“September 11, Friday”

(to be read from bottom to top)

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an entire chapter.
played a small part in a novel, one in which I had given him 
had only become the culprit and the victim, had only
whole, yet there was no trace of him in my life,
was the culmination of everything, he had consumed me 
When it ended I waited for him, dazed because this

over the sound of my heart, I couldn’t hear him.
unknown territory. I couldn’t hear my words
And then I said it, I entered that intangible

fear and elation creep in. That’s what it felt like.
under your feet as you begin flying downwards
and take that impulse, that feeling of air and nothingness
adrenaline, that summoning of willpower to
what jumping off an edge felt like, that surge of
And as I struggled through it I understood then
oh so simple “I liked you, Landeros, I still do”.
It felt near impossible to say those first words, those

his breath and whisper, of his calm and contentment.
And that made my head spin, go blank, reel at the sound of
It was the first time I heard his voice on the phone
but he sounded calm, it made me all the more adore him.
He was hesitant and curious, unsure of what was happening,

I have them still saved on my phone.
I had to rehearse my words
and I had pined for him for so long.
“The Desired Effect” was playing in the background,

December 20, 2013

Crumbs

The other night I was telling my friend Alex about how I settle for what I call “crumbs”. How I’ve never had a “significant other” and how I never seem to get past crushes. I don’t consider it an issue because being alone is what I’ve always known and love has to start from within. I am content with myself. It’s just that sometimes loneliness comes crashing in like an unexpected wave at my shore, and during those moments it’s hard watching someone be happy with their partner. When that happens I always catch myself looking down at the sight of a kiss, or turning down the volume when a sticky-sweet love song comes on, or scrolling past passionate Neruda quotes on the Internet.

It’s in those interludes when I can’t bear it. I can’t bear to be alone. And suddenly it becomes exhausting being (by) myself. I get tired of doing my own mental compliments, of being my own hero, of treating myself out to ice cream or a movie and not being able to split the bill. “Content” stops being enough. When I get hungry like that, something funny happens. If a man pays attention to me, I hang on to their every word. I don’t have to be attracted to them. They don’t have to be single. Heck, they don’t even need to like girls.

But if for whatever God-given reason they find something worthwhile in me, if only for a second, that is enough for me to want more.
A compliment. A glance. A visit. A touch. A smile.
Of course I develop a story in my mind. They have to have a background, a reason.

So for a while they make me happy. I can live off of a soft pat on the head, or a tender smile. If they let me compliment them despite my awkwardness, my heart turns them into benevolent beings.
I am content again.

Until the effect starts to fade away, the euphoria dies down, and the spell is broken. Look, there they are talking to another girl (and she’s prettier than you). Has he told you about his girlfriend yet? Don’t forget the time he said he considered himself of the female gender and he’d never have sex with anyone in the room (a few minutes after giving you  the sweetest kiss on the forehead).

So loneliness creeps back in, and suddenly my heart’s not special anymore, and my spirit not noble enough to overlook my physical flaws (because the voice inside your head is always the hardest one to silence). I’ve become attached to a ghost (the ghost of someone I made up in my head) and now I crave attention, otherwise I’ll remember I’m just a lonely, single, geeky human being and that the whole “love yourself” mantra is a lie. Quick, somebody love me or I’ll disappear.

_________________

Obviously nobody comes. Nobody holds me. Nobody hands me a playlist, a letter, a rose. But the worst has passed. That wave that reached my shore and had taken me by surprise had been nothing else but water and salt, and here I had turned it into a tsunami.
(the only casualty was my self-respect)
I realize once again that if I crave tenderness then it must be by my own hand, because I, too, have that healing power. It becomes the clearest thing: I threw myself at someone who didn’t even know my favorite color, and will most certainly never be interested on why I like to write on the floor or on how many bookshelves I want in my future home.

And they shall never know how fondly I loved them for those days, minutes, seconds, of need.

