It has HIT hard

The bug.

I've caught the deadly disease again. I've been searching for a light in my life and everywhere i turn i seem to be facing mediocrity. Nothing seems good enough. I am longing for something, anything, ANYONE, to just sandpaper the edges of my heart to a place of innate pleasure of existence.

Instead i marvel at loneliness. I do not want to speak to anyone, to do anything else but stay in my own company. I have started to slowly burn the bridges of everyone roaming around me. I marvel at the beauty of death, The easy feeling of silence, blackness, nothingness. I scare people with all these ideas and i could barely care less.

Perhaps a haircut? Get rid of the dreadlocks that are almost two years of some such agony. I watched them slowly as they slowly protrude from my scalp and eventually falling over to the back of my head as they were too long to stand tall or rather short? I find myself thinking of sitting out in the middle of the night dragging on a cigarette, enjoying the only seemingly beautiful thing in life. The evening silence.

My comfort comes with some strange tone and unimaginable need to just NOT be. I'm sure everyone will conclude in the same apparently medical diagnosis of depression. Well i guess if it makes everyone feel better i might have to just accept while slowly i embark on the weirdest, uncomfortable mood of existence yet. Yet its quite gratifying being so in touch with my feelings.

One breathe at a time. Or maybe not

Life, love, sex, intimacy - THE VENT

Why is it that when we look at a plate of food we first think calories before we think flavor? Why is it when we think life we think about money and all other material things we could possibly collect before we think of places we could visit, cultures to explore, connections to create? How is it living if all we would like to do is hold on to everything we possibly can without letting go of that which we cant collect? Why is love all about sex? Why can't Living mean more than a state of existence described by people who have decided to profit on other people's unhappiness? People who have installed in our minds that beauty is when you can count your ribs as you stand in the mirror and see your spine tracing on your chest? People who have said loving hard and true is for losers and sex is the highest currency? Drugs make a name and relevance start with a mass murder? That life in itself has become such a pessimistic endeavor and profits are in war?

I'm tired of being asked if everyone I am friends with is a lover. I hate being put in the same bracket as everyone else living a life of confused purpose accompanied a lack of values. I wouldn't want to be bracketed into a life of Quiet-dinners, sunset selfies, technological-brains, unreal-friendships and non-existent intimacy.

Its taken me two days to brawl with friends over my dislike for text messaging and chatting. And in both cases, my frustration spewed over into a vent which ordinarily was misunderstood and I was accused of being stuck up and boring. I apparently have a stick up my ass of late. I must be losing my head maybe because the Joan that used to sit quietly amidst the agony of boring conversation and hours of meaningless chats in order to make a person happy, the Joan that was born to be an angel, to make everyone but herself happy.

You know that Joan? Well she's dead.

We used to be...

i used to sit with him almost everyday and he was proud of being my friend. Always used to say how odd it was that we could just sit and talk about everything, anything or nothing for hours. Our coversations were so diverse, starting from love, to lesbianism, aliens, MH370 and the rest of everything that meant so little or so much. we connected on such a profound level even though we had a gap of more than thirty decades between us.

 He'd sipped on his beer at a pace while i slowly took baby sips on my naturally sweet red wine. His Great Dane sat beside us looking slightly intimidating and mostly bored. My then friend worried that i would disappear, i assured him we were such good friends there was no way i would just disappear like  without explanation or reason.

We havent spoken in weeks. The thought of meeting him again makes me uneasy, I barely know where i would start. how i can explain the reason for the undeniable need to not be in contact with him. The connection has diffused to nothingness for me right now. I'm not thinking about fixing it, neither would it mean much. I've been disconnected from him and unfortunately it seems like he's not the last to face the wrath of my solitude seeking soul. I have a need to be without. Sola. It seems the connections I've had I feel not to to want to rekindle. Does being without mean I'm more at ease living in my silence? Maybe my joy is no longer in forged relationships but in nothing and being without? Even if without means I lose a friendship worth saving?

hablo espanol...

I've been going to classes for over three months now. Every Tuesday and Thursday, my bag is slightly heavier than usual with the addition of my huge notebook for taking notes that are naturally in an disorderly fashion, abstract for my misunderstanding in the future.

My notebook is as bad as my mind is with names. I am the ultimate snob for usually forgetting everyone i see if they didn't make an impact like a branding stamp would sear on to a cow. i have my notes in such a random dismantled order i dare not help anyone with them lest i am guarantying their failure. Regardless, almost everyday, i sit on the desk i have secretly written my name on, at the back of la clase. 

Why español? 

That is the question. Well besides the small fact that a staggering 392 million people in the world speak it, there is something about the way Spanish words rrroll off the tongue, the gentle way you bite on your tongue when you spit out those foreign c's, topped with the sweet s's that envelope la palabras to a perfect 'T'.

español is like the perfect woman, mi tipo de mujer. She is passionate and gentle, mysterious in how she presents herself and yet undeniably fascinating. She is witty and complex enveloped with an easy understanding and a loyal catch when you have her.

But in this moment, for me, espanol is a breathe of fresh air, my getaway car from reality. In that hour and half, i am in a world of dreams and new things. I am among crazy dreamers that love fantasising about the European oceans that run endless towards the African shores. They fantasise about salsa and the men and maybe women who will sweep them away with "hips that don't lie", men and women that speak this love language. All this is headed by una profesora whom brings to life simple moments and daydreams to a temporary reality.

. . . . pero solo en la clase loca.

Once upon a tale...

