confessions of a dangerous heart

"Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies." -OG-

I confess I'm a perilous heart. I haven't always been like this; the past experiences and betrayal have gotten me here. I've repeatedly been sent to rehab, but it doesn't matter how hard you try or what you use, a broken heart will never be as good as new. It's bound to change, evolve, scar and harden. A damaged heart forgives but never forgets. I have been owned by some, given away to others, stolen by a few and decieved by most. I didn't ask for it, I wasn't even taken into consideration. Now, I must confess that I have learned many ways to defend and protect myself, even when that means hurting other amateur hearts. I'm the most experienced architect when it comes to building wall around me for protection; I'm just not the best bricklayer and I tend to leave many weak parts that are brought down with the slightest touch of a meaningless kiss, smile or kind expression; the remains leave me exposed, defenseless and unguarded. After watching so many fragile walls come down so easily, I have learned to swallow my pain and pick up what still works and throw out what doesn't. This is a move I haven't perfected; I usually keep things that are best disposed such as empty memories and futile pieces of almost forgotten hearts. My past is responsible for all the pain I have caused and all the unfinished business I tossed away in search of something better. It's hard for me to let go of the past; ironically, the past has no problem letting go of me and when I look back it's almost as if I was edited from this unseen motion picture.

I have been accused of many different crimes and for most of them I will plead guilty. However, none of them were intentional and I might even ask for an appeal. I have many breaking and entering accusations, which I apologize for but not regret. On my defense, those hearts were not locked or guarded and they had it coming; they should have known better. I'm guilty of most injury accusations. I have broken, bruised, fractured, wounded and stabbed many hearts; it was not vengeance or will, it was never premeditated it was just the way things worked out. I confess to the betrayal accusation, in which I owned more than one heart at once. I had not confessed to this crime, maybe because I just thought they would never find out. I plead innocent for most lacerny accusations. I didn't steal the whole thing, it was just a piece which I still keep somewhere; I promise I will give it back as soon as I find it.

The past has built my present and my indifference, hardness and scrupulousness is only the byproduct. I have learned to amend corrupted emotions to help me out in this inevitable trial. I have managed to turn pride into empathy, vengeance into forgiveness, apathy into excitement, greed into devotion and deceit into truth. Love has never been corrupted before and it's the one thing that keeps me going. It's what helps me heal and what gives me strength to start over. It's the only immortal star that guides me through darkness. It's my very own defibrillator that brings me back every time; it keeps me beating and it will keep on doing it as long as I have you to beat for.

marla singer part II

"I felt like destroying something beautiful." -N- (FC)

I am Xihomara's deep feeling of remorse. I found myself in a torturous trance thinking about Marla again (and again). My tumor, Marla. I can't get him and the last time we saw each other out of my mind. I really should have put my brains before my mouth, but lets face it, I rarely do that and I get over regret way too quickly (maybe not this time). The most surprising thing about all this, is that the same day I woke up with him on my mind (well, I didn't get any sleep that night, really), he showed up just like that. I honestly hate when those freaky things happen; it makes me uneasy to think that there is such thing as a connection between two people, strong enough to transcend space. Maybe, the real thing that makes me uneasy is that I threatened that connection, I hurt it, I betrayed it.

I never wanted to hurt Marla; it was never my intention to wreck what we had or what we had built. He had never hurt me before and I felt guilty right after I answered his stupid question with cold-hearted honesty. It was that look he gave me, the most sincere look someone has ever given me, that made me want to turn back time desperately. A look that doesn't stop when it meets your eyes, but goes deeper, much deeper. A look that strikes your heart and soul, leaving them surrendered and drowning in your own cold sweat of guilt. A look that doesn't need a look back. A look that makes you hate your unwelcome words. A look that reflects your complete lack of empathy. A look that makes you wish you were blind. A look that's a stranger to forgiveness. A look that haunted your heart then, and haunts your karma now. If I could blame my coldness and indifference on anybody, that would be Tyler Durden. I guess things aren't that easy and, the truth is, I can't really blame it on anybody (not even my alter ego) this time.

