...the window

You sit, staring out the window, wondering where she is, when she'll be back. Cup number three turned from Irish to black by the side of a bottle that is almost as empty as your soul when she's not close.

Colors of the rainbow paint the sky but drain your face, flooding your facets with grey, exactly the same shade of her sweater the last time she left you. And yet again she's not here. Not yet.

Wondering where she went this time you make your way to the bottom of the bottle, drowning the last hope of again finding her scratching on your back door.

You sit there, looking at the clock, the clock staring right back at you. As it shakes its head you take down the last coffee. 3 sugars: life is already bitter enough.

And as all hope has abandoned every fiber, you now stand, still staing out the window, suddenly smiling because you no longer have to wonder where she is, or when she'll be back.

...nosotras

"Escríbenos", dijiste. Escríbe-nos. No sobre nosotras. No lo que hicimos. No lo que fuimos. No lo que dejamos de ser.

ESCRÍBENOS. Con mayúsculas y bien claro. Con poder pero en voz baja, dejando marcado en mí un hueco que no se llenará más que con la perfecta imperfección del tu y el yo, plasmadas en los cuatro folios aún en blanco que tengo delante, igual que nos plasmamos en las cuatro paredes de esa habitación que hicimos infinita a base de querernos. Esa habitación que merece un nombre y apellidos por ser testigo de la pasión más sincera en jamás habitar este pedazo de roca extraviado.

Y yo digo ¿por qué escribir-nos?

Porque cuando nos queremos ni el más brillante de los astros puede hacernos competencia, y cuando nos gritamos ni la muerte de la estrella más imponente nos deja en segundo plano. Porque sin buscarnos nos encontramos siempre una última vez bajo las sábanas, y al mero roce de una mejilla contra la tela olvidamos todo lo demás, espirando promesas que se convertirán en vapor junto al sudor de noches repletas de mentiras.

Porque cuando paseamos bajo en sol sólo el tonto mira al cielo, y sólo el loco se atreve a cuestionar nuestros meñiques entrelazados.

Porque nadie nos entendió. Nunca. Y porque nunca nos molestamos en ser como los demás. Ni falta nos hizo. Porque ¿qué es un roto sin un descosido? Porque nuestra carrera ha sido siempre más larga y rápida que la marca de mis medias; y sin pensarlo dos veces me volverá a quitar los zapatos y te sacaría a bailar otra vez más bajo la luna, hasta que nos sangraran los pies y el mundo terminara de ponerse en nuestra contra.

Porque nunca fuimos nada y aún así lo fuimos todo. Porque tu ombligo conoce más secretos que cualquier prostíbulo, y el rímel corrido en mis mejillas te canta verdades sólo a ti, siempre a ti, dejando que nos volvamos a lanzar por ríos de historias que serán mal juzgadas por ojos inexpertos y corazones frustrados. Porque nunca nos ahogamos.

Porque echar-nos de menos es lo único que se puede hacer, y tratar de entendernos no es más que un intento desesperado por definirnos, que nunca abandonamos por nunca empezarlo. Porque echar-nos de menos fue inevitable cuando me alejé de ti, pero aún más lo fue querer-nos más a cada paso que daba. Porque ahora sé que puedo, pero no quiero, vivir sin ti. Porque sé que tu sin mí tampoco. Porque agujas sin lana siguen siendo agujas, pero el invierno que vivo sin ti se lleva mejor con bufanda. 

Porque lo único que hicimos mal fue encontrar mentiras y términos concretos donde no había, juzgando injustamente una flor por su capacidad de sobrevivir a bajo-cero. Porque poco a poco aprendimos, demostrando que bien es cierto que se aprende a base de experiencias y sueños que se rompen al forzarlos.

Y yo sigo preguntándome por qué escribir-nos, cuando lo único que quiero es que hagas la maleta y me dejes seguir recorriendo el mundo a tu lado, recolectando historias que otro desgraciado, a quien realmente se le de bien, plasmará en un triste intento de vida en memorias poco creíbles y sentimientos que no se entienden. Porque bien sabemos que vivir de recuerdos no es nosotras.

...mis cuatro paredes.

Es feliz entre sus cuatro paredes. Se forjó esa fortaleza con emociones que apenas entendía, reforzándola ahora con aquellas que sí. Su cruz fue siempre no comprender cómo se hace el amor, pero conocer a la perfección el odio y sus derivados.

Se alimentó de felicidad sin miedo a agotarla, sintiéndose cómoda anclada entre sus pensamientos, confiando en su paraíso irreal, y construyendo poco a poco y casi sin darse cuenta una cárcel con sus cuatro paredes. No supo cómo mantener a raya sus sensaciones ni sus recuerdos, y se perdió en su propio sueño. Ahora la he encontrado. La he encontrado sola, triste, aferrándose a sus cuatro paredes y a esas nuevas sensaciones que la rondan.

