Brown Eyes

The boy that I love has deep, brown eyes. It was there where I found kindness, innocence and honesty. He sings – rather badly – about heartbreak and his jokes are not always nice. He likes watching TV on Saturday evenings and drinking wine by the window. He loves riding his bike in the park, feeling the cool breeze against his skin, maybe in the rain.

From time to time, he also likes looking at me. When he does, words come through and I understand them, and he doesn’t need to open his mouth. The words he speaks with his eyes, go straight to my heart. He tells me that I look pretty, and I become more and more his own. He can see the beauty of my inside and outside when I feel small and ugly, and it makes me smile. It also makes me cry.

The boy that I love has brown eyes that I adore, and I wish I could tell him every day that a life without them is a sepia postcard of a time I don’t want to relive. I wish I could tell him about the times when looking into his eyes became the reason I could push through the hardships of my life.

The boy I love is no longer a boy. He is a man and he is not here anymore. I rely on my memory, on the million snapshots stored in my head, to find the strength I could only find in him. I look for that boy in the corners of my mind so I can smile a little and cry a little more, but the images are fading, and every day I see him less clearly. Every day, I hurt a little more.

The boy I love will never be around again, and more than anything, I will miss the small things he gave me without knowing that made me happy. So tonight, I will give him a star, one I can look at from down here when I feel lonely, to remember him. One he can look at when he feels lonely and be with me. It will shine as bright as the light he brought to my life. Maybe one day, it will make him smile – one day, perhaps much later, when he no longer remembers how I looked when he told me I looked pretty. Or maybe, if he remembers me, it might make him sad, only for a minute, before he remembers he can always find me in that star, and when he looks at it with his eyes, he would be staring directly into my own.

Then, maybe, that star would keep me alive.

And maybe, one day, when I am long gone and his eyes belong to someone else, then I will be looking down, wishing that all the love I ever felt reaches him, if not from me, from that fortunate one who gets to see his brown eyes looking directly into hers, telling her how pretty she looks. The brown eyes of that boy who sings about heartbreak, drinks wine by the window, and loves riding his bike in the rain.


You, my boy, are all I ever wanted and the most beautiful thing the world ever gave me. I will always be yours, and until the end of me, I will follow you if so was your will. I will always be right here.



Some days ago you got the truth out of me.

It was one of those small secrets one keeps out of pride, to avoid being hurt. You made me tell you every single, pathetic detail. I felt mortified, but liberated. You knew. Deep down, I was glad you finally knew. Because it was important that you know. Deep within my heart, I wanted you to know, I wanted you to have a small piece of my love, a token of my enduring, tireless feelings for you. The truth. You knew.

It was never relevant. It was not important. It was received with aversion. You resented my gift to you, undermined my great feat in the name of your fear and your underdeveloped emotions. You crushed my spirit once again, as you had many times before when I opened up my heart to you. I was pummeled, writhing on the ground before your stoic, adamant face. Tears spilled, puddled at your feet, wetting the thin fabric of your reality, but you never looked at me.

I am made of see-through glass when I open up to you. You act like a mirror, for the sole purpose of deflecting my own energy, my emotions, my soul, back to me whenever I need you. You’re made of glass as much as I am, but yours is a barrier and mine is a window through which you can peer and stare deep into my torn existence. I am shattered. Blow after blow, I have endured. I have smiled while my heart cried out in pain. I have comforted you, I have held your hand. I have learned to love the smell of your skin after it has been touched by others. I have stood before you with my insides buried deep within myself, and you have not seen them. Yes, I have lied. Lying as a means of protection, lying to keep my tattered, battered, shredded heart from complete destruction. But to you, a lie is a lie, and I am a liar in every sense, every nuance and every disgraceful context of the word.

I am an awful, weak human being. I have wronged you, I have hurt you and I am undeserving of your affection. I am damaged, I am sick and I do need you. And I belong to you, completely. You are perfectly aware. I have paid for my mistakes with scorching tears and unrelenting darkness, I am still haunted by the pain I caused you. I am always at fault, you will never let me forget that I wronged you. This, I take in stride, every day and every night. I hold out my pained hands to you, I put everything that I am in them, wrap it nicely and offer it to you, but the gift is so poor, so meager, you take it, put it away and never look at it again. You know it is there, you know it will always be there, but you never see it. You know I am there.

