mess

I'm a mess.

As I see boxes, bags and all of my stuff everywhere I notice that I carry so much baggage with me. The people i've met, the places I've lived, the emotions i've felt. Each time, i become more and more a mixture of things, a mess

I look at this square of an apartment. There was so much crying, laughing, tension and just...it was my first home in my real home.

You see, the best way to describe most of my past years is with a blink of an eye. Each blink a new place. And when you move so much it really feels like you don't belong to either.

It gets messy answering questions like "where are you from?" and "where do you live?" And as I heard each question not knowing the answers myself, I just I dreamed of a little* small little place, a place where i could stay.

So, i did. I moved into that small little place and it meant I successfully started over. At home. My home. It meant I could finally let my guard down, breathe and just, stay.

And the baggage, both emotional and physical that I carry just means I am finally beginning to grow roots. Oh, and my roots are so many places, my roots are each of you.

This little mess I carry, this little mess I am just means I am finally unpacking.

exchange of thoughts across the world

A little introduction: I've been making video essays of what I write here weekly. This past week I've collaborated with my dear friend Kristen Ocean where we both answered 5 questions and had the answers guide us into an essay that is also a conversation between two friends who live in completely different countries. All in bold are Kristen's thoughts and the rest are mine. Video at the end. Enjoy!


A conversation - something I would define as being an exchange of ideas. it's between two sides.

I find myself replying to my own thoughts: "just allow yourself"

I’ve been having a conversation in my mind, and it started with this idea: “You can do better. You can always do more.” But then something jumped in to defend me, suggesting, “What if you are already enough?”

I have been so trapped by limitations I've created, where I'm not worthy, and like I should hide myself in order to avoid being seen.

Who am I talking to? who am I defending myself from? This marks the clear division in my thinking, or perhaps duality of my nature.

I'm not allowing myself to fall.

And it’s from here that the push-pull began.

And I can't get rid of the thought in my head: "So, where would I fall exactly?" How calculated do I have to be to plan where I fall? But, this calculation comes from feeling unsafe.

I feel safe here. But I don’t feel safe now. The lines easily become hazy between what is "here" and what is "now", as the relationship between time and space become blurred.

Where I look out the window and see chaos. I hear screams and gunshots I cannot allow it.

Isn’t time just a form of mental space? I could stay here, in this room all day, and my illusion of safety will waver. But I am find safety somewhere in the climate of my mind.

I need to plan things out. I need to act a certain way, respond a certain way. It feels like it's a risk to just exist.

In my first waking moments I am suspended in a blissful unawareness, untethered to this time and space, free of thought subject to contradiction, which seems to be all I can find anymore.

You know, tonight I actually fell asleep, first time in weeks, and when I woke up I saw my monstera and she had a new leaf.

They always talk about "coming to your senses". But doesn’t it make more sense that we begin in our senses, and we come to our thoughts? I am able to find peace here, somewhere.

A new leaf, a new day.

I can find safety both here and now, but without my awareness to either. I do eventually come to my thoughts, which gives a platform for this conversation.

Where will I fall?

Black converses with white. The "Yes" converses with "no". Can I be more? Yes. Am I enough?Yes.

Where will I fall? Anywhere and everywhere.

sunny days

I used to hate sunny days.

How dare the world look bright and shinny when inside i'm all shadows. This set doesn't go with my internal story.

But something changed. As I sit on this table, with my coffee and a flower that fell down right where I'm standing, I feel warm.

My thinking starts shifting, how dare I not be bright and shinny? How can I not reflect this? Perhaps I should open my eyes so that the light could really come in.

Yet, I feel tingling. I feel nervous because depression can be so addicting. I grew attached to it, and it's hard to let go. Only because it feels like the other side is unknown.

And you know how it goes, we fear what we do not know.

But light is never a bad thing. When we are able to see things clearly we become more aware. I should embrace this because it will show parts of myself I've been avoiding. Parts that I shamed, hated and judged.

Today i see a pink sky. I realize I'm not well. But I do feel better.

One step at a time.

round and round and

Wondering why I come back in circles, roaming and roaming in the same pattern. For years I've been presented with an opportunity to learn from change.

However, for years I have given into my illusion. Trying to make a conclusion.

Round and round I go, surprised each time as if I were circling somewhere new. Nothing is new, my darling. It's quite obvious how it's the same.

At least this time I recognize it is a circle, it is a form I've been accustomed to move. Perhaps this is the entry way towards what I'm supposed to learn here.

Even though it appears to be quite silly to be going over and over and over and over the same way which leads, seemingly nowhere—I'm sure it is taking me somewhere. Somewhere I will finally step out of the loop, stronger than ever.

Then I will enter another circle, and I will go round and round and round and round.

Until I learn the next lesson.

Thank you, life.

multi

These strings in which I touch and this voice I emanate brings me back to sobriety, while eternalizing this version of myself.

Drunk in the illusion I believe every uninvestigated thought. I go in too deep and I fade away.

I scroll through a screen looking for another human. I don't want to feel alone. As soon as I am back to my guitar, I hear peace through the instrument. I am one and I make music flow. My voice trembles, my hands shake but the music brings me back to sobriety.

There are many versions of myself. This instrument I love so dearly has eternalized each. It does it in such a wonderful way as to validate that time and at the same time let go of it.

It's difficult to remind yourself that you are not one thing. You are many things. I've learned to grasp for the absolute, but what an illusion to be only one thing.

My music embraces the multidimensionality I carry in me. It brings me back to the essential and takes me to the invisible realm of emotions.

I'm eternally grateful for that day I skipped piano lessons and spied through the window of a guitar class. I saw that guitar and I knew it was the partner I needed.

With this instrument I have found peace, laughter, immense comprehension.

