Scorpio

Dear Joel,

I'm going to call you Joel in this post. Alex comes naturally. But I met you as Joel, that day we were in queue and you wore a breton striped long-sleeve and huarache sandals. I think we shook hands. I think I immediately admired your radiant spirit. And I think that I have never felt so rewarded in my predetermined assignation to any other friendship.

This September, we spent less than a handful of days with each other; abbreviations of some warm afternoons with fragmented sunlight, where I cannot recall anyone bringing out laughs from me as consecutively as you still do. The past and present momentarily shake hands.

I cannot recall:

Of anyone I can welcome into the detached spread of my own space, that one I call home. I unlace all the places where my heart belongs, and cry when I explain why it can't palpitate in a town like this.

Of anyone whose waves follow the same currents as mine; an artistic trial we run with voltages of inspiration but at times a fractured base.

Of anyone who left, then surged the need for me to gather all your leftover pieces because they're the last scraps that persuaded me to continue writing not long before this post. You somehow brought out a forgotten denomination of my better parts.

I cannot recall of anyone else who has done this but you.

In my mind, time with you has ascribed to it the same effect as always. I like how it has not changed. We rediscover our similarities and refresh the idea that the sky isn't that far. Then we wear the thought where ever we go. Until our next time, we expose the rips or alterations of its seams.

The last night I saw you, you hesitated, voice shaking as you read the words from your journal out loud despite encouragement from cold glasses of white wine. You didn't want to sit while you read, so we watch you standing near the soft gold glow and the silence.

We try to get you to say something.
I secretly hope you say more.
We try to pull you out of the shadows.
I suddenly see myself in the dark.

And I hope you know that it meant something to me. I hope you know that it wasn't just a spectacle, because your writings are eager with power. And writing is the place where my means of safeness has slept uninterruptedly, but where your emotions have drifted exponentially.

I wish you had not left back to Santa Cruz.
I wish one of my better parts had not left back to Santa Cruz.

But you re-introduced it to me in the limits of a bleak suburban coordinate. Did you know you carved out unrecognized roads from a map I know too well?

We romanticize possibility and sentimentalize creativity.

Scorpios are of a particular brand of humanity.
And in between all our temporal gaps,
it's never the last time I feel like your friend.

- Al

Unlayer

My nights are uniformed in wishful thoughts about rolling over during any time of the eve and finding you there instead of a message. Loud thoughts are always quieted when I hear your voice echoing tenderness, or your eyes unwrapping the idea that maybe I bring light to them. Warm displays are the most cruel. It's just that tonight I don't feel like going to sleep without it.Without somehow unraveling those storytelling words I used to need on an impulse of total recall, or attempt to reinterpret.

We follow a cautious method when it comes to ensuring the fondness of each other's affections. It's like drinking a glass of wine. I've come to know hands that are all too familiar with the addicting shape of a bottle and the sound of its clinging against the last. But the method following a glass is fragile. I've enjoyed our evolving procedure that somehow manages to involuntarily settle beneath the exception we are to each other. A slow dance composed of opportunistic actions, powered by heavy longing and a little bravery.
This is how we drink our wine.
I'll down an excess if it means I can stay jovial from hearing you talk a little longer. I'm sure you'll hear me smiling across the phone.
I'm crushed by how much I like your unconstrained remarks, something about the way you use language to touch me in places your fingers cannot reach.  Sometimes I can't help but feel like our story sits on the edges of illusion: during some other late summer, some other year that we met, where my concealed habits didn't wander atop sensitive and transitory grounds.

One thing that T said is relevant: "You're naturally a radiant person and there will be people that react accordingly." I just can't seem to forget. Strong words stay with me, and what a strange thing it is to be attached to this statement. I wasn't ever looking for it, but I welcomed you because I didn't want to know what it would be like without you.

I sought you in a dark confined space, past nightfall, persuaded by my own advancements that would have otherwise remained ephemeral. Now I  replay my favorite December night with you, that one where your lips matched the color of my velvet dress. They looked like they had been bitten all over, rather than smeared by my crimson hue. You seemed to not mind much, and whether they had been bitten or smeared wouldn't have made a difference once we woke up with our limbs braided to one another. After Ruby's you threw your cigarette on the ground. You bandaged your arms around my quivering body while the cold city buried us deep.

So it's late again, the feeling is now too familiar, and it's terribly wonderful.
I'm not burdened by having a lot to say and not really knowing how. I think this effort in itself to try to accommodate my words is already a clear sign of what you do to me.

