a kind cynic

i’m not completely sure why, but it seems as if my tastes delve further and further into darkness as i get older. perhaps it is the cruelties of the world that has jaded my hopelessly romantic disposition; perhaps it is my way of saying fuck you right back. i feel myself drawn to evil; amused and titillated. but only to a certain degree. as i feel myself drawing darkness into my soul, i also feel myself wanting to send out more light. i find myself wanting to protect the few good things out there, guard them with my life. i want to remind people that you’re supposed to be good, because i feel like everything out there is telling us it’s okay not to be. it’s a dog eat dog world. you have to kill to survive. i know that’s how it is, but we make it so. i want to tell people to look into the mirror, and then ask themselves who the real threat is. i want to tell myself to do exactly that. i don’t believe the answer is to just forget it and give and give and give. because you will get crushed out there. but don’t just take. try not to make it worse.



oh, and discussion: i mean, between donna tartt and neil gaiman, i’ve actually gotten to see and meet some of my absolute favorite (and i mean favorite) authors, and only very recently. i have to say that the experience is unlike anything else. a good writer bares a part of themself that lies deep inside while writing a book. woven into the fiction is the absolute truth about the person writing it. so only getting a writer’s work allows you to get to know them on a level that’s indescribable, and quite private, while having no direct interaction whatsoever. loving the work and, in extension, that part of the author, allows for a very substantial experience when seeing and/or meeting them in real life. the connection you’ve formed with their words becomes solidified in the physical meeting. and it’s most likely that the soul of the literature corresponds with that of the author; if you resonate with the first, then of course you’ll love the second as well. that combined with the pure gratification and appreciation you feel for the writer for writing this book that you’ve fallen in love with – how can you not have stars in your eyes?

small roofs

i was waiting for the bus in the rain when i got to thinking about umbrellas. that we have this thing where we suspend pieces of synthetic fabric over our heads when it rains. like small roofs. and then we just walk around, holding these roofs up to keep from getting wet. imagine an alien seeing us walking around like that. it’s strange. especially seen from above. a bunch of small roofs moving around, getting hit with thousands of small beads of water.

he: moustache, black clothes, book

i fell in love on my way home tonight. i fell in love on the train. he was sitting opposite me, reading a book. he had blond tousled hair, a moustache and black clothes, and i really wanted to ask what he was reading. he kept his eyes on the pages almost the whole trip, except for the one station where he just kept flitting his eyes back and forth. i wanted to ask what was happening. but i didn’t. because that would be weird. sometimes, he’d smile a little as he read, and i wanted to smile too. but that would be weird, so i didn’t. some pages were dog-eared, and i didn’t approve, but i thought to myself, baby i don’t care. no i didn’t. because that would be weird. he got off one station before me and i thought to myself, what if i were to go after him, tell him i just had to say something. but no. that would be weird. when i reached my own station, i let him go. or almost. first, i wrote a post about how i fell in love with him on my way home tonight, just in case. no i didn’t. that would be weird.

please please please

i don’t know. there’s just something about a smiths sing-along that just breaks your heart. something about hearing people screaming the words in the next room while you stare into your glass, beer flat and disgusting. people dancing and laughing and kissing, and you’re just there. and you feel so alone. you don’t have anyone. you don’t have someone. no one that is right there, ready to bear themself whenever you look at them. intimately, whole-heartedly, because they’re yours. and you sit there thinking why and please and why again. and there’s just something about having a smiths song playing in the next room, hearing everyone scream along when you just want to hear it alone in your bedroom. and you realize that you’ve given away your headphones for the night. and you’re so lonely. it’s devastating.


a while ago, in the midst of winter, the idea of planting a flower entered my head. as i saw everything around me dead and covered in cold, i became fixated with bringing something to life. i told myself that once spring was here, i’d create something beautiful that whispered spring. that laughed summer. one flower became three, and now i finally have my seeds planted. i’m already too attached. no really. they have names and everything. my thoughts of them are already tinted with love. i think they deserve it though – they’re the earth. the sun’s still being shy, but i hope it’ll work anyway. that the seeds will grow and bloom. you take what you get and do what you can, right?

the fight continues

12:30 pm. seven girls sit around the table, drawing. six of them, circa age 8. the seventh, circa age 16. the seventh asks: “what country are you from?”

