When sun’s gold hits God’s gold, we know:

gold shines bright. We look –

it shows our reflection.

Do we like it more then, or like it less?


Golden love is molten: the purest kind shines brightest, fuses tightest, boils with warmth and brilliance, burns what is not ready to embrace it, is capable of glistening even rock.

And we, made in the likeness of the maker… can we forgive ourselves our humanity?



how right it feels to discover being wrong about a person

Opening Line

It was the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.

Jawline sharp as a sword, as had always seemed his words. His strong brow impressed an irking sense of power onto his face, even without a furrow, as if encasing his message in harshness before emitting it. Lips pursed, stiff with pride: an appropriate vessel for his apparently constant slander. It was the face of a man who seemed to believe himself superior – and the assertiveness to all his expressions ascertained that impression.

But now, had it been the lighting that changed? She perhaps had never paused to look for it, but in the almost-midnight light was noticing how those lips actually seemed quite soft, and those words they were procuring combined in speech that was less dictatorial in character than what she felt accustomed to from him. Words laden with sensual provocations as he half-whispered, half-barked his opinions. The presence of fierceness was still undeniable, but something – truly, had it been her or another factor? – provoked a shift in tone, at the very least to her ears and mind. To her, it suddenly seemed obvious that his intentions and heart were impregnated in a sort of innate goodness, that for whatever reason she had been immune to before.

The group sat in a circle near the western wall celebrating a sort of closing ceremony, as they each shared their reflections, sensations, and realizations. They were largely feeling in tune with one another; thought-provoking ideas were being shared and the interconnectedness was palpable. Thus they were mostly idle to the passers-by, a crowd comprised of orthodox ashkenazi – two of whom caused two moments of disruption when they instructed the pastor to move the group farther from their place of worship, as our backs turned toward the wall is an offense to them -, while others ambulated in hijabs, traditional African garb, kippas and tacky American clothes… There is a certain magic in the relative harmony with which life unfolds in a city so diverse in culture and religion, and with which the people found in Jerusalem at any given time receive communion and celebrate their faiths together (at least to the eye of this tourist).

Anyway: he spoke of an always wanting to be useful to others, and how he constantly asked himself what he could do that others may not think of for themselves but would benefit from. Such is the way in which he described his motive and purpose in life. It seemed so just and honorable. Words elude an adequate description because the shift was powerful and unexpectedly swift; only now she could start to recognize that there was a beauty to him warmer than his facade implied (as they do), richer and more alive than what had seemed cold as stone. He had more than one dimension – not a novel thought, but a common misconception nonetheless. And for the first time, she gulped, to pass the heartburn and butterflies.

She sat on the plane on the way home and marveled at how misleading our impressions of people may be, and how wonderful it is to be wrong about people. In order to optimize our social interactions we often rest on clichés, and fathom opinions of people based on insignificant moments of their existence, whereby it coincides that our attention is paid solely on their actions. We thus have just enough information to pass a judgment on the correctness of their choice or the error of their ways. How unjust that to this it boils down to, this is the basis of whether or not we like someone: whether or not we have seen them in action in a way that we agree with more often than in a way we don’t like.

In the midst of analyzing the new agreeable information she had on the softer side of this angular man, she felt thankful. She had seen him be, under different circumstances than she had before, and this had unveiled profound marvels in him, to her. She now returned with kinder facts and gentler moments from which to draw conclusions. For the first time since meeting him, she actively wanted there to be a next time, didn’t want there to be a last time.

Opening Line

the phoenix, devolved


Burn your bridges, hide your provisions! All men are islands now.

Acrimonious proclamations of victory in solitude have convinced against solidarity.

Indiscriminate safeguarding of relationships is passé; why treasure whom others trash?

Everything is relative, but relativity. Relativity, the absolute truth.

Things depend, no longer just are. Dependency is weakness; let’s sever ties.


Advice when islanding:

Before you light that match, beware of the fire,

lest it be more than light, less than love;

lest it burn more than bridges.


regeneration of the heart and soul: symptoms, signs, and similes

Save me from cliché, but I must declare:

Today I am filled with hope

that my life will have meaning,

does now,

and has before.

