Good luck with that

trying to do some random writing

[buenasuerteconeso]

Y quizás todo se trata de aprender cómo caer. (via GIPHY)

[buenasuerteconeso]

[buenasuerteconeso]

I had to change zip code, music genres, underwear, friends and relatives, flags and passports, favorite food, those sneakers that you didn’t like, the father, the son and the holy spirit, my history, the way I kiss, my tone of voice and my feelings about death. The hand that I used to write, the light bulbs on my room, my subway train for a highway.

But I still don’t know if that will be enough.

[buenasuerteconeso]

I would give anything to be again with you, S.

[buenasuerteconeso]

nada más verdadero que esto, esto que ya fue. la mentira es lo que sigue después. para ti, y para mí, pero sobre todo para ti. sabes que no habrá nada igual como lo primero, como lo que perdiste por no apreciar lo que tenías.

ahora, es sólo repetición. nada más. es el precio de no ser fiel. 

[buenasuerteconeso]

I search the internet for happiness. I always end up googling you.

[buenasuerteconeso]

I am the widower without a funeral. I can see the letters, but I can read the words. Your goodbye letter got lost in the mail, While I know that mine was received, read and wept.

[buenasuerteconeso]

[buenasuerteconeso]

1. Be independent. 2. Don’t give her one more thought. 3. Be silent, unless it is extremely necessary. 4. Be ok with being with your own.

[buenasuerteconeso]

You make good questions, you know? And you also made me feel very uncomfortable. You made me regret opening up to you, showing vulnerabilities. They are good questions because they open new questions.

1. Should I use this opportunity -us- to take it slow, to have some alone time, to work on my own, to get used to me?

2. Or should I just give up, accept my limitations, and end this. Understand that maybe you are not the best option for me right now, that a situation like this causes me anxiousness, that takes me down through the same hole that I never want to go back again?

It’s an old question: either accept who you are or be the one that you could be. I normally have tried hard for the second, but what if I keep falling because of the first.

[buenasuerteconeso]

There are a couple of things that you told me that Sunday evening, that I need to figure out. Am I a sad person? Am I anxious? What would our life would be if you were here with me? I need to take a step back and breath. I'm sorry, it has been intense times, and you got wrapped into that.

[buenasuerteconeso]

Oh, if you could see my heart. It is just a wrinkled old piece of meat. Purple, instead of red, because it couldn’t keep up with the color that it was supposed to be. It`s a bland peace of meat, but it is still there. It still beats, but only because it knows that that is the only thing that this piece of meat likes, the only thing that it has been good at. Beating. With passion. For someone. Caring for someone. With each beat. Never stoping. Intensely caring. Even when it is exhausted. Even when it should just give up. Even when it has been shown that it is worthless to beat. Even when there nobody gives a damn about it. For some reason, it keeps beating. Like an addict to its own. It just does. Until it doesn’t.

[buenasuerteconeso]

The problem wasn't meeting you. It wasn't making you laugh, or making you come. Actually, that came very easily, thanks to you and me. When you smile, you make everything easier, to be honest. No, the problem comes with the silence, it comes when I'm not the center of your world, it comes when we go back to our daily lives, compete with the attention of the worries of the world. That's when I start sucking.

[buenasuerteconeso]

When all this happened, I was in a weird place. Now, at least I think, we are all in a weird place. I remember when Frances said it so clearly. "I can't be here anymore". Here wasn't the city that she took me to, with all the traffic, all the noise, all the trash in the streets and the drunken geniuses giving you advice so that you wouldn't end up like them. "Here" wasn't the apartment that we got and that we had started furnishing slowly with each paycheck. God, the new couch -the first couch and the only one- was still wrapped in plastic. No, this wasn't about the place, the one bedroom apartment that still look bare. The apartment that, I thought, was a project, but Frances thought different. "Here" was with me. She couldn't explain it, but she just couldn't bare my presence, the sound of my breathing next to her in bed at 5:00 a.m., my offers to go and get a coffee around the corner or my questions about what to do on Friday night. It had been sudden, like the striking cancer that took Frances' dad away three months ago. We were on our fourth year together, third year under the same roof and first month in this new town. I can safely say that, until a month ago, she was totally crazy about me. I, on the other side, can't say the same. I was comfortable. I was happy in a good day and certainly making her happy made me feel like a good man, which is a nice feeling. But she was the one that carried the relationship. She had always a cold beer for me waiting, she was writing the love letters. She smiled when I woke up. I always smiled back, but I was never the first to smile. Hearing that phrase totally took me by surprise. It broke my legs. After her father died, she wanted to move closer to her remaining family: a stepmom that she could bear from 300 miles and a sister that she enjoyed only when drunk but not too drunk. So we moved to this city, which was exactly 307 miles away from both of them. It was a 24 hour plane ride from my hometown, enjoying the food of three different airlines as much as we could. I like to pack lightly and I saw on this a chance to reluctantly get rid of all my earthly possessions, to start again, so I sold everything. I quit my two jobs and I said goodbye to everyone that I had known since I was a toddler. I thought that it was going to be worth it. I might have not been the first one to smile in the mornings, but I did enjoy smiling after her.

