A girl who does not want to answer, "who are you?"

Waking up at the end of the drinking session, hopping on that vernacular, still doubting the self. Still lost in who I am, who we are; getting into situation one would never get in to. Drunk drinking, ******* in the head yet I swear to myself that it would be well without the chemicals, arrived on 2014 doing the first things that I always said I would never do. Yet, as Frank says, "regrets, I have a few, but then again too few to mention."
3 o'clock in the morning, still spitting, always saying, "I don't regret nothing." But, who are we as twenty year olds? What have we done, what have we been through? We still have enough to do more than most that we meet here, now. Still that pretentious *******, still that person with that self-righteousness. Brainfucked. Still in between the past and the future, maybe it is called the moment, who knows? That feeling between leaving and arriving, that rationalization. Still here, haven't made one move, haven't constructed one bridge. Still trying to find that fate, still falling apart in the middle of the night, never getting enough sleep, still thinking about that One.
Never knowing who's behind the head, the jailed joker, the one who makes the jokes yet not knowing why. Why judge people so **** much, why have such strong opinions, why can't we just be? Always meeting people who can calm me down, yet never, never.

Never what one would think, never like that one one would meet at a bus stop, in the bus, smiling at you for no reason. Never being able to meet that person again yet that smile in the memory. And, it will never be You. Constantly jumping, jumping for who knows why when You know that cold lonely cement reeling in, closed-caption goodbye. Back in that purgatory, same place, building bridges to the same exact spot, building fate to that exact same moment of denial, the mind before the rejected kiss. The rejected kiss You are so used to having, the feeling of being on top of that world yet falling from that peak, falling from that canyon, screaming loud as one possibly can. That rejection, that feeling of hitting that ground so hard, the only thing one can do is get up on one's own. Purgatory, stuck in this mess. Stuck. Only wishing You can steal that kiss, maybe for that moment that can take You away from living that moment that You loathe to live, living in the moment only to loathe the future, viewing the future like its hindsight by living in the moment. Falling for that same moment You wish You could grab, hold onto, wishing the subject was You, jumping, falling all on alone. How hopeless romantics fall, living in that disastrous moment, how it should have been, how it should have started, how it should have gone; hopelessy hoping for it, for that one, for that once. How it ends: Who I am? I dont know yet, but probably not who you think I am. But, just like that, didn't know something so beautiful could fly so low, would love to try for a rejection. Please dont. Thank you for the rejection, a chance not to break a heart.

Signed,



soon to forget.



ps. it does ****.

pps. the future *****. 'NO WAY. Future doesn't exist.'

I have found infinity. It's in the place between finally leaving and too-soon arriving. The mind before the reject. The jump before the fall.
A place where you will know you will be for some time. Infinity, like sitting on the park bench, near sadness and contentment. Closer to tears. Further from calling it quits. Never finding out with knowing how it will play out. Between the spaces, the pauses, the initial. Never near the end. Twilight between dusk and dawn.
And always down here. Infinity, always down here

Took a lame shot, the one you needed to get in that basket. The pass you needed to find over the mountain. The cold you needed to beat. The ride you needed to hop on. The sock you needed to change.
For a long time, it never happened. Maybe it isn't supposed to, maybe that's the plan. Maybe that's how the steps are leading, how the ripples are flowing. How I know where I will end up. In that hole, the rabbit hole people always chase. Taking a slip, only turning into a failed seeker. To realize it, that the beat is just not there, maybe it is just off. Doesn't matter now, I know it. The beat is just not there. Can't follow it, can't even hear it. The heart pounds but yet the hands are steady. It's a shame and it's a pity because I know all this. Yet, there are no answers. Only just a simple, a simple sentence I cannot finish. Words I don't have. Descriptions that just will not do justice. Alone, hole in what people call the soul. Mind rambling for a reason I know but cannot figure out. Always the last question that I cannot answer. Always, just here. Wherever I go, just here. Here, typing away, words that just can't do it, typing away. Like a mad man, like a crack fiend that just wants to add that extra eye drop. **** it. It's a shame, it's a ******* ******* pity. Here I am, on top of the world. Falling because I jumped for a chance. Chance for that once. Whatever that means, however that sounds, just a chance for that once. Just that once, one time. Just one time. Just one time. Just one time. How I long for that just one time. Alone, waiting for that one time. For that once. Just once. It's a shame, it's a pity. I am here.

