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I’m on a train on the other side of the world. They don’t make them like this on our side. You are both farther than when I left yet closer from when you left. I hadn’t thought of that until this very moment.

It’s odd being the one who stays, that’s why I had to leave. Do not fret, I’m sure I’ll be back before you do.

The girl by my side started writing a letter while going through the Italian country, which made me think of writing this. I’m pretty sure we’re sharing a space with an Olympian too, but I can’t really ask her. I’m not familiar with the protocol to approach a suspected athlete.

It’s been a fun experiment trying to communicate without knowing the language. Making all sort of gestures and noises, and getting excited when they get you (or an idea of you). Maybe if I had started saying « I don’t speak your heart’s language », things would’ve been different. I see some understanding when they know I don’t get them, and yet I try.

Last night something unpleasant happened, and I was able to handle it better than when we both were together. It’s been so long now, that I dare say I have grown since we happened to each other. Not enough to reach you, or thinking of trying, though.

The girl at the shop in Barcelona warned me that their gummies would give me bad dreams. I’m not saying you were a bad one, but you showed up in my head. Longing to be who you wanted instead of being wanted by you in my current form, even if in the dream realm, may have been the nightmare part.

I’ve recently heard tales of cycles that some thought had ended, and yet the story continues. In a different time, in a different shape, but some more ink runs through old pages. I am sick of remakes and revivals, but wouldn’t mind if one of these roads led to moRe.

Ciao, bella.

Al rato se me pasa

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Cada vez que pienso en amarte otra vez, me llena de nuevo esa sensación mágica que tenían las largas pláticas hasta el amanecer, la naturaleza infinita de tu sonrisa y el calor que daban tus pupilas.

Pretensiones

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si te invoco, ¿para qué te quiero?

si te hablo, ¿qué te quiero decir?

no sé por qué te manifiesto,

si cuando estás no te escucho y

en realidad, no te veo.

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doomed romances do for me what I think true crimes do for the girlies

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Soy demasiado ansioso para estar viviendo la vida que vivo, de la forma en que la vivo.

I know you think you know you want this

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But I invite you to question those certainties and break them down into its atomic parts. What do you know of me? What have you heard of me? What have you heard from me? How much of your shape of me comes from experience and how much of that are inferences based in your wants and minimal information?

I know you think you know you want this, but truly it’s the path of least resistance into the unknown. The idea that a path somewhere is still better than no path forward.

I know you think you know you want this, but I’m not even sure that your this and my this are the same, they express different thi(ng)s.

I remember that time I failed you in a catastrophic way. It would have been the stuff of legends. The kind of mistakes I like to make, because hell or glory and nothing in between are the only things I accept. I remember the horror in my gut when I realized what I had (not) done, and the sudden release because it didn’t matter anymore. Those were preparations for a happy path, and we were now in crisis mode. It didn’t matter anymore, if anything, it was one less worry at a time where our well crafted plans were melting.

I know you probably don’t remember, and if you do I’m even more baffled than before. But I haven’t been able to let it go even today.

What a predicament when the only thing standing between me and failure are my own skills (which are very hit or miss) and a bit of luck (which I’d rather not court if at all possible).

I know you think you know you want this, but how can I trust that you know what I know?