I'm confused...
Don't smile at me, I'm confused.
Don't talk to me, I'm confused.
Don't look at me, I'm confused.
The Day You Were Sad by Jennifer Levin
You find out someone loved you once. You find out that a long time ago someone loved you so much he might have died for you.
You run into an old college friend on an airplane. You get to drinking and talking, and he says, That guy once drank an entire bottle of tequila because he was sure you’d never love him. He had to go to the hospital to get his stomach pumped.
You remember he was awfully cute and that you were good friends for awhile—when was it? Sophomore year? He left and you forgot him for a long time. Looking back, you recognize all the signs, but because you’d never imagined you loved him, you never noticed.
You feel foolish because you miss him.
You remember the day you were sad and he invited you on a drive up the mountain, and you invited your friends to come along. You remember how sometimes he kissed you at parties and you just thought he was drunk and kissing people. How he woke you up early on Sundays by throwing rocks at your dorm-room window, even when he knew you weren’t alone. The way he came by with tea that whole week you had the flu. The way he sat in your desk chair for hours, making you laugh until your stomach hurt. How he never wanted you to sleep.
He was always dating some girl or another, so how were you supposed to know? He broke up with a girl once because she accused him of cheating on her with you. And once, when he was drunk at a party, he kissed you right in front of her. You remember that, at the time, you thought it was funny.
You remember the night he told you that you were beautiful—you were beautiful and you were good—but find you have no idea what else he said that night. It takes weeks to piece it together, to finally remember that you were in the dorms, in someone else’s room. He tackled you on the bed, kissed you all over your face, proclaiming over and over, I love this girl!
You are good, he said. You were very stoned, and he held you and talked in your ear; the music was loud and people were singing along. You forgot he was talking and hummed a little with the song. And I like you, he said.
And you said, What? I wasn’t listening.
And he looked crushed and refused to say anything else.
You attempt to look him up on the Internet, but he has a common name and you’re not sure where he lives. You don’t want to do anything creepy, such as hire a private detective, because that might cause your husband to wonder if there is something wrong with your marriage. But you wonder: If you saw him now? The one who loved you then? You wonder what you would do.
A partial moral inventory leads you to believe you wouldn’t do anything. Seeing him now isn’t the point. The point is what might have happened if you’d known then what you know now. Nevertheless, you imagine running into him. You imagine what he looks like with gray hair. He isn’t actually old enough to be silver-haired, but in your mind this meeting is in the future. You wonder if he’s fat now. You think you’d probably still find him attractive if he is.
You wonder again, out loud, why he never asked you out.
You get mad at him.
You remember he did the kinds of drugs that made you uncomfortable and that he kept this from you, that you found it all out later after he dropped out or transferred or disappeared. Every single one of these thoughts occurs to you while you are driving alone. You sing songs to him from the car radio. You wish there were a word for what he means to you.
You decide he must be married by now. You wonder if he got over his drug problem. You wonder, if he loved you so much, whether he would’ve gotten clean for you, if you’d known to ask. But you already know the answer.
You hope he changed for his wife. You hope he has a wife and that he’s been sober for years. You hope he has kids and a big house and that he takes his family on drives up the mountain. You wonder what he said to you, that night in someone else’s room, when you forgot to listen.
You run into an old college friend on an airplane. You get to drinking and talking, and he says, That guy once drank an entire bottle of tequila because he was sure you’d never love him. He had to go to the hospital to get his stomach pumped.
You remember he was awfully cute and that you were good friends for awhile—when was it? Sophomore year? He left and you forgot him for a long time. Looking back, you recognize all the signs, but because you’d never imagined you loved him, you never noticed.
You feel foolish because you miss him.
You remember the day you were sad and he invited you on a drive up the mountain, and you invited your friends to come along. You remember how sometimes he kissed you at parties and you just thought he was drunk and kissing people. How he woke you up early on Sundays by throwing rocks at your dorm-room window, even when he knew you weren’t alone. The way he came by with tea that whole week you had the flu. The way he sat in your desk chair for hours, making you laugh until your stomach hurt. How he never wanted you to sleep.