Marla came back. Now that I think of it, Marla was never really gone. Marla, my tumor. Marla, my heart tumor. Marla, my soul tumor. He is part of me as I am part of him. Repeatedly, we have been apart and always end up back together (talk about destiny and fate). I feel we all have this built-in compass affected by our soul-netic field that, throughout life, attracts what we need the most at that very moment in our lives, and repels what we don't need at all; but I believe there is something that you'll always need and will keep being attracted to you no matter what. Maybe for me, that "something" is Marla. Maybe it was Marla who fixed my broken compass. I was surprised to see that he came back and I couldn't stop thinking of the letdown, pain and disappointment my pride and stubbornness had caused to an innocent heart. He made everything worse by doing what he does best: saying the right thing at the right time. I'm still wondering if now is, in fact, the right time. Maybe I'm not ready to hear those words; I honestly didn't expect to hear them from him again.

I'm confused all over again (go figure). It feels wierd to be forgiven like this, with no need to explain, no need to fight, no abuse, no questions, no remorse, no hate, no unwillingness, no looking back. Have you ever done something where you find yourself in a prison guarded by guilt? Where you are still doing your time even when you have been granted amnesty? Where you can't forgive yourself even when the one hurt already did? Where everytime you look back you wish you had done things better? That's how I feel now. Will this feeling go away? It's hard to tell. When you hurt someone so important in your life, it's like hurting yourself. It's as if you're the one being tortured and betrayed. I guess the real question is: will I ever have the courage and fortitude to do the same unselfish act for someone else? I can't answer that right now; time will tell. I just hope that when that time comes, I'm ready. All of this is confusing, perhaps it's just my pms talking and maybe Marla has given it a whole new meaning once again. This time "pms" definitely stands for "prostrated (before) Marla Singer".

prince charming

"And what I dream of is a man who will discover her, and that she will discover a man who will love her, who is worthy of her, who is of this world, of this time, and has the grace, and compassion and fortitude to walk beside her as she makes her way through this beautifully called life" -B.P.-

Ok, so maybe I haven't been the best, but I have surely tried. I know that's hard to believe but those who know me, know. As one of my favorite songs says, "I haven't memorized all of the cute things to say, but I'm working on it..." I was really trying my best to learn them but I guess I'm a slow learner and some people just don't have enough patience or time... It's ok. I, myself, am not very patient and I tend to get bored with stuff like that. Aaaanywho... I think what I'm trying to say, is that I have learned some of those things throughout my life and maybe, just maybe, I'm ready to share them... This time I know I'm looking for something different; something worth it; something real. This time, I feel different, capable and whole. For the first time in months, I feel complete and great about myself again. It's as if the sky is clearing up after months of bad weather to warm up my life and future; as if I finally stopped staring at the closed door and found out that I own a keychain full of keys that unlock all those doors that guard the rest of my life. (Ok... there goes a déjà vu). I believe this is my queue in life.

