¿Dónde estoy?
No me encuentro.
¿Porque me fui?
No sé.

Estoy sola.
No me entiendo.
No me entienden.
Estoy perdida.
Estoy rota,
Y perdí las piezas.
No sé cómo repararme.

La noche cae,
Y el día viene.
El sol y la luna,
Tienen su camino.
Yo no.

Quiero ser yo,
Y solo yo.
No soy lo que no quiero ser,
pero no sé qué quiero.

Todos nacemos con un fuego por dentro,
Que de vez en cuando se apaga.
El mío se apaga más de lo que quiero,
Y no he visto sus llamas realmente florecer,
en lo que parece ser un tiempo eterno.
Solo deja unas cenizas,
que gritan un llanto que nadie oye.
La gente es sorda,
A lo que no entiende.

Quiero ver a ese fuego siempre bailando,
contento dentro de mí.
Pero cuando se apaga,
no sé cómo prenderlo.

Y llega ella,
de pronto, la oigo.
Me encuentro,
Siento, lloro, río.
Vuelvo a conocerme.
Mi mente, a mi alma
vuelve a pertenecerle,
Y no al revés.
Encuentro las piezas,
Y me reconstruyo.

Con cada verso que canto,
Me envuelvo más en las armonías,
Y veo el mundo,
Mediante ojos llenos de paz.

Pero la canción muere,
Pues todo morirá algún día,
Vuelvo a perderme.
Ya no me reconozco.
Vuelvo a romper,
Y las piezas quedan en la oscuridad.
¿Dónde estoy?
Estoy perdida.

No quepo en el molde.
Soy un círculo que no cabe en un cuadrado.
Los cuadrados son todos iguales.
Soy agua que se escurre entre las paredes del molde,
De ese molde creado por ella.

Fluyo sin parar
contenta y sin molde.
No estoy encadenada
por su dolorosa jaula.

Y me pregunto:
¿Cuántas personas no caben en ese molde
Pero cortan pedazos de su ser,
de su belleza y de su diversidad,
solo para poder encajar?
¿Y a qué precio?

Al precio de ignorar la belleza en la diversidad.
Al precio de ser solo una máscara.
De ser un ser vacío.
De ser un caparazón sin caracol.

Admito que de vez en cuando,
Me gustaría congelarme
hasta ser un cuadrado sólido.
Me interesaría saber cómo es ser “perfecta”
para caber en el molde.
Pero luego recuerdo que perdería
lo que me hace única.
Recuerdo que sería el producto
de una producción en masa de marionetas
diseñada por ella.

Perdería la profundidad de mi mirada,
Pues después de todo
no habría nada detrás,
De esa máscara que tendría puesta.

I don’t really believe in God per se.
I believe more in a higher power.
Not like something that rules over us,
But rather an energy
that guides the universe
and keeps things going,
if that makes sense.

I feel that every living being
has some of that energy in them
So were all interconnected

And it’s not that theres a force in everyone,
But instead
that theres a part of that universal energy
within everyone.
Not necessarily inside their body,
but an energy that connects all of us
and is the reason we’re alive.
The entity
that gives us consciousness
and allows us to continue living.
Kind of like a soul,
But not an individual soul.

Like a web that ties us all together,
And allows atoms to form elements
to form chemicals
and thus living beings.
It connects us to every rock, flower, animal,
drop of water, gust of wind, human being…

And I don’t think a higher power has intelligence,
At least as we know it.
I think they’re something else
Something we can’t understand
Something that transcends time
and the physical dimensions.

I think it has a consciousness
but not in the way humans do
or in the way humans can understand.
And if something transcends all of that
then it is neither individual
nor collective
Yet it unites us all.

If it transcends time
then it connects us to our ancestors
And potentially allows us to have multiple “lives”
Energy cannot be created or destroyed,
So how can we just turn to nothing once we die?
To me that part of the web that was where we lived
encompasses another body once we die
In other words, reincarnation
in a way that our consciousness and “soul”,
can’t be destroyed once we die
so it encompasses another body,
which is hence our next life
It is not us in terms of identity
but in terms of a deeper, energetic form of us.

Maybe once we have had “enough” lives
(whatever that means)
we stop being part of the web.
And just go back to the original energy
And help connect and guide
others still connected
to the wonderful web.

To me
its either that
or atheism.