You see, when I told you the truth, I expected to move something in you. I expected you to see my actions for what they were, an act of love someone gave you because they thought you deserved it. They were pure, they came from an innocent place in my heart, free from corruption and the deceitful hands of men. They were the stupid illusions of a person who refuses to grow up, and chooses to believe that love doesn’t move mountains, but people. Instead, you took them for the treacherous actions of someone who never deserved your attention. You humiliated me by taking my offer of love and throwing it away, deeming it offensive. You, the flawed, tortured individual who keeps my heart buried in your pocket. You dared satanize the most important decision I ever made, because you are too immature to understand what feelings can do. You hurt me, yet again, and dehumanized me, turned me into a sick, delusional entity with no capacity for coherent, rational thought. I had never felt so low.

Now, you dismiss me over tantrums, fits of rage sparked by my need for your attention. You stab my heart with small needles, each tearing open a small wound that bleeds directly inside my soul. You carelessly push me away, knowing I am trapped inside your pocket and cannot get out. You throw words at me like rocks hitting my skull, cracking it open. You never turn back to look at me bleeding. You are selfish and I should hate you, but I am insane and I can only love you, which baffles you even more and escapes your comprehension. Because a person who loves cannot inhabit your cold, barren wasteland. A person so stupid cannot enter your brilliant universe.

Every time I open up to you, it is like my heart is begging you to take it and care for it. I am so, very damaged, and I need you. I am sorry my existence has cause you pain. I never meant for it. You are the reason my face can produce a smile and you are the cause for my tears. You control me. And even though my feelings for you cannot be explained with human words, I know I am alone. One day, I will be free. I will escape your prison and you will reach out to grab me but I will not be there. Then, you will understand that the truth I revealed was never an act of insanity but an act of love. And sadly, it will be late, for I will be away. My heart will be healed. The pricks, pins and needles hanging from my skin will start to fall off.

You have never loved. You cannot understand how the small sacrifice of a broken soul could fit in your rationality. You would never understand how someone so weak could endure so much hurt. You will never understand me. You don’t hear me screaming. You don’t see me squirming on the floor. You don’t see me. I am see-through. I am glass.

Here’s something

I filled out the Proust questionnaire, because I had nothing better to do today. My mind is not bright, so this will not be of any relevance, I suppose. But I was bored and I thought I could give it a try.

What is your favorite virtue?

What is your idea of perfect happiness?
Doing what I love, being with whom I love.

What is your most marked characteristic?
Looking like I’m always angry.

What do you consider your greatest achievement?
Being self-sufficient. Falling in love.

What is your greatest fear?
Dying without doing anything that matters.

What historical figure do you most identify with?
Sylvia Plath.

Which living person do you most admire?
Angela Merkel.

Who are your heroes in real life?
My mother.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
Not being able to control my temper.
My depression.

What is the trait you most deplore in others?

What is your favorite journey?
Wherever I can drive with my favorite music blaring through the speakers.

What do you consider the most overrated virtue?

Which word or phrases do you most overuse?
“Maldita sea”.

What is your greatest regret?
Making all the wrong decisions when they mattered.

What is your current state of mind?
Confused, sad.

What natural talent would you like to be gifted with?
The ability to make music.

How do you wish to die?
Painlessly, at 40. Or older, with a loved one by my side.

If you could change one thing about your family, what would it be?
Their temper. Bringing my grandmother back to life.

What is your most treasured possession?
My iPod.

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?
Living in fear of being alone.

If not yourself, who would you be?
My dog.

Where would you like to live?

What is your favorite occupation?
Music photographer, Anthropology researcher, geneticist.

What is the quality you most like in a man?
Tenderness and a sweet disposition.

What is the quality you most like in a woman?

What do you hate the most?
Not being understood.

What are your favorite names?
Rebecca, Sebastian.

For what fault have you most toleration?

What is your motto?
“La vida”.

This is where I should draw the line

I thought I had reached the end of my writer phase. I was never good, nor was I ever successful; this was a distraction and a cathartic experiment. 

I am now feeling old, lost and without a purpose. If once, my purpose was to write, today my purpose is to destroy every piece of evidence of this shameful place, burn it forever in a fire with all my memories, and disappear into a place where no one can find me, or force me to go through the inevitable path of existence. 

I am an adult, and for the first time I feel like an adult. And I am alone. 

