Sad

Who is the sun shining for if we are all locked up in schools, offices, homes and prisions?

OFFICIAL

"I think you have a world of your own that doesn't include me", me dice él.

Y tiene razón.

Es que to be a writer you have to own more behind(inside) than what meets the eye, more than what the conscious life festers or lets out. Mejor dicho, to be a writer is to have more in your soul than what you can express, or act upon, or deny. It is to live in contradiction, or in the very least, in hyperbole.

And you must not care about these conditions. These circumstances are to be explored, suffered, savoured, but not denied and not ignored.
No, not ignored.

Plus, a mí sí que no me importa nada tener coherencia. Nada.

I cried twice in a day

I cried for many reasons twice in a day.
For the innocence lost;
The knowledge of understanding there's a life that can't be rewinded and relived;
I cried for the loss of spontaneity;
knowing that the life I lead now is more exciting than the one I was stuck with but that in reality it's that other life with some minor adjustments that I would want
or it is this very life with some minor adjustments that I would want;
I cried for friendships lost
guilt, blame, actions and ommitions aside
for the loss of those friendships;

Tear my heart. I will start reminiscing this that will lead me to that which I'll relate to some other thing until one memory attaches itself to a person I had long forgotten about, and then everything about them, about me with them, about our dynamic, and what we went and didn't go through together rushes into my mind like a gust of wind that cannot but follow its route.

I cried for my parents
whom even though I make happy and proud, I have let down many times, with this being the ultimate, more lasting blow of them all: Knowing that they are getting older far away from me, without me. Knowing that my absence causes them more grief than I know.

I cried for the lies that I live which make me push foward and live happily
for the pill and the stone
for the grade and the bonds
for writing and faking
it.

Saying goodbye to my therapist was like leaving that stranger I once met at a bar and with whom I inexplicably shared a painfully intimate and warm conversation that ended just as randomly, with no phone number in hand and no recollection of anything but




.

His name, I can't remember. Pero gracias por ayudarme a entender the course I carry within.

Txt -

Txt - West to Jorge (12/11/05)

Jealousy is an effort to keep a love all for oneself, but also to keep unity of a lover’s image, caught in the dream, and prevent reality from co

rroding this image.
- Anais Inn

Txt - Jorge to West (12/11/05)

So in a way if you are jealous of him it means he is not really worth it. Love sees sharp, hatred sees more sharp, but

jealousy sees the sharpest for it is love and hate combined. – Arab proverb


Txt - West to Jorge (12/11/05)

Anais has something to say – maturity is first the shedding of what you are not, and then the balancing of what you are in relation to the human being

u love; and allowing the selves of that person which are not related to you to exist independently, OUTSIDE THE RELATIONSHIP.

I like that proverb.


Txt - Jorge to West (12/13/05)

The heart is deceitful above all things.


Txt - West to Jorge (12/13/05)

Every cell that goes to that organ is fighting for supremacy

The triumph of a heart… that gives up


Txt - Jorge to West (12/13/05)

When in doubt, give… but ur heart? That seems a bit much, even if in reality it is nothing.

Txt - West to Jorge (12/13/05)

Its nothing until it’s in the palm of a stranger

Txt - West to Jorge (12/13/05)

I kinda love you dolo it’s funny


Txt - Jorge to West (12/13/05)

One rule will be that we cant send multiple messages until the other answers back


Txt - West to Jorge (12/13/05)

There has to be rules

Txt - Jorge to West (12/13/05)

Btw I’m leaving the country tomorrow for a month. We’ll talk when I come back. Happy holidays!

Txt - Jorge to West (12/13/05)

Explain dolo

Txt - West to Jorge (12/13/05)

I don’t love you the person just ‘dolo’

Txt - West to Jorge (12/13/05)

I’m going on a Disney cruise tonight for a while too so ttyl txt stranger

Txt - Jorge to West (12/13/05)

I still don’t know what dolo means, but my brain says bye and wishes you have fun cruising.

Txt - West to Jorge (12/13/05)

We made it up as a symbol right? For like the anonymous whatever uh… well I’m fucked up gnight!

Likethew i n d

Below he converges
He diverges, above.
And when he lets himself
get wrapped up in nothing,
like the wind he builds upward around its center
and so shreds what passes through the wall of its eye.