– algeria.
– afghanistan.
– morocco.
– afghanistan.
… i don’t want to say.
– afghanistan.
– afghanistan.

why is it so, that a little girl has to feel like a minority, even amongst other minorities? why is it so, that a little girl has to keep her guard up, even amongst other children? why does she have to hear from her mother, or her father, or anyone else, that she needs to be protected? that she needs to protect herself? why does she has to feel so different, so off, so wrong – when she’s perfect?

society isn’t protecting these little girls, these little boys. it isn’t protecting these women, or these men. so we have to protect ourselves. and we have to protect each other.

the day before yesterday, i took a stand. i said no. that it’s not okay to make someone feel bad for the way they are different. that it isn’t okay to remind someone of the horrible way that they’ve, that we’ve, been treated. it’s not okay to say things of hate, even if you don’t mean it in a hateful way. i said no for me and i said no for us. and i am proud. i will stand tall and fight for all my sisters and brothers. i will fight for our mothers, our fathers; and, most of all, i will fight for our children.


i stood in front of the mirror, brushing my teeth, as the absence of light from the burnt out lightbulb veiled my face. i stared into my own eyes, seeing darkness and darkness only. and as i felt the weight of my own invisible stare, fear crept along the edges of my reflection. the abyss gazed back. who knew what i was when i was not to be seen? a freak. an untouchable freak. i stumbled back, a step one two three four, and scratched at the door, grappling to push it open. light streamed in, and black turned to grey. the lines reappeared, and the void was silhouetted once more. i could still feel its eyes on me. in my irises, on my neck. it lingers. still.

negative space

p i g e o n s, by sergey neamoscou

just now, i found myself thinking about languages. more specifically, i was thinking about how the way i express things, and, indirectly, my general mode of speaking, and even my “personality”, varies depending on which language i am speaking. four different languages, four different egos. and i asked myself, which one is the real me?

i guess you could make arguments for each language-me, and eventually come to the conclusion that they’re all me, but i have to say that the split first place would go to swedish-me and english-me. why? because i have mastered these languages well, and at pretty much an equal level.  this might seem like the most obvious thing in the world, but think about it for a second. i feel most comfortable expressing myself in these language because i know them. i can fully* verbally exercise my acts toward self-actualization only through these two languages because they give me the biggest playground. as opposed to the spanish-me, for example, in whom i can’t even hear my own personality at times, due to my linguistic limitations. imagine if spanish-me was the only me i had. my view of myself would be so small, i’d be nearly no one.

now, you can expand this theory, look at other aspects in the world like, oh, say, everything ever. the more you know about something, the more you can move around in said something, and the more you can find yourself in said something. feel your way through the negative space. this applies to anything. to be able to find yourself truly being something, you have to understand and, to an extent, be everything that isn’t that something.

sometimes, experiencing the alternatives to that something you were set on going to at first leads you to not find your way back. sometimes, you learn that you weren’t that doctor, or buddhist, or heterosexual, or poet, or pessimist that you thought you were at the beginning. you’ll find out just how selfish you can be, how cold the world is sometimes, and how everything is really really hard. it’ll hurt. it’ll hurt a lot. but you’re closer to the truth.

the truth is what really matters. you have to try things, all the things, to know the whole you. paint the picture bigger and bigger and strive to get the whole thing, even though you’ll most certainly die before you get there**. the more you do it, the bigger your self will become. that’s why experienced people have that certain something. you can see the sureness glistening in their eyes, it’s solid. like a rock amidst a stormy ocean. they know themselves. a bit jaded, broken, but so beautifully real.


*well you know, relatively.
**who knows, the search might transcend mortality.


(… ein meinem herzen.)

i finally saw the grand budapest hotel yesterday (enjoyed it, needed more women, will do a visual study once the hd stills come out) and i figured it was just a matter of time so i might as well do this now. jason schwartzman is one of my favorite people. i don’t know why. why him out of all people? i mean, i don’t think he’s the most attractive man, but i really love the way he looks. i don’t think he’s the most amazing actor, but i love him in every movie. i don’t think he’s the most incredible musician, but i could listen to his albums all day. i just kind of really like him. it’s just a thing. jason schwartzman is one of my favorite people, and this is me saying “hey man, i think you’re really great”.

 i mean, he’s a total stud in that weird sort of way, if that’s what you’re into. ( i am.)

cinco seis

Tanigami Konan Lilies 1917

i. fourteen days ago, i went and had a vein tapped. a blood donation. three days ago, i received a text message from the hospital thanking me. telling me that the blood i gave was given to a patient. tears fell down my cheeks. ever since those fourteen days ago, i’ve felt this warmth inside. as if the blood was replaced with light.

ii. a woman flirted with me today. i was flustered. a person flirted with me today. i was flustered.