All I really want to tell you is that I've been missing you.

But you already knew that.

- A

Don't carry me back home

I've been dreaming of you for so long.

Tivoli lights in Copenhagen, Denmark. 

December 2015.

Low-key

Some of the most inspirational people I'm lucky enough to call friends.

Jalan and Jibril Durimel in their apartment. 

Los Angeles, December 2015

A Night in Cannes

I don't know anything about Cannes. As far as I know, it's relevant to artful short screenings which are attended by very well-known actors and other celebrities of the like. It's around the time of the event and I had a dream I attended it.

At 2:58AM in San Diego, it's 11:58 in Paris. I write poetry from time to time as well as prose. Once I find the itch to delve into this long stretch of endless pixels and allow my fingers to type away on the keyboard, naturally, I'm at a mere loss. The more time passes by the more my thoughts fade, and then I think how I should've scratched these moments on paper, or my own damn skin with a pen. My best friend tells me she's felt the same way. She can't go on in the day without feeling like she needs this impulse to write it out. Maybe I am half a libra. I read to her my poem about last summer and she told me that my writings are beautiful. But I thought to myself that I'm not the girl that graduated with a degree in script or English lit.

I met the most selfless, most kind girl tonight. 21 was the age I thought I'd be beyond perfect. But 21 is also the age that's hurt the most. My hands look different, they look older. And they aren't as thought about as they were at 17. They're not strange anymore, and they don't provoke thoughts about how they're the most beautiful body part and how people need to learn to appreciate them more.

A woman saw me at a bathroom in a bar. She had glitter in her waterline, wore platform heels, and approached the sink with bell-sleeved limbs. She stared, and proceeded to tell me she understood me because she was turning 35 that night. The night before my father's birthday, a taurus, I felt like I was taken care of individuals I had barely known; yet whose hearts were more open than I ever bothered knowing was possible.

Earlier today, I opened myself up to a fellow coworker. He told me about his dreams with a shine in his eye and I knew from that moment that he knew exactly what he was in for but he was well aware that nothing is impossible.
Thoughts are cascading and my writings won't ever be brilliant. But I do, need to let you know, my dear reader, that this is something I needed at this moment. And if you have bothered to take the time to read these useless thoughts then I appreciate it more than you could know.

Bisous

Alana O.

Little known

I can't find the words anymore

Because like many things, 

I lost them while I was careless

And I lost them while I was free.

I want them to sink in comfortably,

But I want to tell it true.

In the eyes of a stranger,

I was beautiful and furious.

During a hungry heart's layover,

I thieved moments I could have instead
Spent looking for you

And what a wonderful, 

quiet mess this was,

Being home away from home.

There were twelve warnings,
One for each month of the year
Compressed into half
And half of this half
Is still warmly nested
In dreamy questions of
What could have happened?

Nothing.
It was only a Parisian summer
that tricked me.

If I was to fall, I won't fall so deep

I would hate for you to hang there all alone the whole night through

"If I spit on you, will you let me go?"

Tonight, I kept both my make-up and headband on hoping you'd notice. Yours are the only stares that will ever count. Crooked steps, stained clothes, and red eyes are warning signs for the gut, but as always, I remain victimless.
Tonight I don't feel creative but I'll describe through selection.
 Dignity is the spine that holds an arm-crossed walk  back to the car, in the cold, at 3AM, on quiet streets. But my head was boiling dramatically from the greatest and most (in)appropriate war with fear. I could never decide which side to be on. Passion makes the biggest fool of me by trying to hold you, how terrible is the idea that my kind of passion is only for the weak and given to the sane. I'm not ashamed of self-inflicted wounds. The kinds that are painfully ripping down the solid lines that make up you and me. The lines that are built with the positivty of 3 years and that make me ridiculous to be introduced to wild Persistence. The drive back is really what is peeling all the sweetness of fruit to the dullest and harmful core which hurts me to reach. I might've placed my hand on the canvas bag about 5 times to see if it would vibrate. Stupid Hope. What I told you about D was true but there wasn't a way to prove it. And now after 10 hours of work, I hate to be alone without you or your warmth. But phrases and words like the title of this post are like blows that awaken this unexplainable surface that I know could be kept gentle and beautiful. The bad part is that I know I'm crazy. Love dominated me.