I count the forces
To which pressure declines:
‘Let me command without
the burden of your words’,
he says, ‘let me see myself as human, un-ruled, and
watch as I displace what you’ve settled at land’.

If stable then stable
Today, I let it flow.
But when he covers fast
The rest is unready,
and I can only hold it back so much so more
...to feel the current like before.

The book I read I remember. He looks, I say
Friction at the base will slow it down, but it will not change the direction of its heart.
He forms, passes, and disperses. He understands.

My love
I let him go, dry and motionless, to sleep.

Happy Anywhere

The screamers, bible preachers give the ear the will to kill
The moaners, not addictive but still a sleeping pill
The hyperactive mirror a hippie’s nightmare
Who gives a damn? I can be happy anywhere.

Subways are the throats that swallow the minimum wage
Parks are the acid jokes Pavement tells its friends
I ate an apple that was modified with Tupperware
Who gives a damn? I can be happy anywhere.

Spoil me
And in the meantime claim
I’m happy
While I intoxicate myself dying
Slowly
I graffiti the city and shout
“Courageous!”
I need to hush the splash to enjoy a meal
But this is happy in the city and that’s fine with me

If there’s a green I’m not going, it will turn grey soon
That’s why I like it here: the rush is heavy but I get home soon

Some places borrow my scent and I borrow theirs
Some people borrow my love and I borrow theirs
Misterio! Life can feed on things that aren’t even there...
Fire the animal and be happy everywhere.

Spoil me
And in the meantime claim
I’m happy
While I intoxicate myself dying
Slowly
I graffiti the city and shout
“Courageous!”
I need to hush the splash to enjoy a meal
But this is happy in the city and that’s fine with me.

On meditation

There has to be some higher merit,
a beam of a more profound victory,
of a more earthy war won over,
in meditating on a public bus, on your way to work,
squeezed in between dozens of pre-occupied strangers,
case in hand, with a sensory overload that cannot be
shunned by simply closing your eyes
and concentrating on Breath.
It has to be more complete, as divine, more real than sitting in ardha padmasana
on dewed grass, in the middle of nowhere, in robes
or naked, with the rising sun
and the smell .f clear .xygen
and the sound .f maanasa
and the touch .f guyan mudra
filled to the bone () with the taste .f consciousness .

Games (i)

Games? I love them.
The time I’ve spent playing them...
! Oh yes another eye-contact intense !
Have my number
Call me call yooou at what time
I’ll be there
No, don’t, you don’t have to but why is he not returning my text
where is he? I need, need, want, all for myself
eyes, focus! on.me.
? I wish I’d cracked open ?
Cherubically, oh yes, I dare you (to)
Lay down the rifle.
Drop the knife.
Us to die, indefinitely.

Centuries spent
for progress,
towards progress,
so that we can continue to despise our lives and others',
in different ways
but with the same intensity
as yesterday.

Leaving body

What's the highest demonstration of spiritual highness you can perform after dying?

It is clear to me that funerals are sick, an archaic pseudo-ritual that in truth symbolizes that ever present disregard for our flesh that most have always shown one way or another. Funerals are also about perpetuating the moaners' sense of loss and longing... hardly an act of love from the dead one.

Some say that a conversion to ashes is not only poetic but also serves to give everybody a sense of closure. We as spirits definately say goodbye to our body, which swiftly runs through a river or travels across mountains. They, as moaners and lovers, know that, symbolically at least, you're free and one with the world... sans the fungus.

But what about donating your body to science? One could think this is hardly a spiritual act, and shows more love to oneself and our imperfect kindreds than Nature or any other Higher power. But at the same time, only when you truly get to that amazing certainty level of knowing that one is undeniably, absolutely disembodied once dead, only then could you truly understand what donating your body to science really means.

In a way, this action is of a strength of character that would scare more than one.

Moreover, putting your body to further use once its biological clock has ceased to tick may seem too philantrophic, but in reality it could also talk about a strong faith in Humanity, ie. that humans' knowledge can , through the examination of your corpse, help others. That your useless, stiff corpse could be useful to somebody one last time; helping future visitors of the Earth to live better.