And when you hear me sing and tell me my voice is as velvet and the strings are angelic, know it contains all of the depression, the sadness, the gratitude and the happiness in me. It contains all versions.

i forgot

It’s been so long since I’ve seen you that I forgot what you look like. The ocean wave crashes down. I follow the edge of his nose. I make my way down to his forehead with a scar right in the middle. The mind bridges the gaps with stories. He is a story. I am a story. We read each other and still, I forgot what he looks like.

My mind is frustrated for it does no't know when the beginning starts and when the end is, however, the in-betweens are vivid as the sound of my breath. Unreachable with a misconception of closeness.

These fragments shouldn't bother me, perhaps it's time to let go of these stories. And if there are no stories: there's nothing to forget.

it's autumn and all leaves must fall

I see you.

But what I really hear is your voice telling me the worst of misfortunes, and I feel you looking at me but I won't dare to look back, because I know the moment our eyes meet it will make it real. Even though I fight not to, our eyes meet, the sadness and misfortunes unite us and for a moment I'm not alone. The air is heavy tonight, but we are light.

I realize I have to go. There are new things for me to process, and my motherland is waiting for me to rediscover myself, but I don't ever want to leave you. You tell me to stay, so I stay a little longer. I linger in your presence and nothing matters. We hold hands, look at the crashing waves that seem to disappear as the last ray of sun is going down and the skies are getting extremely blue. I feel the warmth of summer, the end of summer. I can't describe this feeling, it's a mixture of everything.

Then, I leave. alone.

I carry you with me for as long as I can. But you have become a yellow leaf and I have to let you go along with autumn.

Oh spring, won't you save us? Let us bloom, because my heart aches. It misses you. It misses autumn.


typing

Picture your typical cubicle office. Then add a bunch of publicists. It's an ad agency. It's booming and everyone looks so busy under the fluorescent light bulbs that give us no sense of what is going on outside--is it sunny? rainy? Is it night time? Who knows.

The mind rambles as the fingers start to type…

Ok. Let's just start writing and writing so people think you're doing something that matters.

Don't you love the sound of a keyboard? It means busy, successful and overall doing something and not just laying around doing fucking nothing.

Nothing is what I feel right now can't feel a thing can't recognize myself.

that person inside me that is trapped behind many unimportant things hoping to be accepted and confident to come out and take over this carcass of a body.

Let me keep typing keep writing keep staring at this screen I want to look like I am doing something like I am something.

something to be proud of a friend of.

I am quick and fast i finish things and get them done and then i stare at this blank screen.

look around i should be busy i should be doing something.

god forbid I am sitting alone without a phone god forbid I am not typing, typing typing typin typ ty t t t t t t t t t t t t t t.

the noise that makes me think I can pull it off I can fake it I can try to grasp any trace of identity.

identity based off of how others see me because I don't see a thing I don't feel a thing i don't know a thing.

grew up convinced I knew what to do convinced I am special convinced things were black and white.

but then who is this person I feel slipping away? this human designed by a religious community who manipulates but says it loves who worships the invisible but does not accept the very visible homeless out on the street.

grew up knowing i should be busy so others wouldn't ditch me how can you be rejected if you’re the one who is not available.

not available i am not to myself.


beyond my window

The moon is staring at me. I am sitting on my bed and I feel its eyes fixated upon me. I look out my window, make eye contact and feel cold. I look at my fingers, legs, and feet. I am pieces. Pieces of places I’ve been and people I’ve met. And to every piece I gain, I lose one as well. I give it away. It makes me question: Am I a little bit of everything or a whole lot of nothing?

I remember when my dad was driving us home late at night while my mom and sister were asleep. I was so tired I couldn’t keep my eyes open, but looking at my dad driving all alone, I couldn’t let him be the only one awake. I had to stay up. Even though I didn’t say a word, I liked knowing I was there for him. Looking at the car window I could see the road moving through the headlights in plain darkness. I turned my head and tried to see it from different angles. At one point, I realized that no matter what funny pose, or head turns I tried, the moon was always static. It simply stayed.

Windows fascinate me. They are frames, and by simply tilting my head and moving my body I could come up with my own picture. I recall every single window I’ve ever had. I’ve had tall windows, square windows, round windows, the list goes on. The first thing I notice when arriving at a new house is the bedroom window. I like to see what picture it has for me, maybe the picture it framed was there to remind me of where I wasn’t. Or to show me my reflection. And the idea that I could fit the whole universe into one square didn't leave me so overwhelmed. You see, windows help us make sense of things. They are our frame of reference.

I grew up moving around and after relocating so many times I developed a habit of staring at the moon on my first and last night at a house. On the last night, I look out till the moon is so high; the window can no longer frame it. Then I just know that where I am no longer makes sense, when it stops feeling like home.

These last nights in all of the rooms I lived in felt cold. And I just knew my time there was over, although it didn't mean I was ready for it. I don't think we are ever really ready to leave a piece of us.

I've never been good at goodbyes, even though I had a lot of practice. But I've never been good at hellos either. All I feel is a piece of me leaving and a foreign piece attaching, I am very aware of this exchange. Every “hello” means another piece stripped out of my skin leaving me in the cold. Leaving me less of myself and more of someone else.

Soon we all become a newly painted and empty room. From window to window we are the observer. Living in so many places has made me realize we are everything therefore we are nothing. That the pieces we leave are an addition to someone else's frame of reference, and each piece we get makes us evolve into beautiful complex humans.

The moon is starring at me. I try not to make eye contact but I can’t help it. It feels cold. I close my eyes, take a deep breath and look at my window. The moon is gone. Out of sight. It’s too high for my window to frame it. And again, I know it’s time to say goodbye.