I've for a while now wanted to write the tale of my life. Its a story worth telling yet i hide it mostly and only unveil it when i feel it benefits the other person more than the memories awakening could ever hurt me. There's been so many versions;

The vague one:

He sat under a tree, a piece of grass between his lips. H e gazed out into nothingness, the dry land around him seemed sad but it was his home. He's made it far enough to have himself most of what everyone wanted. The African sun smiled from the heavens and he smiled back from under his favorite tree. He remembered the time of the war when he'd run in the dry savanna, camp to camp, with messages from the majors to his battalions of the best strategy to take back the land, the soil. I watched him from within the house. I wouldn't dare try to get too close. It was odd watching my own father...


The Silly One:

Its like i had to be a boy to be the greatest daughter to him. I wanted so much to be out of his way such that i felt being extra-good was my invisible potion. I'd just rather sit under the dinning room table watching the different shaped feet sweep by. I'd sit for our making up things that didn't matter, making up stories in my head of the unfounded happiness i had created. I'd get my sister to join and to join me. we'd whisper our found legend of the Purple Carrot...


There is however the true one. A sad truth un-twerked for my audience. One that is as it should, as it was. The one i worry when read many would find very...tricky to relate to me. The sad truths though i write in gasps. Little breathes taken at an interval of unexpectedness.

It didn't matter that he loved me. It wouldn't matter. I didn't love him. Not really anyway. I only could survive by being a puppet. The one who has to take the sacrifice of their own joy and freedom for their own survival, existence. I sat in the dirt, slightly hungry. I thought i should have had my breakfast, there would be no other meal for me until after 10am. Snacks were not particularly for us, the kids, says my step-mom. I didn't care. She wasn't who i worried about. It was my father or rather that which was within him...

Running...

My little feet slapped the cold hard surface of the evening tar road. That's all I could see. I was about 70m from the next street light, under one that was dead and scared half to death. Adrenaline pumped my brain to hazardous decisions and yet still, with all my might, I ran with tears falling sideways.

I ran a lot, playing soccer with the tree and I'd score, or when I'm racing the boys in the neighborhood trying to beat them and as a girl, be the fastest of them all. In all the other times, it was easy. This time, too much air was entering my lungs, I'd lost my shoes somewhere and the stones under the tar had no mercy for my soft sores.

I feared that a gun was pointed at the back of my head and in a second I'd drop to the ground in a sad fashion scrapping some skin off my exposed flesh. So I ran, for my life, for my freedom, for a chance to be without the monster or maybe the Angel of death that stood in the shadows behind.

Looking back, I could have taken different options. I could have talked him out of it, I could have stayed and joined him in the masquerade of self-distraction or perhaps self preservation. Instead I ran for an end, or a beginning, for a silent existence wishing that it would all lead to that.

Would you then say my silent wish that my father kept his word and actually killed himself is what made him eventually do it? Would that make me a murderer? Is it pragmatic to say that it was okay to not want him alive for everything he did to the people I love?

He claimed that his abuse wasn't actually abuse but an act of love. 

What is love?

"One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter"

My Father...

My father blew his brains out, my memory of him is tainted by the image of brain mass and blood splatter stuck to on a wall behind him. Shall I bring death up again? I remember the sounds I avoided to hear sitting under the table while my brother was my father's punching bag. The door was locked always but nothing could ever muffle the screams, pleas of mercy.

I've often wondered if he was in control of himself. Did he hear voices? Did he have a tumor sitting on his medulla oblongata making him evil or think evil thoughts. I'm wondering though if the act of suicide in his past was a way to silence or was it an act of vanity. To stop ill thoughts and die a hero of some sort.

Which ever the way it lies, I do know that I bask in silence now. There are no cries of mercy, or helplessness sitting in the pit of my stomach fearing the next victim. Fourteen years later, I still but speculate and what could have pushed him over the ledge.

Death is apparently dark and evil. I wonder though, seemingly we look forward to after life, to heaven and yet we can barely speak of the corridor that takes us to that place. I wonder with watching my mother die, did she make make peace with what it was. Does she float in silence enjoying the space of nothingness?

 Its a pity I'd never know.

Blank Pages & the Death paradox

I got myself a new journal, not be cause the last one i had was full...not by a long shot but, i think i get drawn to blank pages. I'm probably that, allured - dare i say addicted - to clean virgin pages that await my ink's penetration, scarring them until they have no other story but mine to tell.

Its the need to be in control of something, perhaps my thought. an attempt to file and box feelings. What if, maybe we are all experiments of thought and lifestyles. Maybe God watches intrigued by how we move, deal, experience life. I used to be a kid who would put ants in a box to watch their movements. I'd add sand stones and grass to the box to add that "challenge" to the ant. What if we are the ants and God is the little girl with the box. And every thing we face is just that challenge factor?

All our trial seemingly point back to the need to believe in something. To look to the future to believe in better. Is that perhaps the way God sears his stamps into our souls? Is that how his ink penetrates our virginal hearts of self believe to a belief in him? To think there must be more to life than the box?

Perhaps its like the ideology that "death is the creator of time; created time to grow that of which it will kill." They say its a negative thought thinking that way, yet they keep cattle and chicken until just about te right time to slaughter them and pack them off to the stores or maybe to KFC. We are killers in our own way and we dignify it with the need to survive.

A tiger kills a man and its put down yet a man kills a tiger and is praised.

It makes me wonder why we cry for a life that is lost? Other than the vacuum that is left by losing someone, losing a connection, missing that which we have grown used to and the fear of starting again, i doubt that we have a right to cry with questions of confusion as to why God takes them all so young or why is it he doesn't give some bodies the chance  to exist longer to let the souls grow. Then from there we slaughter a couple of baby chicken for the memorial service of the little child who died so young. The irony of life is that Death doesn't have discretion, whatever it is that lies lifeless; human or bird, is just but meat.  Life was there and then it was gone. The real challenge is what kills first.

I will ask the question, Is death God? Is death a force opposite of God? If it is, then to understand God we must understand death for we know no beauty unless we have noticed the ugly.