Romantic? No, but highly spiritual... perhaps.

The land we knew so well. Since the morning I’ve been asking how we gonna make the last thing in our lives the most important one, the single most impellent one. Together we start climbing, these rocks are meant for fighting; we kiss them with our fingers, all, our flexors giving us their all.

This is much ado for nothing, these are lovebirds burned on acid, but I can still hold your hand, I am willing to still hold your hand. 'Together we are something, something more than nothing', You say but I can’t tell You say, but I can’t tell.

I don’t wanna know the history of anything that you hold dear.
These are the rules by which to submit and never ask for anything.

To sleep you need it all, the feast is now a yawn, the farm has let the piglets out, I knew you wouldn’t leave without stabbing in my heart the words that would suffice to deepen this resilient doubt that you couldn’t do without. They never leave me alone with my Bombs…

It wasn’t until some years ago that the fear cut our soil like a plow, it turned it over like it had no real worth. It left me partly uncovered, left me mostly.

I needed patience long-lasting, but you kept on asking to leave the land we knew so well, and amid my confusion your body kept pushing, too holy to not feel again. But I wanted to say:
What if our lives are spared? What if what comes is the opposite? A relative opposite of despair? Yes, I meant to say: Why if danger never come like we expect it? I meant to say: What do you wanna spread if we can’t prevent it? What do you wanna censor if we can’t oppress it?

To win you need us all.but I can’t hold this gun no more, I should’ve stopped this long ago. They never leave us alone, they never leave us alone with our Bombs.

Come back to your body with a full, heavy inhalation. Fill up your lungs with air, start to feel Life germinating inside of you, nurturing you. Begin to move your fingertips and toes, slowly. Slowly. Nobody is rushing you. With another deep inhale, extend your arms behind your head, and stretch your spine. As you exhale, relax. Your eyes remain close, confronting utter voidness.

This is, ultimately, all you have left. Not love, not abundance, not absence, not even ourselves. At the end of the day, all we have is our breath, the air that visits, pullulates, and leaves us after a passing moment.

Stay like this for a few moments: controlling nothing, wanting nothing, needing nothing.

Mi hermano muerto: Todo lo que hiciste, lo hiciste por necesidad.

La sociedad es idiota: Siempre estuvimos y estaremos mejor, pero nunca estamos mejor.

Lo abandona la inocencia: Herir y sanar vale más que no conocer el dolor nunca.

Su estilo de vida es una cuestión de actitud: Tenés todo para morirte fuerte.

Vuelve, vuelve: Perdón por la culpa, es que te tengo siempre presente.

Nadie te da nada: Nacimos para robar y obedecer, para probar y merecer.

Voy demasiado rápido, demasiado a trasmano de todo. Y ahora, ¿qué hacer?
Ya no quedan disfraces.

Alter Ego I

What if I don’t have anything to give, Bitch?
Who told you that I once had potential and lost it all?
Do you think I like feeling worthless, and if I did would it make it better for you and your logic?
People get what they deserve, according to lucky cookie over here.
Attitude in life is everything, because you've had a rough life too
And could have turned so much worse
And didn’t because you had friends who loved you. Because you coped.
Not even dreaming disgrace
would make you come close to
Understanding what a rough life is.
You wanna experience the world? You think you know shit? You know nothing. The fact that you can choose sets you apart, but that's the way it’s been laid out for you. Go home, stay in shittyville. Don’t take that plane, you’ll never get pain no matter how much you get to know.
You think reality is pain?
Try to be happy.
Peaceful, just, coherent with yourself.
Be conscientious.
But oh no. Mister middle America thinks he hasn’t experienced enough in life, he wants to know what the real world’s like. Drama is the way of little big boy over here.
Well, that’s great, sugar, let’s all hope we can grow up to be enlightened like you.
Go puke somewhere and be a jerk about it.
It’s liberating to risk your life on purpose.
Because at the end of the day, you’re not living.
You are watching, watching, watching.
You are making me sick.
One day, one day
I’ll kill some of you and I’ll cry about it,
Because I will have lost the thing I had left
For the simple pleasure of doing away with nothing.

A house cannot have more than two or three stories.

(__) wrote the words I build stories with.
(__) played the accent that swims in my mouth.