I have grown quite a lot, spiritually and emotionally, and I have learned from my mistakes. I really don't ask for much; I just need enough. I know that soon I'll find that person who will turn my world upside down and who will make me fall head over heels once and for all. I know he has to be authentic; be himself no matter what. He must be proud of himslef and be in love with what he does. I want him to enjoy life and everything that comes with it, even the sad and difficult moments. I want him to trust me and not be afraid to be vulnerable once in a while. I want him to open up to me and help me open up to him. I want him to call me in the middle of the night just to say he's thinking of me and that he wishes he was lying beside me. I need him to be there when I feel the world is working against me; I need something to know we are on the same team. I need a pair of open arms waiting to hold me tight and tell me everything will be fine, when life is getting thorny. I want him to feel safe with me. I want him to say, "I miss you" and really mean it. I want to call him and hear him answer with a smile on his face, knowing I may have brightened his day just a little bit. I want him to surprise me with my favorite flower, even though I don't like flowers. I want him to cook me a romantic dinner, even if it's only mac & cheese and coke. He must love the ocean and the rain; he must be willing to kiss me in the rain every time we get a chance and run away with me to my beloved paradise once in a while. I want to learn new things from him, even if it's only a new way to tie my shoelaces or blow a kiss. I want him to look into my soul when we look at each other's eyes. I want him to live and let himself be lived. I want him to let me win some of the fights. I want to go bowling and surfing with him. I want to stay up all night with him, gazing at the stars while we imagine our own constellations. I want him to be as crazy as I am about travelling to Africa. I need him to be patient with my pms; he must try to understand that the best way to make it better is a kiss on my forehead and a bear hug. I want him to steal kisses from me when I least expect it. He should have imagination and an adventurous spirit; always willing to try new things, even if they look real dangerous. I want him to never be embarrassed to be with me even if I have a fake-permanent marker-drawn moustache and unibrow on my face. I want him to be afraid and comfort him when he's facing the unknown. I want him to be proud of me and I want him to support my choices. I want him to accept the fact that I love Elvis, that I dance like Elvis and that I ocassionally, dress up like Elvis. I want him to dress up as a fireman, and... well... (heheh) I want him to be the first one to remember my birthday and the first one to wish me a happy birthday surprising me with a chocolate cake baked by him and a pint of cherry garcia ice cream. I want to show him new things, from an invented word to a different way to wear a tie. I want to go to the movies and not care if the movie sucked, because all along we were holding hands and that made it worth it. I want him to choose a quiet night in, over a loud or pathetic night club. I need him to understand that I love costumes, and maybe even dress up together and crash a wedding dressed as Elvis and Chaplin. I want him to listen when we talk. I want him to learn the right way to talk to me when I'm being stubborn. I want him to be my partner in crime. I want him to be my best friend. I want him to make the best out of today. I want him to live our moment.

You might think it's too much to ask for, but it's only based on perspective, really. You might think that there's no one like that; that there's no such thing as prince charming. Well, you see, I am willing to do all of those things for someone worth it, maybe even more (I mean, let's face it, I've done it for a few that weren't). I am willing to live my life and live my moment with that special someone. I don't necessarily expect it to last forever, but I don't discard the possibility, either. I just feel everything is about giving and receiving; I must warn you: it won't be simultaneous. I often give more than I have without getting anything back at that very moment; later, someone comes along giving me more than I can take and I find myself not ready to recieve it, for I am caught up thinking of the past, and missing out on my present. Now, I feel ready... but then again, so did I the last time. Timing has always been my biggest issue. Timing has a way of twisting my plans so lavishly. We might not be ready, and we might be afraid, but we only get one shot in life and you either take it and learn from it, or spend the rest of your life wondering what it would have been. When you least expect it, when you're least ready, you are face to face with someone better than prince charming. Will I take a chance this time? Will I be so selfish again and think about myself before my wounded heart? I may not be ready, and I may not be sure, but that's how fate works. That's how life goes. That's how love grows... go figure.

caras vemos

Bueno, pues me lo encontré otra vez. Sí, iba acompañado de ese hostil ser peludo: una beagle gorda con ladrido grave. Lo saludé como siempre y me sonrió con una sonrisa que aún no he descifrado. En las manos llevaba mi compu, el cargador y un DVD de Friends, el cual vio con curiosidad; supongo que se acordó de algún buen capítulo, como el de los pantalones de cuero de Ross. Me despedí cuando llegamos a la planta baja y usó la misma sonrisa cautivadora para decir, "Hasta luego."

Estaba en Starbucks más tarde, estudiando, cuando se me ocurrió contarle a mi study buddy sobre mi mystery neighbor (así le puse desde hace un tiempo). Le conté que me intriga demasiado lo poco que lo conozco. No sé mucho de él; sólo que vive en el piso 19, tiene una perrita beagle excesivamente gorda y siempre está en pijama (él, no la perra). Es raro ver a una persona siempre en fachas, acompañada de un perro malhumorado. Cada quien disfruta la vida a su manera...

Saboreando un té verde frozen alto sin crema y un café americano venti con espacio para leche, estuvimos imaginando su vida y a lo que se dedica. Creemos que lo dejaron plantado en el altar y vive en una depresión permanente, en donde lo único que tiene es su perra, la cual, irónicamente, fue un regalo de aniversario de su ex novia. No se ha suicidado porque no hay quien cuide a su perra, que creemos se llama Natasha (igual que la ex novia). Está siempre en pijama porque su vida sin esa mujer no vale la pena y no tiene para quién vestirse bien. Mi study buddy cree que él espera que yo sea su shoulder to cry on y que en cuanto se encariñe, se suicidará dejándome su fortuna y a ella la perrita.