But I’m alright. I become my own again. My desire, having robbed me of my peace, is once again within its cage, and I come to understand all I received after those fruitless pursuits of affection were nothing but crumbs. And that doesn’t satisfy someone of a healthy appetite. So until the day that someone comes, and takes me into a grand ballroom filled with the most exquisite tenderness and affection, a feast worthy of a hungry heart like mine, until this man comes and serves us of his banquet, I will keep setting the table for one and sit myself. Because I am content with myself, and with my own modest meal, made with the love of my own hand, as it must be.

March 12, 2015

I am so mad at myself. I somehow manage to brush off every opportunity at bettering myself. There are kids out there younger than me making a real difference in this world. And the worst part is, I don’t have either the strength to do anything about it or the tears to feel bad about it. I am shameless. It’s almost as if these kids were born with those skills, almost as if college was just one more stepping stone but they’ve got it all figured out. And I’ve been in denial, all this time I have somehow convinced myself I would be alright no matter what, that it’d be ok, that somehow, one way or the other, I would be famous, successful. But the truth is, I am a failure.

Own only what you can carry with you; know language, know countries, know people. Let your memory be your travel bag. Use your memory! Use your memory! It is those bitter seeds alone which might sprout and grow someday.

-Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, “The Gulag Archipielago”

Is not knowing what to do really that wrong? Am I even called to do something big with my life anyway? I feel like my hands are so able, so capable of doing anything, if only I could teach them.

March 26, 2015

I am learning to grow out of my shell. I am also learning life is not as clear as I hoped it’d be when it comes to love.

I find myself craving it more and more. Sometimes I torture myself by thinking I need to be more mature in order to love someone and be loved back. Other times I tell myself I am ok with being my own, and that self-love matters above all. I have even considered the possibility of being asexual or aromantic, or a combination of the two if that’s even possible. And the list of failed attempts grows on, failed seeds of love that withered before they were put to good soil. Maybe I am bad earth. And I know I’m not the only one when it comes to heartbreaks (if you could call them that, my heart is seldom touched), but in the end it all goes back to the same thing: I long for love I’ve never had.
But it’s myself, I am my own pressure, I am my own fear. Have I ignored every attempt from every man that’s ever been interested in me? In my attempt at finding perfect romance, have I overlooked reality?

I can feel my body changing, growing older, a time-bomb ticking. I don’t want to be 30 years old and finally finding love. Of course love is enough and it’s wonderful, but then what is the point of my youth? I’m in my prime and I want to share that with somebody. I want to try every single coffee house this city has to offer holding hands with someone. I want to push the boundaries of kissing until it’s morally questionable, I want to be so drunk in love with someone the idea of spending time alone, sitting here writing this sad longing, feels like nothing more than a very dull dream.

Tuesday, July 14th, 2015

I am a backwards thinker. My humor is weird and most people don’t understand my jokes or references, and no, that doesn’t make me “quirky” or “different in a good way”. It makes me lonely. There’s nothing unique about that, or at least it doesn’t feel that way. I hate having to watch some movies on my own just because there’s no one close to me who could enjoy it with me.

On a different note, it feels weird to write after not doing so for a while. My hand is shaking, my letters aren’t forming right. My wrist tires. I hate feeling that weakness, writing is my strength, even if my only topic is myself and my jumbled thoughts. Somehow I can never run out of material on that subject. I suppose I am my own muse, the only person that can understand and not judge me.

I think of all the projects I’ve dropped. All the short films and the writings and the drawings and the videos and the blogs, all for the sake of saving face, for being too embarrassed to fail and, even worse, exposing my strange, inadequate self to others,and all that just to fail. Just no. And yet, this part of me desires that, it wants to fail, crash and burn and see what happens, and not give a damn about the bystanders because they don’t care anyway, I’m just a speck of dust in their outlook of life; the family members, the three friends I have, the acquaintances from the past. Everyone’s busy doing their own thing anyway. And see, here’s the thing, here’s what I really want:
I want to live in a city. Away from the family. I want to be fulfilled. I am afraid of saying it so I’ll just whisper it:
I think I want to own a café. And not just sell cupcakes and brownies and the like. No, I will work with my hands. feels the strain in my muscles and take on the concept of a panadería- traditional stuff, homey stuff, with a coffee to remind others of home, of safety, comfort. I want to learn about coffee beans, how they’re toasted and brewed. Coffee is a smell I can never tire of.