(__) dreamt a path I wouldn’t have treaded on my own.

Adored, because I cannot reward. 

Loved, because I don’t know the rest. The reaping of the field.


Alarmed or Disarmed? 



Even if it is the end, this is where I begin.

A dialogue

Why do you have to be so unreasonably insane?
¿Por qué sos tan irrazonablemente desquiciado?

Porque intento quererte a pesar de todo
Because I try to love you amid everything

Amid what (¿)
A pesar de qué (?)

A pesar de mis pasiones, que nos vuelven locos.
Amid my passions, which drive us mad.

(Pregunto (Where are yours, huh?
I ask) ¿A dónde están las tuyas, eh?)

They don’t exist but in the midst of whatever you bring.
No existen más que en las tinieblas de lo que sea que traigas.

Quizá por eso te necesito; no escribiría si pudiera contártelo todo.
Maybe that’s why I need you; I wouldn’t be inspired to write
if I could tell you everything.

But why?

¿Por qué, qué?

Er… What did you say?

Pará.
No, you wait.

I love you.

Yo tambi.én.

I haven’t discovered anything new: nobody matters permanently in one’s life. In the hopes that one will know when to dispense each person inhabiting your house, you treat them unevenly, or circumstances treat them unevenly. In turn, external factors (them, circumstances) behave in the same way. Not everyone is dismissed; some are lost, some are stolen, some simply disappear underground (I have seen some looming in the room I dare not address by name - the opposite of the attic). It is an art to know how to let people into the main door, walk them around, see what rooms they like, which ones you think suits them, and then invite them (or force them) to offer lodging (to hold hostage, he murmurs). For some time. A few chosen ones are allowed to wonder back and forth into different rooms, or even venture around the whole house (granted, an impossible quest) on their own.
Eventually, their stay is over welcomed. They sleep on your couch, walk their muddy shoes on the carpet, try to open a door that has been specifically (sometimes explicitly) forbidden to them. He sleeps a little bit too comfortably in your bed, she makes food that is too delicious, they treat everything that’s yours better than if it were their own. She helps to straighten your bedroom up, he gets rid of all the junk that has been nesting in the storage room.
Tired, defeated, or just plain bothered, you start closing doors.
Click. Toom-Ton. Bang.
(That son of a bitch was annoying.)
Your house is ultimately, unequivocally, unchangeably your own.
It is a compromise, a challenge, a pain, to negotiate it.
Enough. Silence!
I’ll be damned if I cannot set my own rules for my own house.

Halloween 2006, or my horses gone wild.

I wonder:

Why won't they just leave us alone.

Their hate,

It's heavy,

We feel the weight of their hate

And it's too heavy, man...

They want us dead

Or alive, to better torment us

This fact is unclear;

The motives behind the fact, plain unknown

(Or forgotten).

There is an aim, the aim IS clear:

To make us feel guilty for things we can't change

To provoke a response that will confirm what they though about us

In the first place, but was not there in the first place!



We want to be one

But they won't leave us alone.

The party,

It's ours,

We jig lifeblood 'til it's up, but

It's not worth our blood


My essence ain't style.

My essence ain't style.

Not a choice

Or a fad.

With an iron brand, I burn in your head:



We took up arms because you went up in arms *


You are the fags.


Their hate,

It's heavy,

We feel the weight of their hate

And it's heavy,

Too heavy and unjust, man.

____________________________________________________

* (Your kind has a strung history of devaluing difference)

Back problems-
*The apartment's **too cold** at night*
←I wish I knew where I was living→
}With a gun The Enemy leaves me naked{
6I haven't returned all the money I owe him9
__Downfacingdog breathe rightlegup breathe
/I'm here to listen to you with no judgment/
0Bring the tray back by one0
"Let's see if he remembers I'm his father"
:(We never hang out anymore):
?Which way to the museum?
#%Clean up after yourself will you$%
^Write about Cinderella loosing her shoe and^
(Story) > be Creative (x) about It (y)
+Beyourselfloving; respectful; stayputstaysilent+
&Leave me alone but love me&
dkn't fkrget tkmkrrkw the landlkrd's ckming

[Stasis]
[Never sturdy]
Well... !great! but I'd like to make it to thirty.