[buenasuerteconeso]

Heaven

Everyone is trying to get to the bar and the name of the bar is heaven. The band in heaven played his favorite song, all night long. But at the same time, he sang, heaven was a place where nothing ever happens. That is what David Byrne told me one day in a song, that, I think, he wrote specially for me. Since I can remember, the idea of heaven is difficult to fit in my head. Is it a happy place were we are partying all day and all night? That sounds tyring. Is it this permanent sense of calm and peace? That sounds boring. Is it like drinking or being on drugs, without a hangover? That sounds like it is going to stop being fun pretty soon. Is it this eternal barbecue with all my friends and family? That will bore me after one or three days. Even I have a limit for eating meat. But slowly, I think I've found my place. When walking my dog. When making you laugh. When I'm surrounded by green and talk trees, a river and I can hear your voice. Is when you need me. Heaven, Mr. Byrne, is that place were I could never possibly by bored with even if it goes on for eternity. Heaven is here.

[buenasuerteconeso]

how to do stuff

The rules of life have never been clear to me. How to kick a ball. How to talk to a girl. How to be happy. How to be a man. For some reason, I think others got it, they got the booklet with the instructions, but I didn't. But I'm not helpless. In each step, I get a chance to understand all, by mistake and error. Or by asking. Say you didn't like my reaction to something. I can see that situation, think about it and try to avoid repeating whatever I did wrong. But there is another way: asking. Asking, though, is a little bit more difficult. It means showing all this self doubt to the other, is to accept mistakes, accept ignorance, accept that I didn't got the owner's manual. With you, though, it is rare. For some reason, you have something that makes me feel unafraid to ask, to make questions until I get to understand a little bit better how to kick a ball, how to talk to a girl, how to be happy. How to be a man.

[buenasuerteconeso]

Writing in planes

You said you wanted some writing. What about, I don't know. So I'll write about planes. You know about planes, right? Those things with wings that take us to new stories, to new people, to new sunsets. They are new chapters and finals. They are, now, one of those few sanctuaries of loneliness. There, where the atmosphere runs thin, we change our environments, we swap the air for new air, not always better, but always different. I'm now awaiting for a new plane that will bring me to you, to your clean and green air, close but so far away from New York's dense and exciting air. But it is all that I can think about. Those eyes. That suspicious look that you gave me for the first half an hour that we had together. That incomprehensible and beautiful kiss. Your smile. Again and again and again. It's weird what my next airplane will bring. I'll arrive, after a quick stop somewhere that I won't even remember later, in Vancouver, a city that I don't know what to think about. Yet, in spite of that, it feels like going home. Don't sweat about it, please. I don't want you to think that I'm moving too fast, but right now I have been feeling a deep sense of homesickness, and home is nowhere to be found. When I left Chile, I said good bye to my home, and then I was left in New York, and home was nowhere anymore. But, for some reason, your smile gave me that warmth. That fireplace. That place where you can feel comfortable to be yourself. It's been a long time since I've felt that. Don't worry, I know that you might come and go. I know that you are a strong and independent person, someone that might have other ways of thinking, other ways of feeling. But, even if this was this. Even if this eight hours with you are all that we had, it was worth it, because I found a home, at least for a little bit. A beautiful, smiling, happy and warm little bit. Planes are supposed to get you home, right? Or take you somewhere beautiful that, for some weird reason, makes you feel some of that warmth, maybe of that global home that we are all in. Or maybe planes just take you far from what you want to run. From fears, from sad days. Planes, like everything, are what we make of them. Thanks for, for the first time in a long time, to make them a place of joy.