He was always dating some girl or another, so how were you supposed to know? He broke up with a girl once because she accused him of cheating on her with you. And once, when he was drunk at a party, he kissed you right in front of her. You remember that, at the time, you thought it was funny.
You remember the night he told you that you were beautiful—you were beautiful and you were good—but find you have no idea what else he said that night. It takes weeks to piece it together, to finally remember that you were in the dorms, in someone else’s room. He tackled you on the bed, kissed you all over your face, proclaiming over and over, I love this girl!
You are good, he said. You were very stoned, and he held you and talked in your ear; the music was loud and people were singing along. You forgot he was talking and hummed a little with the song. And I like you, he said.
And you said, What? I wasn’t listening.
And he looked crushed and refused to say anything else.
You attempt to look him up on the Internet, but he has a common name and you’re not sure where he lives. You don’t want to do anything creepy, such as hire a private detective, because that might cause your husband to wonder if there is something wrong with your marriage. But you wonder: If you saw him now? The one who loved you then? You wonder what you would do.
A partial moral inventory leads you to believe you wouldn’t do anything. Seeing him now isn’t the point. The point is what might have happened if you’d known then what you know now. Nevertheless, you imagine running into him. You imagine what he looks like with gray hair. He isn’t actually old enough to be silver-haired, but in your mind this meeting is in the future. You wonder if he’s fat now. You think you’d probably still find him attractive if he is.
You wonder again, out loud, why he never asked you out.
You get mad at him.
You remember he did the kinds of drugs that made you uncomfortable and that he kept this from you, that you found it all out later after he dropped out or transferred or disappeared. Every single one of these thoughts occurs to you while you are driving alone. You sing songs to him from the car radio. You wish there were a word for what he means to you.
You decide he must be married by now. You wonder if he got over his drug problem. You wonder, if he loved you so much, whether he would’ve gotten clean for you, if you’d known to ask. But you already know the answer.
You hope he changed for his wife. You hope he has a wife and that he’s been sober for years. You hope he has kids and a big house and that he takes his family on drives up the mountain. You wonder what he said to you, that night in someone else’s room, when you forgot to listen.
Ellos solo se enamoran una sola vez...
Si me ves queriéndome suicidar, déjame morir… no busques ayuda, no busques sabiduría, déjame morir.
Lo incomprensible es que cuando se cree que la inteligencia es realmente la belleza que el hombre busca, es letalmente una falacia que se intercepta cuando se nota que en realidad, la belleza se mide en qué tanto se está dispuesta a dar por quién sea, que en realidad, ellos solo se enamoran una sola vez y quieren a muchas, siempre.
Si lo has entendido buen hombre ¿por qué no sigues por ella?
Es ella por quién aún mueres, es ella por quien aún puede sobresalir una hermosa sonrisa verdadera de usted, es ella quien siempre ha ocupado sus sensaciones, simplemente ella.
Los recuerdos han estado llenos de odio y aversión, de memorias que no resultan cada día más fácil olvidar porque presentan clavos unos con otros, muchos a otros.
Ella sacó su primera lágrima, ella fue por quién pudo esforzarse en comprarle una rosa, ella fue, es y será aunque le cueste aceptarlo; aunque ella pueda amar a dos, ambos saben que siempre se querrán y mientras la mujer que lo espera a usted queda viviendo en una mísera mentira, la mujer que usted espera queda esperando a que usted la rescate y le muestre la realidad de que realmente son de ustedes mismos y no solamente ellos mismos.
Ellos solo se enamoran una sola vez y quieren a muchas. Siempre.
(Lo doloroso es que es mentira que mientras él sea feliz… usted es feliz porque se enreda dentro de la necedad del egoísmo queriendo y dependiendo de aquel hombre mientras alguien más está esperando por usted).
“Nothing is original. Steal from anywhere that resonates with inspiration or fuels your imagination. Devour old films, new films, music, books, paintings, photographs, poems, dreams, random conversations, architecture, bridges, street signs, trees, clouds, bodies of water, light and shadows. Select only things to steal from that speak directly to your soul. If you do this, your work (and theft) will be authentic. Authenticity is invaluable; originality is non-existent. And don’t bother concealing your thievery—celebrate it if you feel like it. In any case, always remember what Jean-Luc Godard said: ‘It’s not where you take things from—it’s where you take them to.’”