He ro in

I found this abandoned postcard that was unreasonably incomplete, and I think it's only because loaded words without literal expression did nothing for two people. I used to call it a "practice of honesty" because my gift of words to you was somehow understood but I knew that we were just dancing  afraid to make the boldest swinging of steps that would proceed into emotional turmoil. There's a pattern that never came and went. It remained and I have not the slightest idea why. Within me it's been soundless, but I now have a vicious hunger for a nameless need. You have no idea how I carried them inside me, like a true disease that managed to make its chioces for me, other than my voluntary self. 

The more soothed I am inside your walls, I forget about my self existing outside and becoming a favored vision that isn't to be determined by anyone. My waves keep swinging and swinging beneath your light and this is also why self neglection as a subject has been spurring and gotten me sick. It's the sensation of walking the world next to someone so early. I suppose his mind is some sort of sanctuary where my flaws and precise traces of motion dissolve and it's really just me, little-eyed staring into my own space. He obeys his own conscious and unfortunately his products are what got me whistling the same tune. I've been taught a lot of what's made me, a lot of what embodies the good and loving person. But I've left out what's been needed the most from such a careless, fearful creature, which is largest, the monumental establishment of identity. It involves all the craftsmanship taken from anything and I'd like to come back with a straighter back and nicer presence.  

I'm never going to direct my guilty sight to someone for scraps representing traits.

"Moons were meant to be admired"

A lonesome walk plaid-skirted and briskly-paced faltered my energy and concluded my self sitting amidst figures of people walking their dogs up and down that sidewalk in front of me.

A little girl being attended by her mom and dad. Was that what I was like when I was her age?

I am not sure what inspired a policeman to roll his wheels past all that concrete to simply ask if I was fine, his blue eyes so wide and true, I thought about having a conversation with him but I thought I'd interrupt his monitering.

Perhaps it was goodwill. Maybe he just got bored of being there. Then he told me. Flustered. Apparently that's what I seemed, making my way across those people having a good time on that darn big patch of grass.

Just earlier C gently pressed his hands on my forehead and reminded I needed a change of expression. A reminder, because each damn heavy step I made walking to make my mother's errand had me harshly vaulting the space that I feel has been running empty. I don't usually know where I'm going, but for once I did and I felt angry that it wasn't for anything important. It suddenly felt like all my work was just made up of careless harvesting that wasn't growing a single damn thing. What the hell was I doing? What have I? I feel sorry for ever trying to hold the moon so thoughtlessly and hopelessly that I forgot about what it truly was.

 If it really does look over me and provide for me every night the way it has, not skipping a single night when I fix my sight to it, it's not bad. Really, not bad after all. I halt my stream of fears when I rotate ideas about distance. Shuddering about its existence. I don't want it to fail me. But we all just want. All the time.

 I stole two books today from 5th Avenue, then I saw men holding hands across a window dividing them from me.

To C: I'll reach nights where I won't have to look at your sky with your enormity and assurance wrapping its arms around me.

basal demands

Bad postured on a nearly disfunctional wooden seat needing a leg change. Weak limbs, terribly swollen jaw, oily hair, and Morals by iceage on replay in the background 'cause the lyrics make me feel like I want the tips of my fingers to melt into a scurrying of brilliance to match the brilliance of the song. If only.

I thought about how I wish I could have seen them when they were here in March.

My thoughts then transitioned into more analytical realms, remembering that clear night when J spilled to me one of the most confident, yet hurtful statements which I deem too personal to ever share again. Due to the fact that my reasons are disclosed, hopefully this serves as a small hint to what I'm trying to become.

 I've been wearing the same black floral dress for the past two days. She was in a tasteless outfit when I saw her that day, and I discretely told her that she really isn't all that bad. For a moment I wanted to apologize for all the secret hatred I had snaking in me. That I kept folding and unfolding with a fear of choosing a side on either of the divide because I thought I'd be wrong anyway. I saw her, and when I did, I felt the same. She looked at me with a kind of look that told me I deserved more. But sometimes, when J looks at me in the eyes, I'm more than ready to pull that thread that was knotted between the two to have him closer and just shed fear.

Dear J, I want to ask you why.

Half the time

I doubt they get through to anyone.

Voilà, ma petite Amélie, vous n'avez pas des os en verre. Vous pouvez vous cogner à la vie. Si vous laissez passer cette chance, alors avec le temps, c'est votre cœur qui va devenir aussi sec et cassant que mon squelette. Alors, allez y, nom d'un chien!

Traced

This is a post where I'll diffuse my words to however way the screen decides to project them and I won't even think twice about what I'm writing or the way I do.
All my writings are the same. And just like all other posts, let me make a short, sweet statement. One which anyone reading and anyone who knows me personally might (but hopefully not) link a connection to it: I don't like to wait.