And aaah I know this isn’t marketing. I also know this could only happen later on, and with a partner (maybe a spouse?), since I wouldn’t like it to happen here anyway. I don’t like the idea of this all developing in Mont—–. I’ve seen the shops and bakeries, it could happen but I don’t want to chain myself to this place. No, it needs to be somewhere that rains. Some place beautiful. And since we’re already dreaming, let’s say… Portland, Oregon. It’s perfect.

And about short films and films in general, it seems like I’ve lost my passion. I used to watch them like they were life, feel them in me like air. I didn’t need to relate to anyone, a good movie was enough to make me feel understood. Oh my gosh, I want that power back. Where did I go wrong? I joined Séptima F because it felt like my big break, like  a chance to finally express to the world how much I adore films, and meet like-minded people and maybe make a friend. Instead, I ended up with an unrequited crush and the crippling fear that even in something I enjoy there’s also competition and jealousy. And now, I feel like there’s nothing to say.

And actually, you know what, I have a problem. How is it that I feel, that I’ve convinced myself, that I have nothing to say? Who tells me that?! It makes my blood boil and also feel powerless. When did this happen? I have spent my entire life making myself small and try to not occupy any space for others to fit in. What the hell? Where am I, where is room for me? I demand my own podium. I want admirers, and jealousy, and not climbing to the top but yes a clean, clear space of my own to feel safe, heard, whole.

It’s even come to this: whenever I’m asked for my opinion, or even a description of something, I can’t seem to find my words. I’m telling you, I’m backwards. My brain is empty and I’m only ever eloquent on paper. Feelings are all I got. I can’t even make eye contact with anyone (which worries me because I don’t know if that’s physical or psychological and I’m afraid of asking, but also I’m so self-aware of it I’m afraid it’ll never go away).
So what do I do? How do I change? I’ve already got the physical part down: I remember this being a huge self-esteem issue for me a few years ago. Now I can live with the reflection in the mirror. I’m learning to love my body, and become willing to take care of it. I no longer feel the need to crawl out of my own skin (this is in no way saying I’m 100% good to go. God knows I have days I’d rather stay in bed and avoid reflective surfaces). So that’s been mended for now.

Fun fact: when I am overwhelmed and hurt by people who don’t give a hoot about me and I’m purposely ignored by them (like the Séptima people and my entire family on my dad’s side), lately I’ve started to do this thing where in my head I start screaming “Fuck youuuuu!!!” and then individually point out at everyone and go “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you too, and especially fuck you too buddy!”. And then I’ll sing (this also in my head of course) “Fuck you” by Lilly Allen. It’s my stress relief, and the only way I can cope with things. And to be honest, I am so close to doing this in real life it’s getting dangerous. That’s how done I am with this situation, this constant putting up with people who already behave like I am not even there, and it drives me crazy, it drives me off the wall. I feel rejection so very strongly, perhaps it’s just me overreacting but also, dang, sometimes they don’t even pretend. Sometimes literally not one of them talks to me. This is true for both parties mentioned above, where the groups are always big. And alright, maybe it is just me. But even by common courtesy, these people are failing terribly at being cordial and at least acknowledge my presence. Come on, give this introvert a break. And I know I sound so bitter, and I am a bit, but also I’m kind of done, I’ve tolerated being ignored and even questioned myself for them. All that has done for me is diminishing myself. I’ve shut down my voice always, all the time, I can’t even hear myself anymore. And isn’t that sad? Isn’t that regrettable?

Bonus song:

Good night.