-Jim Jarmusch -
-Jim Jarmusch -
School is over.
"There's one thing I want to say, so I'll be brave.
You were what I wanted,
I gave what I gave.
I'm not sorry I met you
I'm not sorry it's over,
I'm not sorry there's nothing to save." -Stars-
You were what I wanted,
I gave what I gave.
I'm not sorry I met you
I'm not sorry it's over,
I'm not sorry there's nothing to save." -Stars-
Do you know why I'am not sorry?
It's maybe because in the end, friendship was not the answer, netiher love.
See you in another country darlings.
Mulí, Mulí
Mulí se llamaba, un nombre poco común para ser nacida por estos rumbos.
A Mulí le gustaba dormir en el pasto verde a pesar de sus reacciones alérgicas, no era muy social, pero era decente. A Mulí le pasaba siempre por sus pensamientos que algún día ella moriría en un accidente, lo cual le provocó toda su vida tener absoluto cuidado con cualquier cosa que tuviera neumáticos u objetos puntiagudos, pero Mulí siempre era Mulí.
Mulí buscaba a sus alrededores algo inspirador para lograr plasmar una imagen en su memoria fotográfica y llegar a casa, encerrarse en su pequeño cuarto cubico y pintar todo el día, toda la noche. Mulí no descansaba dibujaba poesías, pinturas vivas, absorbía la felicidad de una sola persona en una sola imagen, robándoles la sonrisa a aquellos que la veían, ella tenía un don y no era nada extraño, Mulí podía impactar a todos a aquellos que lograban leer su poética pintura, sin embargo, Mulí no era feliz así que murió de efectos secundarios de una alergia o tal vez era sida.
A Mulí le gustaba dormir en el pasto verde a pesar de sus reacciones alérgicas, no era muy social, pero era decente. A Mulí le pasaba siempre por sus pensamientos que algún día ella moriría en un accidente, lo cual le provocó toda su vida tener absoluto cuidado con cualquier cosa que tuviera neumáticos u objetos puntiagudos, pero Mulí siempre era Mulí.
Mulí buscaba a sus alrededores algo inspirador para lograr plasmar una imagen en su memoria fotográfica y llegar a casa, encerrarse en su pequeño cuarto cubico y pintar todo el día, toda la noche. Mulí no descansaba dibujaba poesías, pinturas vivas, absorbía la felicidad de una sola persona en una sola imagen, robándoles la sonrisa a aquellos que la veían, ella tenía un don y no era nada extraño, Mulí podía impactar a todos a aquellos que lograban leer su poética pintura, sin embargo, Mulí no era feliz así que murió de efectos secundarios de una alergia o tal vez era sida.
La neta ando bien seca, simple y aburrida. A demas de que esto me recordo a un viaje muy interesante con mi diseccion que hice en Wendys. Bah.
Quizás, es lo que siempre has querido ver, leer y oír… esos labios pronunciando y produciendo sonido con un “Quiero verte porque te extraño” o un “te extraño, vuelve”. Es no más lo que tú has querido, que en realidad al abrir tus ojos después de esas palabras notes que solo fue un sueño y que el día que perdiste tu noción fue cuando perdiste la fe de que tendrás un amor honesto por haber sido algo no tan bueno ni afectivo.
Es lo que tu deseaste alguna vez, al tocar su cuerpo y presentar tus labios con los de ella, era con lo que soñabas bajo la lluvia en una cabaña, ambos, enredados en una cobija tomando chocolate caliente.
Eran noches que no sabías describirlas, lo creías eterno, infinito. De un minuto a otro cambiabas de querer a amar, como de un día a otro decidías amar a olvidar.
Es lo que tu deseaste alguna vez, al tocar su cuerpo y presentar tus labios con los de ella, era con lo que soñabas bajo la lluvia en una cabaña, ambos, enredados en una cobija tomando chocolate caliente.
Eran noches que no sabías describirlas, lo creías eterno, infinito. De un minuto a otro cambiabas de querer a amar, como de un día a otro decidías amar a olvidar.
Para Rubi que seras feliz.
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