(no subject)
my apartment is cold even though i bought new pillows and sheets all in green and turquoise and fake orange flowers for the living room. i take showers in the afternoon during the week because i can escape from the cold that way but the water becomes lukewarm after a while and lukewarm doesnt cut it anymore. i turn off lights whenever they are not used and go grocery shopping every sunday for the upcoming week. i buy fruit and cereal and fish and chicken and sometimes go restless when it is too silent and the awareness of living on my own hits me again and i look at my wall and its polaroids and watercolors and a black and white picture of my father, sitting at a cafe in buenos aires, wearing a scarf and reading a book. he looks handsome like a parisian writer. not too far from that picture there is one of my mother wearing a red bandana across her forehead and surrounded by green leaves and looking like a beautiful sad warrior with her black rayban sunglasses hanging from her tshirt and the strap of her camera clinging to her shoulder. they are scotchtaped to the wall and silent and distant because i wont see them for a while and how the spaces between these cold hands and them seems to enlarge by the minute. i can still see them so clearly in their youth, i like to seem them in their youth, i like to rewind time and i dont think i even have to close my eyes to see my mom whispering "hold still" to my dad on winter days so that she can click her camera and retain that instant for a second. i can see now, i can see now so clearly how alike we are in that sense, in that burning desire to hold time still between our fingers, how she carried her heavy camara everywhere the way i hold the journal that my father gave me that holds within it every intimate moment i found too brilliant to lose to the past, to forgetfullness, to life, really.
i find wooden boxes upon wooden boxes of photographs in envelopes i bet she hasnt had the strenght to see in so long because i imagine it hurts to see the arms of this man who was her world wrapped around her in another time, a decade ago in another country, in millions of countries where she followed him with 7 suitcases around the world. i imagine the way her heart shrinks like my heart shrinks every time i stumble upon words i wrote about my past and the love that i held on a pedestal like when i scribbled this after he came to visit me to Peru.
"people ask me sometimes if i am still in love. i always know the answer is in my head before i utter a word being in love is engrained in me. I have adjusted the beating of my heart. I say yes and hope you feel the same way. i get scared of distance and i get scared of silence and i get scared of one day waking up and finding out you will break my heart. i have already seen your face not trying to hurt me and it still haunts me. I see other loves and i see broken hearts and i can understand humanity and our mistakes and imperfections. We spent all those entire ten days together under wooden roofs in hotel bedrooms which were cold with altitude and on an eighteen hour bus ride to the beach and making love during the day where the day never really ended. i kissed the entire arc of your neck and played sudoku puzzles on your back and i thought, we, humanity, we are not perfect. but this, this feeling, this is as close as it gets"
my heart shrinks at the untainted honest truth every word held at that moment i wrote it only propelled by this curse, this cancer, this which was utopic and made the pen not stumble on the page and made the page soft and welcoming, as if it knew, in one way or the other that it was destined since the beginning of time to hold a love like that. (or the memory of a love like that)
i keep the journal closed and try not to run my fingers through past pages, and details like perfect lighting and clean laundry. i try to think about what else i need to do to this apartment to make it my own, i call the old carpenter with tired eyes to install wooden bookshelfs incorporated into the walls because i cannot betray the dream i had to buy wooden bookshelfs with you, because just picturing that piece of furniture breaks my heart even more, still, and again because there is no greater ache than the ache of the things we didnt do.
the wooden floors of the apartment hold a silence that despite giving me moments of clarity, mostly just resound the solitude that i felt, and that my mother felt, and that my dad probably feels in the thick bolivia air, all of us oblivious that we are linked to the never ending cycle that are these feelings of sadness and unrequited love that has probably been there since the begging of time.
i find wooden boxes upon wooden boxes of photographs in envelopes i bet she hasnt had the strenght to see in so long because i imagine it hurts to see the arms of this man who was her world wrapped around her in another time, a decade ago in another country, in millions of countries where she followed him with 7 suitcases around the world. i imagine the way her heart shrinks like my heart shrinks every time i stumble upon words i wrote about my past and the love that i held on a pedestal like when i scribbled this after he came to visit me to Peru.
"people ask me sometimes if i am still in love. i always know the answer is in my head before i utter a word being in love is engrained in me. I have adjusted the beating of my heart. I say yes and hope you feel the same way. i get scared of distance and i get scared of silence and i get scared of one day waking up and finding out you will break my heart. i have already seen your face not trying to hurt me and it still haunts me. I see other loves and i see broken hearts and i can understand humanity and our mistakes and imperfections. We spent all those entire ten days together under wooden roofs in hotel bedrooms which were cold with altitude and on an eighteen hour bus ride to the beach and making love during the day where the day never really ended. i kissed the entire arc of your neck and played sudoku puzzles on your back and i thought, we, humanity, we are not perfect. but this, this feeling, this is as close as it gets"
my heart shrinks at the untainted honest truth every word held at that moment i wrote it only propelled by this curse, this cancer, this which was utopic and made the pen not stumble on the page and made the page soft and welcoming, as if it knew, in one way or the other that it was destined since the beginning of time to hold a love like that. (or the memory of a love like that)
i keep the journal closed and try not to run my fingers through past pages, and details like perfect lighting and clean laundry. i try to think about what else i need to do to this apartment to make it my own, i call the old carpenter with tired eyes to install wooden bookshelfs incorporated into the walls because i cannot betray the dream i had to buy wooden bookshelfs with you, because just picturing that piece of furniture breaks my heart even more, still, and again because there is no greater ache than the ache of the things we didnt do.
the wooden floors of the apartment hold a silence that despite giving me moments of clarity, mostly just resound the solitude that i felt, and that my mother felt, and that my dad probably feels in the thick bolivia air, all of us oblivious that we are linked to the never ending cycle that are these feelings of sadness and unrequited love that has probably been there since the begging of time.