Si esa no es la historia, creemos que inventó las tapas para café y vive de una fortuna inimaginable, alimentando a su perra a más no poder. En caso de que esa tampoco sea la historia de su vida, estamos casi seguras que es un gigoló; trabaja por las noches entregando su cuerpo a mujeres (y hombres...) insatisfechas que buscan un poco de diversión y romper con la monotonía de su vida sexual. Está ahorrando para irse a vivir a París, en donde los latin lovers son codiciados (y allá pagan Euros). Creemos que en algunas ocasiones Natasha lo acompaña a estas citas de pecado y participa en juegos que preferimos dejar a la imaginación.

Si su profesión no es vender su cuerpo (con todo lo que ello implica), suponemos que es dueño de alguna franquicia importante y demandó a Wal-Mart en EUA por resbalarse con aceite en uno de los pasillos, rompiéndose el hocico bien y bonito. Ahora recibe cifras ridículamente grandes de dinero a su cuenta en Suiza. Él no tiene que trabajar y es por eso que siempre está en pijama, paseando a su perra y dándole croquetas de caviar con salmón y trufas blancas.

Bien, si ninguna de las anteriores se aproxima a su realidad, suponemos que es viudo. Heredó una fortuna de su difunta mujer, que ahora le permite disfrutar de una vida de excesos y lujos que sólo Donald, Carlos y Bill podrían gozar. Su perrita, que fue un regalo de la reina de Inglaterra, duerme en un colchón de seda y plumas de gansa virgen, diseñado por Gianni Versace, que en paz descanse. El mystery neighbor es una persona altruista y el mes pasado donó millones de dólares a la Asociación de Perritos Sin Sangre Real (APSSR). Vive aquí para disimular y porque le caigo bien.

Sin duda, una de éstas es la verdadera historia de su vida. No puedo dejar de pensar que mi mystery neighbor también inventa mi vida. No sé si se aproxima tanto como yo, considerando que las pocas veces que nos hemos visto he estado vestida con tirantes y sombrero de bombín, de cocinera, de mesera, de hawaiana, de Elvis y una que otra vez como gente normal con un par de jeans y una camisa blanca que dice: I LOVE TO FART. En fin, habrá quien también me considere una mystery neighbor, pues, al final: caras vemos, vecinos no sabemos...

if only

so here we are again thinking about how things might have been if everything had gone the way we wanted. we keep wondering and asking our evasive hearts: what was the turning point? what made us take separate ways? what made us walk away? when did we lit the match that burned the bridge? what did it this time? if only this was a movie where we could rewind, edit and replay those critical moments. if only we had a time machine to go back to the beginning, knowing what we know now. if only we had known better.

when you reach that point where you don't look back, not because you don't want to, but because you don't need to, you begin to spot those moments in your healed mind and heart. like everything in life, it's too late to even bother. if only time had been on our side. if only those silences hadn't been filled with things that had already been said. if only we had looked into each other, rather than at each other.

the tears, the pain and the suffering made us stronger; the memories, the lost moments and the broken promises keep making us weaker. it is not what you lost, but what you kept inside. when you think about it, maybe it was nobody's fault; maybe fate took a shortcut. if only we had followed our hearts. if only we'd had more space inside. if only we had learned to build, rather than bring down. if only we had beat fate. if only we had known how to repair broken promises. if only what is supposed to make us stronger didn't make us weaker.

it's a lie to say that it will go away. these things stay with us forever. the heart is an abyss of pain; the heart is our life keeper; the heart is a never ending sea of rusty emotions that we use over and over again with different partners. if only we could reach inside and take our life back. if only emotions could be controlled, tamed. if only we could find the abyss of bliss.
dwellling on the past is not the best way to build your future, even when most of our life is in the past. if only the past was my present. if only we had tried harder. if only things had worked. if only... if only love was enough...