iii. we sat outside, preparing for our visit at the kindergarten. i closed my eyes and faced the sun, turning like a leaf, yearning for the rays. it was a regular day at school, expected to be mundane. it was bliss.

iv. down on the west coast, they got a saying.

v. i’ve applied for courses. plural. three. black holes & cosmic explosions, astronomy, creative writing. i keep my eggs in baskets. plural. x.

vi. continuará.


when you feel your life going stagnant, move. hunt the change. when you can see things clearly, feet on solid plane, start running. blur the lines. never let safety graze your back, avoid its dulling touch. when you find yourself feeling that something is missing, find it. when you think to yourself, i don’t know what i’m looking for, find anyways. see conquer devour until the void is filled. make sure there is always something new amidst all the old that colors your judgement, clouds your vision. let yourself become enraptured. embrace that things are fleeting, use them until they shrivel in your arms. don’t worry, they’ll never be gone, not even eons after you’ve thrown them away. disposable permanence. be greedy, abuse your freedom, take all you can and be selfish, because the world is selfish too. everything you take, the world takes from you. so get to know each other. exchange. exchange. exchange. meet the universe, swallow it and let it become you.


(play and then read, yeah?)

i want to be as unapologetically me as possible. i want to be the me that i am in my head. i just want to say what i think without that tremble in my voice, without that flicker. i want to wear a leather jacket and have dyed hair and not say sorry a single time in the whole goddamned day. i want to look at a guy without thinking that he’d never be interested in me anyways. i want to wear clothes that cling without worrying about which rolls are showing where. i want to make that one mistake that’d be awful but such a good story in the end. i want to ask what the fuck are you looking at and have the evening end with me having punched someone in the throat. i want to make out with strangers and get tattoos just because i feel like it in that particular moment. i want to flirt in languages i don’t speak. i want to walk in that certain way without thinking about it, saunter. i want to do things that make me question who i am, shake my foundation. i want to scream, and laugh into the dead of night. i want people to hate me, and i want people to love me. i want to knock them down.  i want to blow them away. i have a cyclone within me, but i want to be in the eye.

watch me unravel

life is a little bit harder, but so are you. you walk with your arms stretched out, and your eyes are boiled sweets, crystalline and dense. the word “can” repeats again and again, wrapping around your brain. nothing makes sense except for you, so you make sure to touch as many things as possible. disturb. unpick. and with the threads in your hand, you walk away.

… i’ve come undone

eau d’bedroom wishing

when your head’s been running for a while and you’re entrenched in the deepest hours of the night, the part of your brain that stops you from going too crazy grows a bit tired. the barrier appears to get lower and lower. you become more creative, find yourself coming up with ideas and wanting to do and do and do. of course, it also allows you to think and think and think. you think yourself into wanting everything and anything, and suddenly you’ve stumbled upon that damn feeling again. loneliness. as the years go by, so much changes, but the only thing that changes about that feeling is that you understand more and more about that one thing that you’re missing. or really that you understand more and more about what you don’t understand about that thing that you’re missing. it’s not really nice to want so much and find yourself in the darkest hours, thinking about it. frankly, it blows.


i’m in the sky when i’m on the floor 
the world’s a mess and you’re my only cure 
there’s no time for me to act mature 
the only words i know are “more, more” and “more” 

um, hi.

you know when there’s just so much that has happened that you don’t know where to even start telling the story that’ll justify the entirety of reality? yeah, that. so let’s just not even try. let’s just pretend nothing even happened, and let the story pour out through the voice itself. so this is basically me breaking the ice. discharging the tension building in the air, the expectation of “venting”. zap, there it went.

breathe life into art

when i returned to psych after two and a half weeks and realized i was completely uninterested in him, i found myself wondering: what’s the point? when something can go from being an actual thing to nothing at all, without anything happening. when it’s not even time that makes you move on, but mere circumstance. was it even something to begin with, wasn’t it anything at all? i was, once again, struck by the finality of impermanence. but just now i remembered this post, and realized that there it was. there was the point of it. the experience itself, and the remnant of it, is what makes something worth it. there is solid proof that it was something, right there. because i never could have written that if it hadn’t happened, if i hadn’t really felt it. the reality of it is what makes it so inspired, and it’s only life itself which can breathe life into art. so live – let things begin, let them end – and see the world surge through your creations.


the world is blindingly bright. the ground has been bleached a starch white, attracting light magnetic. photons crashing down, ricochet into a frozen disorder. enthropy. some land in your eyes, iris and energy colliding, wave cutting pupil. like a deep gasp after breaking the icy wet surface. good morning.