This morning I went to see the nurse to see how my left index finger was evolving. She had asked me to come in because she did not like the way the cuts looked; there seemed to be suture string inside the cuts covered under layers of newly set skin, and the cut was still quite open.  I had been in to get my 6 stitches taken off on Tuesday, having two weeks ago split it open in several cuts with a hand-blender. (Contrary to what the name implies, you are not to stick your hand, or any part of it, into the blender).

I asked her if I needed more stitches for it to fully close up. She replied no, that the skin around it was already dead, would not ever reach the other side of the skin, from which it had been traumatically severed off. She said that cuts on the finger tend to look this way after stitches. It’s funny that one of our body’s most irrigated, innervated, necessary, used and useful areas often heals tormentously.

It’s almost analogical to wounds of the romantic heart.

I also told her about the loss of sensibility I have in the area distal to the cuts; some would be regained, some will have perished forever, and only time will tell.
                                                                                      Well, this is familiar… déja vu?
My fingertip has been tingling recently and I have a compelling urge to always be touching it, although at soft touch I feel slight pain; is this normal? “It’s normal for the recuperation of nerves to be accompanied by burning, tingling, and/or a variety of other painful or uncomfortable sensations.” It’s also normal to want to be constantly stimulating it, to make sure it’s still there, to encourage it to start feeling as soon as possible, to prevent it from forgetting how to feel altogether.
                                                                                      Well, this is familiar… déja vu?

In order for nervous sensation to return to a territory after damage, the nerves must grow regenerational sprouts and try to establish connections with other parts of nerves or the tissues it must reach to employ with function. If the new fibers struggle and fail to make a connection, no recovery will take place, and the molest sensations may remain, and become permanent. This moves me still, having done so from the moment I first learned it. My nervous system regenerating, once again, is an analogical allegory; leaves me ruminating, in reminiscence of amorous scar tissue.

Because when heartbreak takes place, a traumatic separation happens within: the division of the other and yourself. You acknowledge that the path has ceased to be made for two, and you must accommodate for that.
Once again I find it funny to think of those little cells there on the line of fire on my finger, like little people who got ripped from their buddies in an earthquake, and now are too far to ever touch each other again. The crater created by the blade of the hand blender between those last spartans, those last rows of cells, is too great to cross and close. If only they had an airport or something of the like; if crossing oceans is possible, a millimetrical cut… for a biological machine that can overcome an infestation of microbes with nothing more than a fever, or fall from 7 stories and still live… it seems like nothing. And yet it is.
It’s funny to think that those skin, blood, muscle, tissue cells, who just happened to have been created to create my finger, give it shape, grant it function, just happened to be sitting there then my brain had a misfire and my right thumb pressed the button that decided the non-integrity of my finger. Is it all up to chance, and casualty?

When healing a hurt heart, it is similar; the gap seems unabridgeable where the bond was undeniable.

As with tumor surgery, you aim for the bulk, try your best to not leave any malignancy around it, but there is room for error. You can try to take away more lesion and risk taking away healthy tissue; you can opt for a conservative approach and risk leaving malignancy, latent but due for a regrowth, postponing the lottery draw for an unknown time. Either way: dead skin around the lesion.

I think it is for a reason that some lesions close but leave a scar. Memories fade but there are some lessons we must always remember; maybe that is their purpose? For remembrance. Yad Vasheh. Out of horror stories come great heroes, come great lessons, exemplified historically for even those who did not live to see them. Memory can be painful but it can prevent from new pain.

Also: regenerating nerves is painful; rebuilding connections is not always easy, not always complete; final recovery in sensibility may not be complete. Recuperating after trauma is painful too – any kind. Extrapolate to wherever applicable, and help yourself understand this.

We may never get what is lost back in its totality, but I can find at present two blessings in this fact to be thankful for: the first is that memory is a beautiful yet fickle thing, and since we can never be exactly sure of how true something we remember is, we should never be too upset about not regaining something or other, as we cannot even trust that we have kept it immaculate in our recollections; and the second, that what we regain may not the same in numerically or in character, but this says nothing on the quality. Thus, in tune with the relativity of our thoughts, memories, and thus identities and interpretations of our own realities: if we insist on bathing everything in an agreeable perfume, or venture to adjust the lens through which we see and approach and experience the world and make it acquire a tone of rose, we can define a set of surroundings more agreeable to our nature, our disposition, our role in the niche environment we were chosen to live in.

i can feel myself

June 6, 2016

I can feel myself changing, I don’t know if it’s good or bad, but I can feel it. I’m becoming stronger, or at least a part of me is. When a new soul is born what do you feed it? How do I encourage its growth or ask for a hint of who it will make me once it is done developing? A new modulator between my selfless self and the self that cares and takes care of all the other selfs – that is what I hope to be creating within me. I need a referee to jolt between my protectress and my vulnerability.