sábado de luchas

Este sábado definitivamente merece un lugar en mis slates. Sí, empezó como cualquier otro sábado: a las 12am. Esta vez estaba yo en una fiesta hawaiana en donde, por supuesto, me disfracé. Todos sabemos que cualquier oportunidad que Xihomara tiene para disfrazarse, la toma sin titubear. Y bueno, pues, así empecé el día: platicando con amigos, conociendo extraños, meneando el trasero, comiendo tacos. Por ahí de las dos, la fiesta se empezó a vaciar y partí con mis dos secuaces que se cuidaban mutuamente en la peda. Mientras caminábamos hacia el coche, yo me divertía viendo desde atrás cómo se entendían entre ellas hablando como el "Chicarcas" y Sammy (el de Derbez) y caminando en zig-zag por la calle.

Siendo la conductora resignada, me dirigí a casa completamente sobria; y en pleno periférico, escuché como desesperadamente se bajaba la ventana de atrás y, next thing you know: íbamos dejando una estela de guácara, algo así como Hansel y Gretel (no nos fuéramos a perder…). Yo estaba a punto de vomitar del asco y finalmente llegamos a mi casa. Se bajaron mis responsabilidades; y la que venía más sobria vació mi botella de agua para enjuagar la ventana y cajuela llenas de tacos de canasta parcialmente digeridos que su partner in crime se encargó de plasmar en ellas; usó el suéter para embarrar los restos que quedaron pegados ahí, pensando que estaba limpiando mi coche.

En fin, llegamos a casa y nuestra amiga que parecía el exorcista se quedó profundamente dormida en uno de esos sueños de pedo de los que no te despierta ni la guácara fría en las sábanas. Nuestra otra amiga, ya con el pedo medio controlado, me ayudó a disfrazar mi coche de Blue Demon. Sí, de Blue Demon. Terminamos como a las cuatro, subimos y dormí unas 4 horas.

Como a las 10:30 de ese día empezó el rally del cual me arrepentí de haberme inscrito horas más tarde. Empezamos en el sur de la ciudad y para las 2 ó 3 estábamos en la séptima pista, la cual se encontraba en Reforma. Sí, por supuesto, estábamos atrapadas en un tráfico indescriptible gracias al pinche desfile del día del niño. Con el coche disfrazado de Blue Demon, la gente pensaba que éramos parte del bendito desfile y hasta nos tomaban fotos. Cabe mencionar que estaba yo en plena lateral de Refoma a vuelta de rueda con la máscara del Místico puesta y la canción del Santo y el Cavernario de La Sonora Santanera a todo volumen. Dimos varias vueltas hasta que finalmente abrieron un tramo de Reforma de centro a poniente y obvio lo agarramos.

Bueno, llegamos a la Diana y se nos acabó "el veinte". Los culeros que venían de la calle que cruza Reforma en la Diana se me apendejaron y no dejaban pasar a nadie. Entonces, nos encontrábamos como idiotas parados todos sin poder avanzar. De pronto, volteó mi equipo y cuál era nuestra sorpresa que en el coche de al lado venía un policía en su coche; aclaro que era su coche y no una patrulla por razones que en un momento entenderán. Dijimos: no ma, este güey nos va a abrir camino. Y sí, me le pegué bien para abrir camino y de pronto sentí un chingadazo. Como el coche no tiene seguro, no quise hacerle un drama al güey que me había pegado y me seguí. Repito que no avanzábamos y el chingadazo no podía ser nada grave dado que íbamos a no más de 2 km/h; era sólo un besito por eso ni me bajé a ver qué pedo. Avancé unos 20 metros y de pronto out of the blue, el pinche poli que nos había "abierto camino", estaba ahí en mi ventana. Pensé que me iba a decir que me abriera para avanzar más chido, pero no. El pendejazo se asoma por la ventana y me dice, "Bájate le pegastes a mi coche." (Sí, decía pegastes, con la s). Me saqué de pedo bien cabrón y todavía le dije, "No, yo no fui." Estuve a nada de decirle que era a mí a quien le habían pegado, pero interrumpió mi injustificada idea diciendo, "Bájate y háblale a tu seguro." Y obvio con esa indiferencia que me caracteriza contesté, "No tengo seguro, háblale al tuyo." Se fue muy encabronado y uso su uniforme desgastado y su autoridad corroída por la falta de huevos, para parar el tráfico y lograr que yo me echara en reversa para estacionarme atrás de su coche. El muy imbécil me seguía repitiendo que le hablara a mi seguro y yo, con mi cara de despreocupación y el coche disfrazado de Blue Demon, le seguía diciendo que no tenía. Tuvimos que esperar a su seguro y mientras, le hablé a mi compa más compa para que me auxiliara porque no traía un varo para pagarle al fulano este. Cuando vi el chigadazito que tenía su coche, por Dios que casi lo meo.