Words come and go. People telling me they will “never leave me”, that “lots of people love me” and that I am not alone, but with every word, comes a gust of wind that pushes it away and leaves me empty regardless. I feel alone, and I cause pain upon those who feel their presence in my life is useless. This, in turn, causes me grief, but never remorse.

I have also discovered that I am almost incapable of feeling guilt. That hard, incessant pang in the heart whenever one is aware of some wrongdoing – I can’t feel it. I can hardly feel anything anymore, only lots of frustration.

And all of this I say, because I think I am on a path to destroying myself. It feels like a good way to begin adulthood. I am 25 and fucking up my life. Right now, I don’t care. 

I feel my job here is done. I hardly have anything to say, and whenever I try to put it into words here, it comes off insincere, contrived and poor. This, however, is honest, and feels necessary. 

I am writing this for you. For you all, and for you, my only one. I will one day draw the line, but not today. For right now, I don’t feel guilty or alone.

La muerte

1385762_231889536976826_743559808_nEl lunes murió Lou Reed, integrante principal de The Velvet Underground.

En realidad no es su muerte lo que me incomodó, sino la muerte en sí. Llegar a ese lugar de la vida donde la realidad cae a baldazos y darse cuenta que no importa cuánto hayas importado para alguien, cuánto hayas hecho por tí mismo, o cuán grande sea el legado que dejas, igual eres tan vulnerable como el borracho que le pega a su mujer o el tipo que accidentalmente me regó café en los pies hoy en la mañana.

Hay gente que no debería morir.

Mi abuela murió hace tres meses y siento que la vida no me va a alcanzar para quejarme de lo injusto que se portó el mundo con ella, y lo injusto que se porta conmigo, arrebatándome algo tan preciado. Pero la muerte, cuando llega así, crea una ilusión de suspensión de la realidad donde quien se te ha ido solo está ausente, mas no muerto. A pesar de saber que ya jamás va a volver, que no existe en ninguna parte del mundo al que tienes acceso, te refugias tras la esperanza de que aún esté. No importa de qué forma, ni dónde, ni en qué circunstancias, solo importa que esté.

Y es que es tan triste cuando alguien que ha hecho algo por ti se vaya. Lou Reed me dio canciones que hizo desde el fondo de su tristeza, desde ese hoyo oscuro donde se encontraba su corazón. Mi abuela me dio la vida dos veces y me dio todo lo que ahora soy y me servirá siempre, todo lo que tengo que me inunda y puedo compartirlo con los demás.

En realidad no me importa que haya muerto Lou Reed. Me importa que la muerte está siempre tan cerca, y él me ha ayudado un poco a aceptarlo.



The feeling is nauseating. The utter disgust of someone driving you catastrophically insane. The reality of human cruelty permeating in my psyche.

I see your picture every now and then and it makes me cry. I hear your voice and my heart shrinks, pulled inward by all the possibilities of a story that never ended. I want to believe it’s going to stop, that one day I will look at you and remain emotionless, that I could offer you an honest smile without a knot forming in my throat, because I know one day it will be like this, I barely even think about you now and time does wash away memories until they are so blank you can see through them, ignore them completely.

I see you now and I feel empty. You are a rotting piece of my heart that refuses to fall off and die. You decay, your memory keeps losing colors and turning into a mucky, stained sepia; and I still can’t stop feeling the remainders of wet damage struggling to spill from my eyes. I think of you and the limits to my imagination are shattered, as I never could have imagined someone could so easily leave, so resolute and cruel, with such disregard and in such a cowardly, emotionless way.

Over the surface I feel depleted of sympathy, I can hardly contain the urge to snap you out of whatever it is you think makes you larger than whoever you look down on. I see the people with whom you choose to share your time and it sickens me, I see how you interact, how you speak, and it annoys me. It was always this way. I you spending time with people so simpleminded, unattractive and bland, I often wonder if I was an exercise in tolerance on your part. 

This drives me insane. I am losing my mind, thinking that I could never be happy unless I cause you an amount of pain that could match the one I still feel when I think of you; and yet I know that this could never materialize. I care about you enough to never intend to hurt you, but I am still angry, still trying to come to terms with these overwhelming emotions and questions that plague me. I can barely put it into words, I cannot attempt to hold it. 

I can only rationalize it as annoyance. So annoyance I will feel. 

I am sick of you.