what it feels like now

as opposed to this and this.

you still think about it. a couple of times a day. you still forget to breathe sometimes, but you learn how to control it. how not to let it affect you on a daily basis. you learn how to live with it. you still write about it, a lot. you can’t show the words to anyone, because no one would understand, really. they would make you think that they do understand, but they don’t. you spare yourself the time and the heavy feeling. because everything makes you weary these days. everything. you’ve tried to turn your life around, but all you managed was to settle for a routine. you wake up every day. sometimes early, sometimes late, sometimes in the middle of the day. you go to work. you walk there or you take the MTR. beep, beep, beep. you listen to music on the way and you pretend you are somewhere else. you completely transfer yourself. your mind leaves your body. by the time you reach your desk and your responsibilities and unanswered emails, you’ve filled your brain with different images than what surrounds you all around. it’s the only way you know how to survive. it’s less about living, more about surviving. the less you care, the less it hurts. the less it sucks.

you settle for less now, because you feel so undeserving. because when you had a good thing (or you thought you had it), you fucked it up. so you settle for less. you settle for long hours and less cash; you settle for a different person to love, even though you know it’s not him; you settle for superficial friendships instead of real ones (except for the filmmaker); you settle for cheap words and you write paragraphs for eight hundred bucks instead of two thousand. or three. you compromise, but on your own account. you settle for less and you’re okay with it. you feel numb and invisible most of the time. when you feel good, it’s because you’re under an influence; coffee and cigarettes, a gin’n’tonic, a good film or a song that you love with your entire heart. or your favorite book that you keep re-reading over and over, because it’s the only thing that makes sense. white oleander, which you must have read at least sixty four times since you were twelve. or your most recent favorite; alexandra fuller and her cocktail hour under the tree of forgetfulness. then, there are books that always make you feel like shit. the lover’s dictionary that you bought in may last year. it always reminds you of everything. the first time you finished it, you wanted to write a message on the first couple of pages and pass the book to him. not like the book without an e, because this would be different. that never happened, but you always think of that. you also regret not having done it, because you still have the copy. it weights you down every time you read it. every time you look at it.

you settle for less. you still think about it. and then a year later; one morning when you return home after sunrise, in a delirium, covered in bitterness and rain water, you sit down at the computer and send a message to him. no words, just a link to a youtube clip. your heart throbs in your throat as you press enter, but you do it anyway. most surprisingly, his reply arrives half an hour later. and it’s at that moment that you realize you are going to get sucked into a rabbit hole you won’t know how to get out of. but you don’t turn away from it. you don’t know how to do that. you settle for less. you settle for vague words, explanations and apologies. you settle for miles apart, you settle for hours and days of waiting. you wait a lot these days. you settle for less, because you know you can’t have the real thing. because you don’t deserve the real thing. and you wait. because maybe the day when you will stop feeling like this is not too far away. and you will stop surviving, and start living.

mindful mondays, twenty-five


I wish I had a minute to stop. and think and actually really focus. focus on exactly what I am doing. without thinking about anything else. without answering the phone, replying to emails. without checking messages and taking cigarette and coffee breaks every hour. without being interrupted by anything at all. but life is hectic and busy and there isn’t any time for anything at all. so I keep going.

since I seen’t you


source unknown

write 50 words. that’s a paragraph.
write 400 words. that’s a page.
write 300 pages. that’s a manuscript.
write everyday. that’s a habit.
edit and rewrite. that’s how you get better.
spread your writing for people to comment. that’s called feedback.
don’t worry about rejection or publication. that’s a writer.
when not writing, read. read from writers better than you. read and perceive.

summer is slowly downshifting into autumn in this part of the world. slowly. the heat and humidity are still predominant, but in the evenings, there’s the feeling. you know the one. the expectation of a new season. the breeze is different, lighter. I expect the air will change soon and I await that moment eagerly. I am becoming increasingly annoyed as I re-read everything I’d written in the past weeks and notice the words, which I overuse. perhaps, however, only, but, pretty, as in, pretty much. I over-think things and I overuse words. too much of everything is simply too much. I spent two hours selecting words, placing them one in front of another, slowly like baby-steps; rewriting, editing, deleting and then again. two hours and just as I pressed send, a feeling of horror came onto me. what have I done? but it was too late and the words were out there. for the rest of the afternoon I tried to picture him, sitting somewhere, halfway around the world. reading the sentences before him. but no image appeared in my mind. just a smudge of a face that was once familiar, but still so close to me. and the glow of his computer screen. sometimes I feel as if my inclination to write as opposed to talk face to face is more of a curse than a blessing.

simplicity; I search for simplicity in everything. pressed plain white shirts, trousers of color and a pair of canvas TOMS. I’ve stopped wearing any traces of make-up a long time ago. no particular brands of shampoo or conditioner, just to get on with it as quickly as possible. a silver band on my left fourth finger; it’s a habit now, to wear it, rather than a symbol of unrealistic promises. my hand feels empty without it, marked by a faint tan line. it’s incredible that it’s possible to buy a sense of security for ten dollars. because that’s what it is really. I had to search the dictionary for the definition of monogamy and faithful, only to find out that my version has a much greater margin of error. physical betrayal hurts less than an emotional one. and there’s absolutely nothing victorious about me winning that prize. the heartbreaker, not the heartbreakee.

I dream of a different city. I dream of living in a spacious industrial loft with high ceilings and light coming through large windows. I dream of endless walls covered in books and records. a big map of the world on one side with all my movements across the planet carefully marked down. red brick walls and wooden chevron on the floor. an old stovetop and a vintage refrigerator. one of those from mad men, the way they used to make them in bright colors. turquoise green or sunflower yellow. I like to imagine and think about these things. it makes me feel better. it makes me think I know what I want. smooth, direct, clear, but subtle all at the same time. yes, that’s him. and that’s what I want.