Estábamos sentadas cuando a lo lejos vimos que se acercaba un güey de una aseguradora medio pitera, vestido en cuero; juro que caminaba como el techno viking y pensé que era el representante de su aseguradora. Se saludaron como buenos compas y me bajé del coche esperando que viniera a chingarme con preguntas estúpidas de cómo le había chocado al policía prepotente, pero lo único que hizo fue verme de pies a cabeza y se pusieron a comadrear. Me quedé en la banqueta sentada y me acompañó el resto de mi equipo de rally. Teníamos el culo de la Diana en la jeta mientras criticábamos al techno viking wannabe, imitábamos al policía, nos mojábamos un poco con la lluvia, veíamos como se mojaba el disfraz del coche y esperábamos al seguro y a mi compa. Por supuesto, también maldecíamos al comité organizador del maldito rally que no tomó en cuenta el pinche desfile del día del niño por Reforma.

Finalmente, llegó el representante de Mapfre o como se llame la madre esa. Se bajó de su moto como renegado y sí, también traía su traje puñetero de cuero. Se fue con el policía, le tomó los datos, vio el chingadazo haciendo la misma cara que yo cuando lo vi, vio que a mí no me pasó ni madres y me pidió papeles. Este sí me preguntó que cómo pasó todo y le expliqué con lujo de detalle. Me dijo, "Pues en estos casos las dos partes deben llegar a un acuerdo para que se resuelva y ahora sí que el señor tiene que decidir si lo que usted ofrece cubre sus daños. O sea, yo no le puedo decir nada porque es su coche de él." (Sí, su coche de él.) Bueno, nos bajó una buena lana el hijo de la chingada y nos fuimos.

Para este momento ya eran como las 5:00, no habíamos comido ni madres, yo me estaba meando; y no conforme con todo eso, llovía. Decidimos comer tacos en el Farolito. Yo no comí pero fue un buen momento para hacer un recuento de los daños y a pesar de nuestro mal humor nos cagábamos de risa de acordarnos de la pinche mala suerte que nos cargamos.

Definitivamente, esto es otra prueba de que este mes nada más no fue mi mes. La mitad fue bueno y el resto fue "interesante". Hoy me siento muy nueva y diferente. Creo que crecí en muchos sentidos y esto fue solo la cherry on top. Insisto que los días nublados tienen un efecto muy chido en mí y los eventos de mi vida. Estoy convencida de que mi vida se desenvuelve mejor en las nubes aún si es un día soleado allá afuera…

under construction

I just can't get enough of how cloudy days make my life work... I've been walking a bumpy, tricky and slippery road these last few days. It seems as though I'm being tested, but I just can't figure out whether my ability to move on or my ability to make things work is the one put on trial. I've been thinking about coincidence and accidents, and I end up accepting the idea that fate might be a possible explanation for the events I've been witnessing.

Things change, people change, feelings change, hearts change; but memories and wounds stay untouched, and I believe they should be held responsible for hard feelings and pride that we drag along the way. When you are carrying a burden of pride and an exposed and burning wound, you find yourself as vulnerable as you can be upon open arms, willing to help you heal. It's right there where you question your feelings. It's right there when you realize feelings are not meant to give answers; they remain silent; they don't lie; they are locked up, denied; they are misread. I can't get answers to my questions, and ironically, my answers now become questions. I don't have the strength to overlook the confusion and pain.

