una vez que no dormí nada y llegue a la escuela semi muerta y probablemente reprobé un examen de química, me salí temprano y llegué al trabajo de Miriam y nos sentamos en el patio de servicio, y yo estaba llorando poquito y Ezequiel nos llevó café y totopos y salsa de la cocina y platicamos de historias y de libros y de películas y de lo que fuera menos lo que estaba pasando en realidad y cómo no sabía qué iba a hacer con la vida y todo se me estaba viniendo encima pero ella siempre sabía qué decir o qué no decir y cómo reconfortar con chistes pendejos en el momento correcto y la extraño mucho

 Once more I am left stumbling.

Looking for a hard surface to grab and to hold myself up by. Everytime it happens I should have been expecting the blow, the let down. The way I simply cannot trust.

It happens every time, and by now it's on me for continuing trying to trust
that words like those hold meaning. That it's not just what people say.

I keep expecting that 'family' means something beyond relation.
Beyond a blood link that not even animals respond to.
Yes, we are related. We hold this family tree up with branches and gluestick and glitter to make it pretty.
We recognize the same people as ancestors and even remember them somewhat the same.

Family doesn't owe you shit.
-Things I should know by now-
That everytime I've actually needed help I've been let down and struggled by my own.

Maybe I did get stuck somewhere when growing up. Maybe I should be more successful by now. It's my fault that I need to rely on others for stability here and there.

I must remember.

Once I was left holding my body weight against a door with someone holding a knife and threatening to kill me on the other side. I simply wasn't believed. I was left waiting for someone who never came.

If there wasn't an answer then, how could I possibly expect anything for something smaller than that.

People don't owe me sympathy.
People don't owe me help.
People don't owe me support just because they're family, friends, people I work with.

I am 100% responsible of myself and nobody else, it's about time I start being the only one I expect showing up.

 

This is place is haunted.

It exists for one purpose in my life and it's to share.

But I don't feel like sharing if it's not to you. 

I'm lighting palo santo.

I'm scrying, smoke cleansing, clearing the air.

I'm not asking for anything really. This is all just happening. The good and the bad and the gut-wrenching-horrible-and-scary.

You're my air and my fire and the universe is trying to get me some ground. I think I'm going to let it. Come what may.

Maybe the rain will wash the ash away, even though it's barely rained this year.

 

Hey.

So here I am. 

Going over my own mind at my own time. Trying to decipher what to do. What does one do? My years of mourning never warned me about this loss. What does one do with the group chat where there's only your two best friends and yourself once one of them is gone forever? What does one do with the million voicenotes that our whatsapp conversation consists of? What's with having all these fucking drafted tweets about our drunken reunions? 

I am angry.

And sad.

And I feel lonely in this sadness because I don't feel the right to share it. What about    t h e m ?
T h e y   must be in much more pain than me. But fuck it, I'm hurting. And it's just so fucking unfair.

I don't know what to do with all these messages. I can't put them anywhere. I can't store them like I do with my father's old water bottle receipts. With his to do lists in yellow paper with blue gel pels.
I cannot pack up this relationship in boxes to look at when I'm feeling a little better.
The fucking internet is a constant reminder. A big wave I can't seem to be able to swim over. 

What do I do with this 21st century pain?

So this year I couldn't finish the BEDIA on time.
As I do. As I have. I mostly got mad at myself, that I couldn't.
I felt negligent, an as if I was letting you girls down for not finishing.
I mostly felt bad for not writing this one. As months -and situations- have happened, the feeling that I didn't write this one just fucking haunts me constantly.
So here it goes.

July, 27th.
On Miriam.

When I needed someone the most, there was you.
There was you with your knowing eyes and your understanding smile and your willingness to give and help and save. You told me a hundred times that that's the thing with me, people feel like they want to "save me". People do this. It's you, baby, it's you who felt like saving me. And you did, you absolutely did.

I have felt a million times that what I do to return this love that you have given me is never enough. I feel like you deserve a million things more. If I could build you a house, on top of a hill, where you can watch the rain and play guitar and have the perfect cold Toluca weather and Guamuchil sunsets and summer rainshowers I would. If I could make it rain for you I would. If I could apparate I would do it all the fucking time, because I never get tired of being with you.

How can I thank you for holding me as I had to fight the urge to just die already and how you helped me see that it was getting better. Someday it was. It did.

We have memories we don't mention. We have secrets we share quietly. I want you to know that I know. I love you so much.

So when you read this, I'm so fucking sorry for writing it sooner.
I know I should have.
I didn't write about the vegetables either. It was not that I didn't want to, it was just that I got stuck halfway.

I love you with my life, you life-saving, book-sharing, nirvana-playing, christmas carol-singer, potato casserole-baking, whiskey-pouring, secret-keeping, story-telling, hand-holding, life-changing, you.
You're my best friend. You're amazing and you light up my life. I love spending time with you, despite you never wanting me to pay for shit, you proud fucker. Let me pay for thiiiiiings. Ugh.

So when you get better, you're sucking it up and I'm going to splurge, we're airbnbing or something somewhere, just the four of us and having a good ol jolly time somewhere new.

iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou.
Tu hippie.

I'm writing from a place in the future where I don't finish things in time and where I'm still inside.
I've always been a homebody. I like inside. I like my house though I hate my house because it doesn't look as aesthetically pleasing as I would like. It never does. It's never how I picture it. It always has all this wasted potential. Despite this, I like my places.
I like having my little nooks and crannys where I can feel safe. Where I can sleep and read and miss other things. On behalf of my spaces, I try to make them comfortable. Places I don't mind.
In this time that we've had inside I have stared at corners picturing what can I do that costs no money and doesn't involve leaving the house.
If I had unlimitted resources I would spend them all on the house and it still wouldn't be quite right.
I like inside, though.

A playlist doesn't need an order if a playlist is meant to set a mood.

Yo hago muchas playlists, y todas y cada una de las playlists que hago están diseñadas para escuchar en shuffle. Mis playlist para correr tienen diferentes moods, pero todas las puedes poner en shuffle y te van a llevar al mismo lugar. Una emoción mientras corres.

Now, I know that serious playlist creators would find this absolutle ludicrous, foolish, unreasonable, out of place and of mind. Pero creo que el propósito de un playlist dedicado es sorprender. Es no saber qué esperar. Es no ver la lista, no saber qué sigue, no saber qué pusimos ahí.

So please play this, listen, and try to understand a meaning beyond.
And please. For the love of music. Shuffle it.

I made this for you.