Estoy repleta de pena.

Él me miró, por un rato, fijo a los ojos y yo, enrrojecida, miré hacia abajo y reí nerviosa, después de casi dos años sigues dándome mariposas. Un desayuno liviano, saludable. La pared durazno destrás de sus ojos amables.

En el mismo lugar, él me miraba de reojo, el silencio era intenso, la expresión de pesadez me mantenía mirando la comida. El dolor crecía, la pena. Un desayuno abundante y delicioso, La pared durazno se fundía con su cabello que todavía no corto, sus ojos que no me atreví a cruzar.

Misma escena, un día de distancia, dos corazones. Uno que se alegra y entusiasma cuando hablo de mis sueños, otro que al escucharlos, se aterra del final, de los cambios, y explota en emociones hasta ese silencio abrumador.

Estoy repleta de pena.

Ayer hablé con mi madre por 5 horas. La extraño. Las extraño a todas. No paro de llorar. 

Estoy repleta de pena.

Sueño con el fin del mundo y sufro porque no puedo tenerles a todes juntes.

Estoy repleta de pena.

Tanta, que no tengo energía para nada más que estar en cama, escribir tres oraciones y mirar el teléfono como si ya hubiera muerto.

La primera vez

  I found being small/Encontré ser pequeñe.

Primero todo fue gracioso, de a poco subían las emociones hasta hacerse un universo de calma. Adentro.
Luego era demasiado, la separación del tu y el yo era irreparable, un demonio del ego. Pero pronto llegó mi realidad, sin ya importar la concentración, mi ser salió como una ola en el océano: sensible.
Descubrí el terror del infinito, la nada y el todo a la vez, el universo, pero la alfombra de verde y morado simbolizó el brillo de mi propia alma, segura en mi.
Encontré pronto un amor inmenso que no pude saborear entre tanto miedo de perder otros estímulos. Encontré psicoanálisis y sabiduría, nada nuevo, sólo más claro, más calmo.
Overwhelm, no hay lo literal.
Entonces caminé hacia el horror verde y encontré ser pequeña, entre tanto mundo en donde pisé vidas enteras olvidé que somos todo siempre. Miré el bosque, corte histológico de lo natural, hecho por el hombre, odio, pena, ser pequeña.

El bosque me protegió, me enseñó y me aterró.

Volví a la televisión, no nos entendemos. Tomamos las manos, compartir sin éxito, creo. No hay conexión. El sol ya no tocaba mi piel y descubrí el frío, caminamos hasta que corriste lejos, volviste con el grillo. Alegría hasta el salto, sumergido en pasto y miedo, sentí su horror. No pude cambiar nada, como es la vida entera, paso a paso dejé esa escena. Volver al hogar por cansancio, pero encontré de nuevo mi corazón encuclillada frente a tres plantas altas que bailaban con el viento como mi alma. Las acaricié con cuidado y recordé ir al hogar.
Volví y encontré mi amoroso silencio en un árbol cubierto de musgo, le acaricié y sentí como todo ser, por fuerte que parezca, necesita cuidado y amor, incluso por seres pequeñas como yo, mi árbol fuerte, cómo te amo.

Luego, tras mucho pensar, un abrazo nos hizo mirar el cielo en cierta incomodidad, al fin conectar, o algo similar. Los pájaros migrantes como yo, el árbol fractal, y los parásitos: fuegos artificiales en cámara lenta.
Conversaciones con un girasol muerto, tanta agua y tan poca. La roca que da fuerza, el sol en la cara, mi sidekick. No me gusta la propiedad, no me gustan las jerarquías, pero gracias por estar a mi lado.

Mujer en bici, volver. 

Psychoanalysis of another breakdown.

 

As a child, I wanted to be homeless.

The drawing I kept making over and over again was myself in a cave, in a corner, in a hole, with an umbrella over my head, blankets and pillows and a fire to keep me warm. 

I see now that I was seeking freedom, safety and protection. That which I never got at home. Now as an adult, I am still in the same search because I don't know how that looks like. I get into the same patterns and pains, even if my room is cosy. I feel empty because what I needed then was a parent who would make sure I was seen and safe, but now I don't see or protect myself. That is Freud.

I need to get back to reparenting, listening to myself, taking time for my needs entirely, but I am caught up again in the drama. I forgot once more who I am because the core of me has gone to seek refuge in the depths of my subconscious, a place full of traps, labyrinths and song lyrics. All meaningful and harder to solve than any puzzle since they have a hidden symbolic logic based on experiences I don't even remember. There's a reason they have gone to that godforsaken place, it's best if they stay there.

