Long ago, I found a cure for my depression: writing. Uninevitably, as I never listen to myself, I stopped doing this for the better part of last year. Partly because I didn't want everyone to know all the dark twisty things (because, obviously, the only way to write is to blog) inside of my head. People had found out about all of my broodiness before, and catastorphic consequences ensued (not really). I often lie in bed thinking of good sentences that just come to me and I am too lazy playing mahjong to write them down. Sometimes I think of a good line of a poem while half asleep. Again, too lazy. Every single thing I write down on the notebook that I carry around with me feels daily-journal-y... describing bus passangers, events of the day, a little fly on a window pane, it all seems like counting calories (and that shit is for boring anos)
|cry ano bitch cry|
But, luckily for my muse, I recently had my heart broken and now I don't give a shit. I want to let it out again because most of my friends are far away and the ones that are here are busy and don't live next door as my college friends did.
It's very cold and windy here, my skin is very dry and chapped, even the skin on my legs. I notice how old I'm getting. Grey hairs, scarred skin, weird spots. When I watch movies or TV shows, I usually half-cry most of the running time: Santana and Brittany kissed TEAR, a father loses his child TEAR, a child loses his father TEAR, Zach Galafinakis (sp?) is fat TEAR, etc.
|will die will die|
My heart is a little bomb, that I know will explode one of these days. It will be the familiar routine, more pills, therapy, warm weather, happy again. Except probably not.
I am greatful that despite of this shitstorm I am still able to work and stuff. I just don't think much. I haven't read anything since I landed. I mostly spend sleepless nights whispering regrets under my breath.
Living with my family again also ain't easy. It's not that I don't have room for my stuff (I don't), I don't have room for me. ME ME ME. I expanded and stretched all over the place when living in college, even when I was in Paris. I need space and I need silence, and there's none of that here. And it's not my mum's fault... It's mine, for failing to get a job in the States, for not performing better in college, for being ugly, for not foreseeing this, saving up for rent somewhere here, but 8000 pesos will get you nowhere. And I'm smothered by my own house.
Lots of things have happened since I came back to Uruguay. A girl I was very excited to see and kiss and hold hands with told me she didn't want to do all those things with me. This had repercussions on a lot of other relationships for me and I am held in an uncertainty limbo right now. I had a terrible cold, I kept coughing. In my hypochondriac mind I thought I might cough up blood any second. But then it went away (edit: immediately after I posted this I spent 2 hours coughing. I woke everyone up). I haven't stopped smoking like I said I was going to. But there's time for a serious health scare, no?
So, in order to get out of my funk – or at least make it productive, I must: read more, write more, see my friends more often, not spend so much fucking time on the internet, take pictures, draw, and probably smile more often.
I spent a month traveling the States. That is my next writing mission: a portrait of each of the cities I visited and their people. Could be sort of a delayed short-term travel blog. Are you interested?
|as excited as this baby was when being held by david bowie|