July 1, 2016

There are indeed layer to my self, and I occasionally feel them to be somewhat distinct entities, for they each always carry a distinctive and logically “theirs” train of thought, and exercise the same kind of influence on myself consistently. I have sometimes tried to dwell on them and explore their boundaries; have them interact – with scarce but indeed existent success. It was bizarre. It has scared me in the past, made me play with the possibility of my maybe developing multiple personality disorder. I tend to shut the thought down as quickly as I can because lingering on it makes it feel a realer threat – albeit my mind has decided to entertain and taunt me with it, occasionally. I think I may be on the spectrum of hypochondria-Munchhausen’s syndrome – SIGH, if that’s not the most ironic sentence I’ve ever written; certainly it’s allegorical.

Regardless – I am trusting my new growth slowly but surely. I’m currently reading Victor Frankl’s “Man’s Search for Meaning” and he consistently repeats the phrase “daily and hourly” – whether about the frequency of the taunts and tortures they in the camps endured or the occurrence of opportunities for them to be good – so, I feel the analogy that I also find myself faced, daily and hourly, with decisions that regard my acceptance or defiance of this new soul (I’m hating calling it that but, sigh), quite fitting. I too, like the boy Frankl witnessed telling his friend he was dying and wished to die with honor and grace, aspire to face my sufferings with grace and honor, because I can decide whether or not this becomes true, regardless of my circumstances.

In this realization – that I do have the capability and responsibility, and am not a mere spectator or passenger while my train travels through life until it ends – I have found power and will, and started to find power of will. I do not want to be a sheep, herded by a select few of narcissists and sociopaths, sadists, and weak-souled power-hungry types; I do not want to be a sheep, forced to give up aspirations, goals, and expectations of his fate, because once lost the hope of a future, lost the will to live; I do not want to be a sheep, prone to develop a coating so thick it is not even wool anymore but somehow ice and stone, from spending too much time alone, or wanting to, for not being able to stand others’ sufferings, or even his own. No! I have a choice (of action, and thus of becoming of self) every moment I am aware of my humanity. I can live wherever I am put, no matter the hardships implicit in any given situation, just as we can live wherever we are born, which is chosen randomly, without our consent or knowledge, before even the existence of our conscious self. Thus, I must change, and become constantly conscious of this wish that my inner self needs to see fulfilled, and actively seek to satisfy it. I hope and think that will bring me much peace.

I am 22 and still don’t have my driving license yet, and the only reason truly is that I am lazy and have been reluctant to seriously propose myself the task of buckling down, studying for it, and learning to drive. But I always say (to somewhat pep myself up for it), “people dumber than me have gotten it, so why wouldn’t I be able to get it?” In a strange way this (probable) truth that I tell myself becomes a double-edged sword; what about those dumber people made them get their shit together (pardon my French) sooner than I? They have their license and I do not, ergo, they have something  (besides the little card with the picture that goes in your wallet, please understand me) that I do not. Extrapolated on another (more significant level), I feel this applies to what I was saying before. The same way dumber people have their license and I do not, “worse” people have gone through worse situations than I and have gotten through them with elegance and integrity. This gives me the strength to aim for that too, and the assuredness (or at least encouragement) that with my resources I should be able to do (at least) the same. Because it makes me less aware of my shortcomings, or at least makes me want to focus less on them, and not let them interfere so much with the parts of me that I know are good and that I want people to see; it makes me more aware of the parts of me that hurt when other people misinterpret me and look my goodness over, because those are the inner pillars of my self, still in molding: the core I strive to sow with morals, cultivate, and want to be proud of. We all have that feeling – we all feel righteous, and righteously so! I truly believe we are all good and we all have at least one thing in common that we feel deeply about: parents, spouses, children, a God, friends, a cause… We just often forget it. We must, daily and hourly, remember that, and refrain from judging or losing our patience and humility too soon.