I feel guilty for making that sort of declaration because I let it happen all the time. From a person waiting in their car for me to a fuller spectrum where lights have not yet wrapped around the spaces of my future.
I also like to bring things to a very unwarning halt. Like this blog for example. Tons of ideas, tons of plans simply shoved under a pile of life. Okay, maybe I lied. Before the beginning of that last sentence I was about to type something completely different. But trust me, it's information that I'd rather not unveil just yet.

Seeing you off the edges has always made me want to jump. There have been quite a few people in my life that have bestowed me with the impulse to aggressively swing myself to things I've not yet done. For the past four years, it's only been a certain two that I sadly recall the most effective and impactful individuals, and one  whom has unconditionally held my hand the whole time.

How challenging it is to be lonesome. Really. Though part of me preaches the fact that everyone really has to go through it though no one wants to admit that it's going to be their last time wounded by that type of feeling. One of the people that has given me the desire to just push myself doesn't convey such a strong presence anymore, but this person bruised me with a stupid juvenile longing for anti perpetualism and nourished me with growth.

The second (and say, the most influential), spilled on me with all sugar. At this point I keep reading the very first sentence of this post with the natural intention of correcting anything that sounds awkward or to simply sail the groove of the whole post but I'm really trying to stop myself from doing so. Anyway, as I was saying, sugar. Right. It was just a couple of days ago that I was traversing the text-raped, incoherent posts that made up my private teenage tumblr when I happily read a pleasant post that I had written about you. 11: 13. You probably didn't catch it. I wonder why I always do. And it's so bizarre because I was just listening to such a lovely prelude to time feelers just now (that was really shaping the flow of this paragraph) and I just clicked to re-play it because it's too nice to not do so. Ah! Does the fact that I keep deviating from my initial direction reflect my current giddiness? probably not. I'll shut up now. When I read this post, it instantly enlivened every time through a physical manifestation of a smile. And maybe it's too strange to speak of the spirit because I've always found it rather pretentious to do that but, I just got this rush where I know my spirit has dropped a massive layer of approval on all things lately and I feel happier.

Here we go again. As I reach the end of my usual self-incitements, here comes the ending thought. The "big" idea.The clarification. The finality. All I'm trying to say is that anything that's thrown over to me I know that it was because that's the only way it could be. I'm happy with what and who I have and my feelings won't ever regress to what I currently am surrounded with. I can't say that dodges won't be made but I can always remember what I had.

Eh, that was probably confusing.

Oh well.

*edit: It's not important and no one cares but only a single error was corrected in the typing of this post and I have yet to read it in its full. I also sent this text to someone who I'm waiting for them to start reading before I do.

Sweet thing

Here I am criss-cross-legged and all. Bending ideas to wait and see if they're played out precisely the way you've taught me. I know, I should send you a message.  Without your acknowledgement of a withered voice? No, I can't. I just can't. But I'm spanning through my choices, and recall that this is the best I've had. My hand's on my face. I'm always covering my face in some way and all I can re-call is being the exact same way aged 17.
It was then when I couldn't handle my desires and kept trying to fit it all in shapes that looked suiting. Without taking another glance, I'd tug and tug and you always knew that I ignored the disproportionate sight because I needed to let myself grow and god damn why does it feel like everything is coming back to me slowly yet all at once?

Weightless. Everything is careful. It's rare to detect that scent that only makes me see your satisfying remarks. I'd walk and talk without thinking twice because no matter what, these dry, tired eyes and somehow dubbed "charms" were beyond you. Ache and inquisitiveness about how close you can get to a human being. Where have I been? Past midnight, sneaking into my messy bedroom with dim lights barely flooding its corners. Quietly tip-toeing to not wake him up, to discover my own dark human figure in my large bathroom mirror. I consider my reflection but I can't ever remember it. It happens quite often, actually. I think people should look at themselves more. Really stare, if possible, but without thought. I believe there to be something empowering about just really looking and not registering these rough string of events that makes one feel restless or lonesome.

Last night I decided to give up. I didn't want to fight with myself. To think that there is nobody else that is going to be me. But if there is nobody else for me, I really don't want anyone else.

So to you, I do rest my case. And among my constructed traits is built a bridge for you to cross. Where beneath, I dissolve my flaws. And maybe I won't remember what it was like to feel that way again,

My sweet thing.