Living in the moments, like we know we'll die tomorrow. As if we are so sure of tomorrow, we have our words checked like chess. Our moves, each step with its **** story, loving each of the ripple we make. Living in the moments. But **** to live in the moment only to hate the future. Only to hate the stories, the ripples, making all the moves yet never being able to rook. Constant consistent outcomes on the wrong side. Never on Her side. Never. Living in the moments merely to hate the future, to loathe that I know.

We shared a subtle, melancholic laugh. The same type of melancholy you receive from the next-day's hangover, maybe due to spending half the day the night before. Maybe realizing you've been ******* up so bad, like taking some of your poor mom's money, the one she's been trying to save for all of us, that it had to come to this. Come to you dreaming, fantasizing about a future, about how you'll get that movie role after the journey, the book deal, some kind of viral fame, and in the end, wherever it was or still is, nothing; neither a question nor an answer. And maybe there are none, maybe you're not supposed to look for something...yet still trying, still wanting to find some *thing.

Well, here I am again, it's close to the 6 pm in a house full of crowd.
Drunk drinking by my lonesome self, trying to lose it through the rain outside and I want to shout, 'WILL SOMEONE JOIN ME FOR A DRINK?'
But, it' s a far-fetched question for people who aren't mad enough. Mad people, the one's who'll make a break for it when there is nothing to break for, jump when there's nothing to give up -- 'aren't you scared to lose it all?'
A low laugh no, full of truth which are merely shameless lies.
But, as mama told me, 'why look for shame?'
And I'll know soon enough that I will end with:
a glass for you

And it's morning on Mannheim Road.
The early/late commuters, sounds of them wheezing by, juxtaposed with the monotonous chirps of birds of all the same color. Life! Happening without you or me wake or even semi-conscious.
Everyone, every sound, every thing trying, desperate, to be the main character of a story never written.
Each of us and thing, hammer and nail with nothing to hammer and nail.
It's all here to see, like a freakshow, in Des Plaines, IL.
And when the sun fully rises, it's all normal again. Nothing to comment on, nothing to notice. Same conversations, same food, same never-ending road, same, same. So close to insane.
And nobody can give two ***** about it. It's too much to ask for like some spare change They'll only use when They're buying a large coke and maybe some extra fries, "more please."
Sad? No, tranquil. Free from disturbance. So beautiful even the blind could see it.
Don't seize the day, just enjoy it.
And I wish I could have wrote this in spanish,
Buenos Dias folks.

Last night in Ecuador with the last stray dog. Last few bottles of pilsener lasting only however long my drunkenness lasts.
Cuz it's the drunken bliss, not ignorance, that makes the night last

Just as the sun sneaks over the Andes, eyes open.
Tap tap, as the birds peck the windows.
Almost 8am... Yep, there he is, selling potatoes over a megaphone.
Papas papas, buenas papas.
Same questions every morning, and it never gets old or frustrating. It's genuine.
The gas stove turns on, eggs hit the pan, tea bags drop into cups of blue. Shirt full of oranges comes inside.
Time to go cobbing.
No one's waiting for anyone to start a conversation during the walk. It just happens. Frenchman with speakers in hands, Marley playing, old Latvian hands grasping trash bags, English folks with food bags, a Korean with just a smile, Ecuadorean leading the way. Step by step on the dry, dusty hills. This is our ritual.
This is our rise.
It's the rise of the dogs. The Stray Dogs of Collaqui.