...missing

Missing your eyes. Missing your smile. Missing your lips and missing your tongue. Wishing you were here, and wishing you loved me once again. Wishing you could. Wishing WE could.

I miss your shy look, your strong hold and the way you hugged me. I’m missing your hands, your fingertips and even your nails. Lusting after your neck, your adorable chin and the tip of your nose. Hoping you someday will again breathe so close I will be able to taste the sugar of your exhalations, and become main instrument in the symphony of you're lungs and heartbeat.

I crave your chest, your arms and the way I fit entirely between them. I’ve never before in my life missed a belly button… and I still wait for the kiss that follows that stupid comment. I wish you once again simply laid down on my tummy and fell deeply asleep.

I lust after the butterflies you created, and I need you in my house, in my shower and in my bed.  

I wish you would once again come home, tell me you’d missed me and how you’d stay forever. I wish you would then kiss me like it was the last time, hold me tight, strong, and make me forget about everything else.

Make me forget I miss you.

...goodbyes.

- I think it would be better if you forgot me for a few days. She said it with a small, sad smile on her lips and her eyes focused on nothing, on nowhere.

She was getting on that melancholic train that would take her far away. I didn’t say anything. Simply pressed her tiny figure against my chest and could not help remembering that first hug that made me fall in love. But now nothing was the same. I wasn’t the same. I did not feel the same; she knew it and it slowly killed her inside.

We got lost in the requirements we had created and nothing more than ashes of the fire that lit in that first glance at each other were left. She had screamed at me in silence, imploring sadly help without anyone else offering a key to the exit. I knew what she needed then, just as I knew what she meant now. She did not want to say it. I knew she hated to think I would forget her even for a minute, and she knew that in some way I already had, that I had begun to write with a black marker on top of the lines of our story, written with weak, invisible ink. I could not look her in the eyes, those hazel, deep eyes, like only volcanoes are, and tell her. I could not speak sincerely and it was starting to physically hurt.

We kept close less than I imagined, but for much longer than I was eager to admit, and when she pulled away I felt a stupid relieve instead of the sorrow and nostalgia I was supposed to. I wouldn’t miss HER, but the absurd and undefined relationship we had taken pleasure of for the past few weeks. My need to protect her had inhibited my ability to tell her things without previously decorating and coating them with cotton so that they would attenuate the whack, just as I do with my thoughts to impede them from making to deep indentations in me.

I could not tell her the truth: that her leaving would bring me no more than relief, and rest to my razor-sharp tongue, which in her presence had to polish itself and watch its venom so that I didn’t hurt her any more than needed.

That girl with whom I once could be myself was now only witness of my ability to mask feelings and disguise reality. The situation sickened me, and seemed unfair. And, even if I hated myself for it, I was only wishing for it to end, for the love of my life to leave, and for her to take away my memories and her recriminating looks.

I felt like the worst person to ever walk the surface of the earth once I finally admitted to my insides that I desperately wanted what she was offering: for me to forget her. Why? Because I felt bad, watching her suffer like this? Because I was guilty of that suffering?  …or because I did not care anymore, and that I could not express in a voice louder than my thoughts? I didn’t know, and I still don’t.

- Then... what? We forget each other? She could not help speaking again. Why couldn’t she keep the silence? I felt frustrated.

In that moment a strong, long whistling sound made its way to us. Time to go. Her luggage was already resting in her compartment. I kissed her on the forehead, placed her on the top of the steps of the vehicle in one movement and we simply stayed there, 60 inches apart. Enough to still smell her perfume, but far enough to not be able to reach out and touch her. The doors closed and that timeworn carbon engine started up, initiating the procession of iron destined to the heart of Europe. We looked in each other’s eyes. Me, sad and expectant. Her, crying and challenging. The train started to move. As it sped up, so did my heart, and for one moment I wondered whether my decision was the right one. Only time would tell. I stared at the train until the fug coming out if it had become the smaller sister of my cigarette’s  smoke.

And I simply stayed there. Surrounded by smoke and sad family members, and with no other company than my lonely heart, which begun to seam made of stainless steel, indestructible and, worst yet, insurmountable.

...being.