Paso por sus cuatro paredes y le grito. Sólo ella tiene la llave. Y sólo ella, cara al suelo, decide ignorarla, enterrándola en cenizas de fuegos en blanco y negro. Sólo ella se pone a bailar mirando a otra parte mientras la miro y comprendo que jamás abrirá la puerta, y comienzo a olvidar poco a poco todas las cosas que podría haber sido. Pero me niego a resignarme. No acepto que se quede esperando paciéntemente a que el mundo deje de girar, y a poder volver a dar la bienvenida a los colores.

Paso por sus cuatro paredes y le insisto: la vida ocurre en otra parte, la vida no tiene por qué discurrir a la penumbra de estas cuatro paredes. Y entonces entiendo que esas cuatro sombras jaás me dejarán entrar, que yo no las puedo cambiar, pero que ellas a mí sí. Le digo que no me asustan. Le recuerdo sus metas en vez de sus sueños, y le ruego que abandone sus cuatro paredes.Que las deje atrás y vuelva al mundo.

Su único amor fue el mundo, y con las cortinas rotas de su habitación le hago velas raídas para que lo recorra... pero pronto entiendo que su mente ya ha navegado los siete mares y ha asesinado al mismo Tritón. Pronto entiendo que sus cuatro paredes la han sumergido a profundidades que yo ni siquiera logro entender.

Su mente corre en círculos entre esas cuatro paredes. Me dice que ya ha dejado de buscar escusas que lanzarme, y que simplemente se queda. Que se queda porque sabe que si sale no podrá volver. Que se queda y que baila. Que se vuelve a perder en su sueño y qu yo también debería ignorar la barrera entre ilusión y realidad. Que me mantenga a salvo y que baile. Que baile con ella, iluso y feliz, hasta olvidar el peso de mis propias cuatro paredes.

...bruises

She heard him once again. Four attempts and he got in, slamming the door and bumping into everything on his track while she did no more than shiver in the kitchen. Not this. Please not this. Not again. Please not again. Not now. Please, PLEASE not now.

Rain was falling outside, hitting the pavement at a pace as fast as her heartbeat. It was late. So late you could call it early and she knew exactly what that meant. She hated herself every single time she cared for him. Once more and it’s over, she thought. Every time. Every single time she made that promise. And every single time she found herself putting up with it. With him. Every time she found herself covering the scratches. Every time she cured her own wounds. Every time she let it slide away, lying to everyone and hiding inside herself. This time would be no different.

He came into the kitchen screaming for attention. He smelled like dirty pubs and garbage cans. Like old water and muddy sidewalks. He was hungry and yelled for food. She knew it was best to just do it. Get it over with and let him sleep. Tears ran down her cheeks as she saw him. Filthy, wounded and wet. Another fight, and another walk home in the freezing, humid wind at this time, so late not even birds were up. She sobbed in silence and opened the refrigerator while he simply sat there, watching, expecting, waiting for her to do something wrong. For her to take too long. For her to make a mistake, just to have an excuse later on.

She got him to calm down, and after a fight so tough she thought it would be her last, she made him get into the bathtub. He was angry, and his wounds were almost as big as hers. She cleaned him with the care only lovers take, and when the water was a color as deep as her scars she made him come out, and dried him. He was still not satisfied once they were back in the kitchen and made that clear by throwing his meal almost at her, and fleeing the room, leaving her behind, cleaning because it was her job, and crying because this had been her fate and life for the past five years.If only she had listened to her friends. To her mother. Even her old uncle. Yes, this was her own fault and he was right: she deserved it.

Once she had cleaned up she went into the bedroom. He was there. On the bed. Waiting. She hated to know what was going to happen, and it would only get worse if she fought back. But she knew that was what he liked. He yelled at her, and his husky voice pierced her defenses. Her claws had nothing to do against the sharp paws that scarred her over and over again. She tried being gentle but he almost yanked off her clothes and cut through her skin, bruising the tiny surfaces still flesh toned. 

Another tear fell down to join the others, as she knew there was only one thing left to do. Only one Ace up her sleeve. Only one way out. Only one thing that would make him shut up and leave her alone. She knew she wasn’t supposed to. She couldn’t. She mustn’t. But that only made her want it even more. She wanted to put an end to this. To put an end to this night, and to, for once, sleep tight the rest of the dark hours.She yanked herself free and ran to the kitchen. She could hear him moan behind her and knew she didn’t have much time. She desperately opened the cupboards, and heard him come closer. As soon as she turned around he was there, but she had found what she was looking for and placed it right in front of him. 

He had never been able to resist a plate of cream.

In another part of town a phone was picked up and listened expectant to her words: “Sarah? Mr. Whiskers has been out fighting again. I think I need you to take us to the vet tomorrow.”

...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.