I must continue these thoughts, but at a later time. I am bored of thinking and writing so much.

(^ said I before proofreading and editing this 12 times… lol hashtag perfectionist hashtag insecure lol bye for now for realz this time)


when you walk into a church and you pray

you want to think

that your prayers undergo

the same amplification as soundwaves do

in there.

a shortcut to the messiah – such is the meaning of

church; prayer in church; manifesting wishes.


when the pastor is speaking

the echo gets in the way

and you can’t understand anything:

babies babble and mamas coo,

every once in a while an amen.

thus, so:

focus, filter, synthesize, prioritize, discriminate

and the echo won’t perturb

but only amplify

(soundwaves and more).

another bad day

Today was another one of those bad days and if I had to explain why I wouldn’t really be able to come up with an answer; I wasn’t in touch or in tune with my subconscious enough to give a solid reason as to the cause or origin of my apathy but I simply was not feeling up to speaking to anybody or seeing anyone or doing anything. I don’t feel like existing today.

It’s another day where I don’t know what day of the week it is or what plans I would have made if I felt better because only one person contacted me wanting to see me and it’s my boyfriend, who feels guilty because yesterday he was going to surprise me and in the end he didn’t. He wanted to pick me up from class, but since it was a surprise and I had no idea of his intentions I got on the bus as per usual to go home and it left my campus before he had left his and so he couldn’t come and pick me up; I proposed meeting in Moncloa once I got there which was in 15 minutes time – which was the amount of time it would have taken him to arrive at my university in any case – and he declined, because since his original plan went awry it didn’t make sense to him or suit his fancy anymore to see me. That pissed me off, because I didn’t really have anything else in mind except going home and staying warm and cozy on my couch and watching the Gran Hermano gala, but when he called me and told me he wanted to come pick me up and asked me to wait for him at my university (although I was already on the bus at this point) it made me really happy and I definitely wanted to see him. It annoyed me that a stupid change of plans such that he couldn’t give me the surprise he wanted made him not want to see me at all. He later confessed he was stressed because he had had an argument with his sister, which I thanked him for because I honestly didn’t understand why we couldn’t simply meet later, but still I felt annoyed.

I suppose this could be the why of my bad mood.

Maybe it’s unfair to him that his fortuitous irritation – which was due to the fact that he had fought with someone other than me, and was unable to do something that would bring a smile to my face – caused me to spiral into a spell of impassivity, stillness, unresponsiveness, disinterest…

I wonder if I’m unfair with my expectations of people, and of my life, but I’m upset that the past five years of my life I cannot bring myself to describe with an adjective that isn’t synonymous with mediocre. I don’t think I’m particularly hard to please or high maintenance, but maybe I do ask for things that are different from what I have to offer. I’m recently realizing that there is a very strong disconnect between what I wish myself having or wanting and what I manifest in my life or what I act towards having.

The point is: today was another day I would completely erase from my life, another day that I will never remember, another day that confirmed my disgusting life and terrible mind.

dudas sobre el amor y mis dos amados

¿Cada amor es diferente?

Porque cuando me paro a pensarlo no sé porqué te quiero.

Contigo son dos los hombres que me han oído decir eso, dos los que me han conocido sintiendo eso. Pero lo vivo diferente; quizá con el paso del tiempo he distorsionado lo que sentía por el primero en mis recuerdos, pero no le encuentro parecido más allá del enganche que he tenido a los dos.

Se habla mucho del primer amor: que es el más grande, fuerte, intenso; que uno nunca se recupera del todo tras perderlo. No quiero creer eso, pues pese a que me cuesta reconocerlo soy una romántica empedernida. En mi familia abundan las grandes historias de amor, y desde siempre he tenido una idea muy firme, clara, y sencilla de lo que hace a una pareja. Desconozco si para todos estos referentes que tengo, la persona con la que yo les he visto felices y enamorados ha sido su primer amor. Siempre he pensado que sí, por defecto. Pero y si no, ¿sentirán lo mismo que yo ahora? ¿Cómo encontraron su segundo, tercer, cuarto amor? ¿Cómo supieron que lo era? ¿Sacaron de su cabeza (y corazón) ese primer flechazo? ¿Todos los siguientes se comparan siempre al primero? ¿O siempre al anterior? ¿Los otros amores llegan a ser tan fuertes?

