I feel it all underneath my skin; my fingers break and my legs ache and my mind keeps looping our blurry conversations. I acknowledge that I can’t know the future and yet I search for it in the past. I’m at a crossroads and lost the map; do I even have enough time to get to where I’m going? Lo siento, mi amor, porque siempre voy estar tarde. You can’t tell me that you see me if you aren’t even wearing your glasses.
I have an entire year’s worth of seasons in a night and it scares me- but I suppose this beats a mundane dull cardboard existence. I find my anxiety in both your silence and your words, and I wish reading you would be anything other than impossible.
It’s confusing to me how only a few days can change everything; I try not to understand history and I try to see things for what they are but it’s all convoluted right now. Is any of this even real? It’s so hard to avoid comparisons, but I keep coming back to thinking of the distinct air of change between long i-26 drives and even longer i-95 drives. I keep thinking about how Buenos Aires made and broke everything, and how I am tempted to never return as much as I am tempted to drop everything and move there. I keep trying not to think about how it felt before, or how I am probably still not cut out for any of this shit, or how I feel foolish for even trying. What is this? I don’t think I’ve ever met so many mixed signals before, and I’ve got to say, I’m not terribly interested in having an unnecessarily broken heart again.
my mind is a blank and my head is spinning.
call me sugar like i’ve never been called sugar before
I can’t place my finger on it, but there is something about you that makes it so easy to ignore reason.
further away but not out of earshot
I’ve been steeping in my happiness and have been walking on sidewalk cracks, and I’ve been making a lot of mistakes and have been enjoying mostly every one of them. I’ve been living a more surreal life and sometimes it’s scary and sometimes it’s amazing and I don’t regret any of it. My new life is pretty good. Oh, but fuck. Then there is Sunday. Then there are days like Sunday, when I can’t help but acknowledge that my heart still skips a beat when I hear the sound of rolling bins outside my window.
Things are starting to become more clear, I think. I decided to walk away from the years that I knew I had to leave, and instead of a steady pace, I sprinted until my runaway breath had left only thorns in my lungs. I keep trying to tell myself that I am not suffering from parataxic distortion but then there’s that small afterthought that creeps in all too often, saying, but it’s not supposed to be this way.
i keep telling myself to stop and feel if i like it.
on confronting novelty before i’m ready for it
We found hours in the day that have been in hiding for years- they waited behind unfinished bridges and used books and soft, worn blankets. I’ve never found this much time with anyone. I’m wrapped in smiles and worry about asphyxiating myself with them. You want to look at me in a way that I haven’t been looked at in years, and the newness of you only slightly terrifies me. I want to resist and give in at the same time, and I know that onward and upwards still takes time, despite the hours we’ve been collecting.