I won't be able to turn the page as easily, for this time, I am reading between the lines. I am unable to understand my baffled mind. I am thwarted as I look deep into my desires' eyes. My heart is no longer a host to hope. My soul is tired of being abused. What am I supposed to hold on to, when everything I hold is covered in devious thorns? Who do I turn to, if everywhere I look I find emptiness? What do I look for, if everything I believed in is gone? How do I fix myself if I'm missing so many broken pieces? Where do I go if I have gone astray in a blinding loveless midst? I've been trying to find my way and now I realize that it'll take time to fix my compass; it'll take time to fix myself. Time. Everything is a matter of time. Eventually, I am certain that all of this will make sense deep inside, after all, we are all yearning for things that work, not things that need to be fixed. Everyone needs to be fixed once in a while; I just haven't found the right tools to fix myself, and I guess broken tools won't work this time...

condemned to be free

You're not the first to feel that way, believe me, I know. It's what we fear most when we are feeling the warm breeze of love caressing our face and teasing our heart. As you feel that cold, bitter, choking feeling crawl up your feet into your heart, you start to remember all those times you've heard people telling you, "You don't realize what you have, until you have lost it". What do they know? You what I think? I think you don't realize what you can lose, until you have loved it. Love is a curse. It knows its way around us, it knows when to strike, its timing is perfectly precise and flawless: it hits us the very moment we put our guard down, even if it was just for a second. After that, you are doomed and you won't realize it because you've been blindfolded with a smooth and frail veil of idealization, devotion and burning passion.

It's not loss you fear. You fear being tested on your capability of forgiveness and trust. Your actions and choices are defined by your assumptions and imagination; and your thoughts, betrayed by the constant questioning of the situation. In this case, ignorance is bliss if you ask me. Ignoring the possibilities and focusing on the facts is the answer, and the benefit of the doubt is the road that'll lead you to it. Learn to read between the lines, embrace the space between. You are experiencing something new, or better said, you are now conscious of it. You crave a feeling to belong, you desire to be part of something (or someone...), you simply want to be. That feeling gives you the freedom and imprisonment you cannot bear. You are free to experience your life and choices without regret always on a search to belong; and at the same time, you are a prisoner in a maximum insecurity cell guarded by memories and imagination.

I've been there, I probably still am. You are free as you hold on to your purpose; you are free as you embrace your fears and disappointments; you are free as you give freedom and trust. I fear loss, I fear being tested, I fear my purpose, I fear freedom. Freedom is imprisonment and we are forced to do our time. Freedom is inevitable. We cannot fight it, for as Sartre wisely said, "we are condemned to be free"...

letter to god

dear god,

i have been losing sleep over many unanswered questions that i think you might have answers to. it's hard to walk around always wondering if i'm doing the right thing. i have always been taught that love is the answer to everything. however, at this very moment in my life, i am deeply confused. is it really love? i have been loving so many people, so purely, giving so much, suffering to the bone and i seem to always end up where i started. i have tried to build a road out of devotion and trust, but i always find myself lost in a never ending maze, always facing dead ends. tell me, is devotion, trust and love not enough? am i supposed to surrender to the unfairness i am up against? why is it that when i am finally taking a breath of relief and satisfaction, when i finally feel life's warm embrace, you wash it all away with a heavy storm of grief? where am i going? or should the question be, where are you taking me? will there be a moment in time when everything falls into place and i can finally live without fear and disappointment? will i ever taste the sweet drops of ecstatic peace and happiness? my only sin has been turning my back on faith and hope, for i have been betrayed by them along the way. my past and present are stained with bitterness, sadness and despair. i seek a clear future. i crave a new beginning. i covet a life. here i am, on my knees, with an open soul ready to be filled with truth and clarity. here i am, not quite ready to forgive you for what you have taken from me, but ready to know why it happened. here i am, waiting to be rescued, redeemed. here i am, trying to understand, never letting my heart harden upon life's cruelty. here i am, waiting for some answers... where are you?

a confused and suffering soul.