Es diferente lo que siento por ti, pero porque vosotros dos sois diferentes. Tenéis muchas cosas en común: tremendísima inteligencia emocional, pasión por lo que os vais a dedicar, talento en lo que os gusta, impaciencia para lo que no, rechazo a lo que veis injusto, ternura, cariño, paciencia, generosidad, el don de observar y empaparos de minucias y detalles que los demás pasamos por alto. También el cómo empecé con ambos es parecido: yo os gustaba de antes a los dos, y os hacía caso solo a ratos (hasta vuestros amigos son parecidos, y a ambos os decían que pasarais de mí ya de una vez) – hasta un furtivo beso inesperado, uno robado y otro bien dado, que cambió todo. Empecé con ambos en abril; con eso de que la primavera la sangre altera, y que en ambos momentos de mi vida estaba necesitada de algo nuevo y bonito, os di – mejor, nos di – una oportunidad. En septiembre, ya claramente enamorada, admití que os quería a los dos, por primera vez, en persona.

Tantas similitudes, que podría seguir, pero las comparaciones son odiosas, y yo no quiero compararos. En todo caso me comparo a mí misma, y es que me trae de cabeza, porque ya no soy la misma. Ni sé describirme antes, ni sé describirme ahora; me queda mucho por conocer de mí misma. Pero sé que he cargado muchos pesos a mi espalda y he soltado otros muchos desde que lo dejé con mi primer novio. El desenamoramiento fue un proceso, no un instante, y ya no recuerdo cuando fue la última vez que mis sentimientos hacia él eran claros, y no escarnecidos por una nube de recuerdos dolorosos, muy borrosos y que me confunden.

Supongo que no sacaré una respuesta a esto escribiendo, espero que sí con el paso del tiempo, cuando mi amor hacia ti que ahora estás a mi lado crezca, florezca, se multiplique. Igual si dentro de unos años ya no estás conmigo, piense de ti y de nuestro amor de la misma manera en la que ahora pienso de mi primer amor, y me surjan las mismas dudas con el siguiente. Y es que se me ocurre que igual los sentimientos, los recuerdos, las vivencias no están hechas para recordarlas tal cual sucedieron, sino siempre con un halo de duda y – a pesar de formar parte de la historia de nuestra propia vida -, de misterio, pues somos seres en constante cambio y evolución, y el yo de nuestro pasado, nunca es el mismo yo que piensa en él desde el presente.

volar (contigo, mi nueva droga)



A los dos nos encanta volar –
A ti en el cielo,
A ti en el mar;
A mi en las nubes,
A mi en un bar;
A ti por ahí suelto,
Sea donde sea;
A mi en mi sitio,
Donde no me ve cualquiera.

A los dos nos encanta correr –
A ti con las liebres,
A ti si te exaltas;
A mi de mis trabas,
A mi de mis faltas;
A ti con tu gente,
A ti con tus quehaceres;
A mi de mi gente,
A mi de mis deberes.

A los dos nos encanta estar alto –
So high –
Tú con tus pájaros
Y tus alas propias;
Yo con mi droga,
Y mis demonios propios.


Los dos,
So high.

Tú para sentirte libre,
Yo para no tener que serlo –
Porque me da miedo que mi corazón vibre,
Porque hace mucho que en mí dejé de verlo,
Porque si tú tienes manada, yo esta coartada.

Tú para reconectar,
Yo para desconectar;
Tú para pensar,
Yo para dejar de hacerlo, yo para olvidar.


¿Y lo que me gusta dejar de volar contigo?
Dejar de estar tan alto,
Dejar de estar tan lejos,
En cuerpo, en mente,
Y dejar
La cabeza y
Los pies en la tierra –
Los pies en la cama, los tuyos picándome.

Con la cabeza baja,
Porque sencillamente,
Nos encontramos el uno al otro,
Y así volar es lo que hacen las plumas de las alas de mi corazón
Cuando sin hacer nada
Estoy volando