless. Your voice comes and goes. The sky was pale blue today. White here and there. Clouds. Whispers.  Our dialog is more vivid now. I still see how intense your eyes are. You come and go from me. But I know you never really leave. At least, that is the illusion that keeps me - going? I see patterns. They make sense. Like you made sense a while ago. I can't reason with Love, can I? Love, this palpable, irrational measurement of attachment and desire.  I don't know if you are the same anymore. The same I knew.  Did I ever know you? It doesn't matter because you fit like a symptom fits a disease. You fit my fantasy. My fantasy was so concrete and so tangible. I play us in my head. If I had. If you had. But history doesn't rewrite itself.  I can't walk down the street to try and find you.   Unchanged sea. Under the same sheltering sky. I love you.
Read more

Writing

-
Unresolved pain. Nostalgia. Fire. Vivid dreams at night. Immense love.  I read the other day something an old friend once told me. Go back to what you were good at when you were a child. That's where your natural talent is. I go back, and so many things come up. So many interests. Infinite curiosity. I loved words when I was a child. But I also loved animals and nature. I also loved music and poetry. The beach made me go without sleep. I also loved to dance. I remember attracting people's comments while dancing at parties. Not because I was good but because I did my own thing.  I also liked cooking and baking from an early age. Books were also my private world.  But who am I now, forty years later?  I listen to Riccardo Cocciante, and my heart fills with raw emotion. How can someone be so good and write the most beautiful songs? I need to understand Italian better, but what I know and feel with his songs is beyond anything material.  The power of art has to move...
Read more

Letting you go

-
Sunday Afternoon by Rachael Yamagata. I know it's the right thing to do, but the right thing to do hurts like crazy. I see your presence in my apartment. I see ghosts of you. Messages that I don't want to read. It hit me hard this time. Tuesday morning, I am sitting by the window. It rains. I feel guilty and the wind blows slowly drops of blood. Maybe that's a sign. Someone said: if you like him that much, fight for him. I fought for you. I had you in my hands. I gave you so many opportunities. I gave you so much more than you deserved. It's getting cold. You slapped my face. I cried in your arms. I cried myself to sleep. I couldn't talk anymore. My projects are on hold. I can barely work. I write and I write and the pain doesn't go away.
Read more