marla singer

i am xihomara's emotional and existential crisis... emotional and existential crisis haunt me every now and then. however, this time it was different, considering i was not alone (like most of the times they pay me a visit) and i had pms. all these questions kept bouncing inside my head. you know, are you really doing what you want to do? are you where you want to be? is it really worth it? are you happy? why aren't you happy? where would you rather be? would you really be better off there? do you belong here (and now)?

they all kept coming and going, leaving me shattered, confused and feeling so out of place, i could barely breathe. i had this feeling you get when you walk into a room and forgot why you walked into it in the first place. i guess i was being questioned by my very own tyler durden. tyler and my pms were really getting a kick out of my emotional collapse and i had no choice but to give in. next thing i knew, i was thinking about my tumor. yes, my marla singer. "the little scratch on the roof of your mouth that would heal if only you could stop tonguing it, but you can't". all the trouble marla brings into my life seems not enough to "her", and manages to always bring more my way.

i standed in disarray with my abused and baffled head, feeling as if i were some kind of beheaded chicken's body running around and bouncing against everything just after it's unfortunate fate. marla. even if i tried, it wouldn't leave my head. after all, the cause (and probably the solution) of everything going on inside me, was his fault. i think, deep inside, i kind of wish i could save him, wondering if it would give me some inner peace, thus, saving a part of me. it's hard having him haunting my thoughts all the time, showing up once in a while to shake up my emotions and leaving as nonchalant as he tends to be, always saying the right thing. marla. it won't leave my head. in the end, i guess i can't stop thinking about that moment when all those buildings come crashing down in slow motion right in front of us, and all there is left is marla and i. tyler really did his homework this time. and what do you know, maybe for me, this time "pms" stands for "pondering (about) marla singer"...

the beginning of the end

you know that moment when everything becomes blurry and it all works in slow motion? when you feel in standby mode and you wish so bad someone would push the on button but there's no one around to do it? when your heart feels sick, nauseous, like it's about to throw up? when you are with someone but you have never felt lonelier? when you feel your heart is no longer obeying, when it feels it has been held hostage? it's right there when all your fears come together to welcome you to the beginning of the end.

and you feel it. it's back again and you know it. that feeling you had locked up away because you were so scared it came back to hunt your heart and leave it barely beating. it's back, the one you know so damn well. the one you blame everything on. it's here again, you finally open your eyes. it's lighting a fire and realizing there is nothing left to keep it burning, but ashes. it's wondering if you really got more from giving when you see you're left empty handed. it's being the best you'll ever be, in vain. it's being part of the most terrifying battlefield just by talking. it's talking with your heart and being listened by the deaf. it's realizing that the versions of the truth were in fact lies. it's being so full of emptiness. it's wishing upon a dead star. it's falling off the edge and having no one to catch you. it's giving time and waiting forever. it's trying to escape fate. it's believing in an illusion. it's holding hands with deception. it's having the right key to the wrong lock. it's expecting the best and getting the worst. it's not noticing you were reaching the end because you were so caught up thinking of the beginning. it's being, having, giving and suddenly losing everything to lies and deceit. it's here. welcome to the beginning of the end.

the road to nowhere

When you find yourself in front of a dead end, when you're about to collapse, when you have no idea where you stand, thats when everything falls into place and you realize what everything really means. You learn to read between the lines. You realize you've been walking the road towards disappointment and grief. The road which they disguised with signs and sceneries that diverted your attention. Signs that made you ignore the opportunities to take shorcuts to a pain-suffering-uncertainty-expectation free paradise, and instead, you found yourself travelling the same road you have always walked upon; the road you thought you knew so well, the one you promised yourself you would never walk on after what it had done to you, after ending so bruised and battered. The one you thought you would recognize a mile away and would avoid without hesitation.

But you know it's not all their fault, after all, your curiosity and expectation were what kept you walking. You know you expected the best because that's what you were promised from the beginning and you gave your best in exchange. It hurts to know you were unable to bring out the best of them and what you gave was all in vain, it tears you apart to know that your devotion was never enough, that you were always second in line when to you they were second to none. It's right there when it hits you: once again, you are travelling the road to nowhere all alone, using your scathed and scarred heart as a shield and hope as your shoes.