She never falls in love. She will break your heart and tear you apart. She never looks you in the eye and won’t remember your birthday. She misses someone, but not anyone. She could love you, forget everything and change the world in a heartbeat, if only she dared. She loves snowflakes but hates the cold, just as much as she detests her heart. She often runs, and will try to push you away, only because she doesn’t know if you would leave or stay. She remembers the details and forgets your past. She smiles and will never agree to what you say, only because of how fun it is. She loves the world just as much as she hates herself, and is comfortable only with receiving what she thinks she deserves. She loves watermelon and rain. She likes being alone, and she can’t handle a dance-free day. She loves every kind of food and hates it at the same time. She never thinks about what will happen, neither does she think of the consequences. She was born free, but builds a cage in her own mind. Her smile can light up the whole town just as her cries will break your into pieces. She loves orchids but would smile at any flower. She gave up on love out of jealousy too long ago. She was often rejected and never completely understood her feelings. She never gives her story straight, and she never expects anything. She seems happy, and smiles too often. She hugs. Her eyes never tell the truth, and she will defend herself with what she finds. She is troubled, but not as much as her past. She enjoys saltwater and climbing rocks. She forgets the date and doesn’t care about your name. She sees herself as a labyrinth, and others find her easy to forget. She hates walnuts but loves cherries. She has a to-do list that will fill every wall in your home, and a bag always set by the side of the locked door. Her feelings never completely show, and she is overprotective with everyone except herself. She hates exercise but loves walks.  She likes candlelight dinners and making love. She is addicted to pain and feels guilty too often. She depends on no one, and loves smoke just as much as fresh air. She won't let you count on her, and she will make you forget you love her. Green is her colour, and she likes boots. She smiles at the sunset at laughs at ghosts, for no ghost is bigger than her own. She hates pity and doctors. She doesn’t think highly of herself and loves to read love stories that end. She will make you cry and hate her. Her teeth will often find your flesh and she laughs at socially accepted behavior. Her mood swaps as often as the wind changes. You will never know if you make her knees shiver, and you will have to let her twirl around you. She will rather have flowers in her hair than diamonds around her neck, and no promise can buy her. She breathes the life out of you and then makes sure you are watching. Her fingers can create a symphony on your skin and her mere scent creates destruction and lust at the same time. She never plays fair but neither minds losing. Her letters promise things her voice cannot accomplish. She was never good at goodbyes, and hates remembering your words. Hurt is no stranger in her life, and feelings can never be completely covered. She would blow up heaven if you asked, but never if you expected her to do it. She never knows how to end things, and loves beginnings.
That is her, and her fantasy is to start over… maybe even become someone else.

...and don't know how to go on

I’ll admit it. This is the fourth post I start today. I know it seems silly (I don’t even have readers yet), but I guessed all my ideas would materialize in front of me when I got started at this... Guess I was wrong! Again!
So I decided I will today write about whatever comes to my mind, whether it makes sense or not! ;D
I tried to cook today. As in “cook: make something up that does not already exist on your chicken-based menu”. I failed. Baaaadly. I made an attempt at pea-soup. It looked good in the picture, the recipe was categorized as “Simple”, and as I have always liked peas, I thought, why not? Well, this is why not. I did not follow ANY of these rules, and you should, especially if adventuring out in the kitchen with a new recipe in your hands!
First of all, make sure you have all the ingredients BEFORE you begin heating things up. Burnt peas do not taste good (yes, I had to run to the store). Second, do NOT add more ingredients in the recipe simply because they are the same colour or you think they might taste good (peas and cucumbers only taste good together in a salad): you are not a cook, you have never done this before, and it won’t taste good. There, just saved you years of destroying meals!
Third, the Second rule applies to whatever spices and condiments you are intended to use in your recipe of choice. Just because you don’t have them and don’t know what they are does not entitle you to add all the spices you DO own, nor does it allow you to simply make up spice-mixes. Believe me, it cannot go well, and you will at some point realize that if you continue doing so, all your dishes will taste completely the same.
Forth, respect and follow the instructions. Yes, they DO know better than you, and yes, everything will probably turn out better if you do as told. They are not there to make you life harder, but easier. And you are demonstrating nothing by feeling rebellious whilst doing the opposite of what told in your recipe, you only show the world you have serious authority-issues.
And Fifth and last, remember to clean your mess right away. Believe me, it will save you a lot of scrubbing. Parents don’t actually tell us this to annoy us, and when you have spent twenty minutes scraping green-gooey stuff off the kitchen walls, you start to remember your mother standing there, unhappy, because now she had to scrub your mess away. I kind of feel sympathy for her now. Strange...

...and started writing.