Now being a highly sensitive one, I don't know how much I can trust why those memories were stored away. Anything and everything hurts.
I wonder if waking up with the image of those drawings I made means something too. I wish I had help.

d e j a - v ú .

 The way some things shine against the light, in specific moments. Ladie's old perfume, voices, tones, melodies, languages... it all, at times, feels like a dream, some sort of deja-vú, the one that the entirety of life is. 
The ocean waves go and come and go, but it's all the same water. I see moments of my life that are yet to happen, abstract but detailed, a feeling, unclear, but mine and interconnected to all the others. It keeps getting better.

I see my lovely trip through this brief existence, meaningless & trivial, almost banal, yet it feels like the entirety of the universe to me.

Your smell was precisely that, the feeling of your skin against mine, your hands, the heat, your fingers shared with mine as they intertwined for the first time, and each time after that. So I can't help but wonder about this we made, a few hours, a few days, here we are, how? Why?
Is there even a meaning to all this, or is it once again life reminding us that there is no such thing as fate? No higher power to hold us when the balance tips off to either side? No justice, no magic. 

-But if so, what is this feeling that implodes infinitely, expanding through all aspects of life as I mourn the death of everything we already did and will never be again? 

What is love but the pure expression of those universal mysteries we can't seem to understand in our wild blindness, our raw presence? 
I want to believe, or is it just that I am tired of fighting this war alone? - As a good Libra, I just can't choose: I want it all and nothing, always and never, but also beyond. A river is supposed to flow, never quite the same, yet deeply grounding within itself. To become the river, I have to let go of it all. I mourn all we can't have again, all the ways in which we didn't meet and the one we did too, for we will nch other again - even though we are still doing it.

Anxiety is hard most times, but especially as I ruminate about the present, the future and the past. Especially in my deja-vús, the connections of memories that aren't real yet, the dreams. I fear this is all just some already-written play that we're just performing, yet it brings deep ease since it would mean all this, with you, has a reason to be, a higher reason, not just what I can learn from those full-body shivers you gave me as your fingers danced through my skin and you grabbed me with your full hands, wanting, craving, having. Not just how we laughed dancing openly, not just the waiting for sunrise, not the way your toes reached out softly when I placed mine closer, not just the way both your arms wrapped around me or how we looked into each others' minds. Not any of that, but further. Not a conscious, but higher, bigger, more than me and you.

But if god is water and I am water, then I am god and it all comes back down exactly to that which I can learn from the mundane. Not a further fate, but a teaching, a mindset; that deeply lonely isolation, yet eternally interconnected black hole I am, and you are, and everyone is. It's all the same water, it's all the same universe, and we're profoundly different, yet exactly the same. 

How do we live with such contradictions?
How do we understand that magic is just mundane?

Thank you, for filling up those needs. Snowball effect, but worth it even if only for a night. 

I have more wishes now and I think I know why you came into my life. Magic is mundane and this is definitely magic. I hope I don't scare you, I hope I'm understood, but mostly I just have to remind myself - don't be scared, let go and float on.

Untitled memories

Faint light crawling through the curtains in the morning, close to the darkest time of the year, again. There was no wish to get out of bed, again. But this restless mind wouldn't stop chasing something, anything really. 

She stretched her arm into the cold air in the room and picked up the phone. A light too strong showed the time; 7:53. A strong annoyance shook her guts: "Finally I can sleep longer, but this curse of a brain won't let me" - Is that bad self-talk? The arm went back under the warm & cosy blanket, a self-hug with more intrusive thoughts, more to-dos, more random images, questions and problems. 

"Cállate, cállate, cállate", she repeated to herself for a while until she held the phone once more and played a good old guided meditation. 45 minutes of a man telling her what to do, as if we didn't have enough of that already, what an awful thing to do. Lucky for her, she did the exact opposite of what he said: She fell asleep. 

In this strange dreamy state of half-wakefulness, a vivid memory arose:
Winter back in that three-story home, the cold wind blowing through the windows and the smell of paraffin on the stove. A feeling of melancholy mixed with loneliness, all the lights were off as she waited for her mother on the first floor like there was no life until she arrived. The same faint light was coming through, only at 6pm, a normal winter time for darkness.

A second memory came, for that feeling of void got in too deep, she had to bring warmth into her soul again, it's no good having such feelings so early in the morning, especially on mornings when you wish you didn't exist:

The smell of toast, lights on and hot chocolate for dinner, her mother's warmth was there, the mustard and red coloured furniture, all matching with curtains closed and the burgundy tiles of the kitchen floor.