Starting things has never been my forte, but when I last night found the title for THIS THING in the middle of a dream, I couldn’t keep it away any longer.  So I stood up, wrote it on a piece of paper and went back to bed. Or so I thought: when I got up again at 6 a.m. and found a sharpie in my hand and some words scribbled on the desktop, I kind of hated my idea, had forgotten what my masterpiece was about and mumbled that it would be good to sleep just a little more.

But the morning continued, and after my 3rd cup of coffee I realized maybe I was trying to leave a message for myself last night, so I jumped around and did the happy-dance when I remembered what it was about. Obviously I was thrilled and ecstatic, but the other 9 students standing in line with me to get some books seemed less than impressed by my happiness… so I tried to get out of there and home without causing any more negative impressions towards my person or, being honest, trying not to cause any more embarrassment.
And now here I am.. I must admit, over an hour of dirty, late and smelly public transport usually gets me down on my way home, but today not even Fred the homeless man was able to make me uncomfortable with his flirting looks, which usually makes one feel naked and observed. But again, today was not going to be that day! I had decided that this would the day I start my blog!

Not that anyone really cares… or that anyone is expecting it… or that anyone will read it. But I started my blog! Yaaayyy!! :D (Note to self, stop at the second cup of any stimulating drink)
I have been writing since I was about at the age of 6, had moved to Spain and decided to share my gift with the world by creating a half-page-long story about a pirate girl, which won a local short-story competition and made me feel more important than I was, and definitively more gifted than I am. Because lets be honest, I seriously doubt that my story would have won if the contest had had a little more participation. Pirate girl a cool, but when all you have to say about them is that they have a sword, it gets a little less exciting.
From there on, I decided I wanted to write, and started at the basics: diaries. I got a pink-glittery-scented notebook from my mother, who was more than surprised by my recent devotion to writing, and probably thought that my newborn wish to become a writer would leave as fast as it came. I guess I would too if my 6-year-old daughter came up to me and told me “Mother, I have decided to dedicate my life to writing and sharing my experiences, and I need your support and something to write in. What are we eating tonight?”.
I guess I did not expect it to be hard. First of all, my expectations towards inspiration were quite false, and I found myself with the ugly truth: a 6-year-old girl doesn’t really have much to tell the world: no big love stories, no extreme travels, no girl drama (unless you count as girl drama a friend stealing your teddy bear), and definitively no excitement. Also, the fact that I had convinced myself of me needing not to write the date down because I would remember everything made it awfully hard to put things together when I got older. Especially because at that time page-order had no place in my idea of a diary: the page selection was determined by my favorite colour that day.

When I got older I decided to start writing short stories, mainly because I couldn’t get myself to start a story interesting enough to keep me captivated for the whole time the thing was to last. Yea h, building a whole story, book-length, was never my forte. Don’t get me wrong: I tried. I tried VERY hard. But my idea was completely wrong. I would start writing, from the start, and would never really give much thought to anything that was to happen after the two pages I managed to get decent. It was like placing a pretty vase with flowers in a house that is not yet built. So let’s just say my original ideas would soon fade into the background because most of the time I had no clue of what to do with them.
So I started reading. A lot. Too much if you ask my classmates and inappropriate books for my age if you ask my teachers. I guess housewife-love stories are not suited for a 10-year-old. When I told my older sister that I wanted to write a book, her first comment was “About what? Your super-interesting life?”. At that moment I felt insulted. Why not? Why couldn’t I write about my life? I mean, I HAD lived plenty of things and I DID so have an opinion to share!! …nowadays I understand her amusement…

When I grew up a little I decided journalism was it for me. I could write articles, be a reporter or become a famous columnist. That thought stayed in my mind for years, and it wasn’t until I gave myself a little time to think about my so-called passion that I started having second thoughts: I didn’t care about politics, I did not want to interview people, and I most definitively did not want to have to think about if what I had to say interested people or not: I simply wanted to tell a story and be listened and loved for it. Pretty egocentric. But hey, aren’t all teenagers allowed to be it a little?
And that lead to a lot of situations, each one stranger than before, that all made me reconsider my passion, and I returned to my short-story days, once again: making people become interested in characters that most certainly they wouldn’t remember the next day (or after two minutes), and convincing myself that I did not have a book published because I didn’t want to. But let’s be honest, I never actually worked for it, and I guess the dream of it was easier than getting it.

So here I am now: frustrated writer and blogger-to-be. Not that my life’s story is any more interesting now, but at least I have the guts to put it out there and make something out of my dream. In the orm of a short story.