Listening to old music is like looking at a picture of your old self. I don’t mean literally ancient music, but everyone has songs that remind the of a certain period in their life. I mean that old music. It’s the same feeling as when you look at a baby picture of yourself and feel oddly connected to it because you know it’s yourself but it doesn't feel like yourself because you've changed so much. With music, however, it’s more intimate, for a couple of reasons. Firstly, sound is one of the best memory stimulants, after smell. It will remind you of life events and feelings these events induced better than a visual. Secondly, when you listen to this music, you aren’t looking at yourself, you are feeling yourself. You are hearing music that induces certain feelings, more specifically, feelings that were present when you first hear the song. Feelings influence thought processes and thus, you have the ability to transport yourself into the mind of your younger self. You don't only get to see the face of your younger self but you become immersed in your old self. It makes it easier to relive this fun, happy moments, but in the darker ones is where the true benefit lies.
It’s an amazing way to see your growth and connect with a younger self. This makes it a useful way to process trauma. After traumatic events or big life changes, we usually want to get out of the discomfort as quickly as possible. I am in the process of learning that leaning into the discomfort is more beneficial than avoiding it, as painful as that may be. However, in the event where I did not have the strength to do this, I found myself able to do this and learn from my pain by listening to the ,music I associated with that era of my life. Listening to that song or album over and over again, helps me not only process what happened but come to terms with it as well.
It also helps me track my growth. You know the way you never noticed your sibling(s) grow because you loved with them and saw them everyday? It is just as hard or harder to see your own growth, as you live in yourself everyday.  When one has the ability to relive one’s old thought processes, one has the ability to see how different one’s current ones are. It s a wonderfully therapeutic experience. Nevertheless, I guess this might only work if you associate your life events with music and live with music 24/7.

The concept of the Bell Jar is fascinating. To anyone who has been through depression and read The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, you know just how accurate her metaphor is. You know that the bell jar is palpable. It’s like a hot, sticky air that floats around you wherever you go. It is your own exhalation that you inhale. Your own stench that you live in. The air in the bell jar that you hate is in reality, you. 

Plath claims that when the depression has gone, one will find the bell jar has been “lifted”. I agree with this sentiment, but I believe there are multiple ball jars. Forces that limit and harm us. Some are collectively shared ones that we all live in, such as the bell jar of the patriarchy. Some are more individual. I also believe that bell jars can transform. Mine lifted after depression, just as Plath said it would, but it left a residue. A bubble that I can easily come in and out of. It is not as inherently harmful, but it is innately isolationist. Unless I make conscious effort, my bubble Kees me in my own thoughts, separated from others. Sometimes I like my bubble. I don’t find it stifling in any way and the colorful glow of the soap under light is rather beautiful. When I make human connection, however, I stick my head out of the bubble, albeit temporarily. I get to breathe some fresh air and experience life more clearly. It is a gift to me when I am able to take part in meaningful human connection, even ones as simple as a “good morning” (meaningful is not synonymous with complex).

Ouch.
And I’m sorry.
That’s all I can say.

That knife hurts.
It aches,
as you push it past my ribs,
and into my heart.

Blood fills my chest.
I feel heavy,
like drowning.
Who thought,
that you of all people,
would do that to me.

Ouch.
Why would you betray me like that,
and so unexpectedly?
I was happy,
and then you took a blade.

But it’s okay.
My chest swells.
I’ll be alright.
I might burst.
I deserved that knife.

The blood has no where to go.
Feels better than empty lungs.
My world turns red.
Blood drips down my cheek,
and I see you walk away,
through drops of red.

I know you’ll be back,
and that scares me.
I see no reason not to run away.
Then you would be gone forever,
but so would I.

I have Plath on one shoulder,
Y Storni en el otro.
Sus cuentos, que muy similares son, me guían.
No a su mismo fin, pero me impulsan a crear uno propio.
Sus fines fueron tan poéticos como ellas.
Storni en el mar, no alcanzaba el aire
Como ella misma cuando no alcanzaba su amor poético.
Su adios fue tan dramático como su poesía.
Plath, on the other hand, was not as dramatic, but just as poetic.
She left very matter-of-fact,
The same way one could cut an onion and accidentally cut ones finger
Or how passing out during an overdose is just as casual as sleep.
In an oven.
As a good wife should.
Yet she rejected the good wife norm.
She lived by it because she knew no more.
Her world was limited.
Her world was a bell jar within a bell jar
While one lifted, one still remained.
The air in the larger one was conformist
Just as sticky, just as oppressive, just as much of a stench,
But enough powder and perfume to cover it up.
She was right.
She could not escape the bell jar.
The larger one was too large for her to lift alone,
and forced the smaller one back down on her.
She knew the larger one was there but she lacked a name for it.
She went insane as the world denied her knowledge.
I am grateful that larger bell jar has begun to lift.
Y como se ha levantado,
Puedo yo respirar como no pudo Storni en ese mar congelante
Y como no pudo Sylvia en ese orno patriarcal
Claro, no es fácil encontrar donde respirar.
Pero se puede
Entre nosotras,
se puede.

Pretty little heart,
so kind and naive.
Pretty little heart,
so innocent and sweet.
Pretty little heart,
pretty face, pretty hair, pretty eyes,
eyes that look at Older Man,
with infatuation.

Older Man,
bittersweet.
Older Man,
wise.
Older Man,
knows better.
Older Man says he loves Pretty little heart.

Older Man takes Pretty little,
into his seemingly kind hand.
Hearts can't walk,
so Pretty little heart chooses to trust Older Man's hand.
After all, Older Man must know better.
Older Man is a whole, fully developed person!
Much superior than a naive Pretty little heart.
"Don't worry, I'm sweet like you" he says.
Hearts can't taste either,
So again, Pretty little heart follows Older Man.

But what Pretty little heart doesn't know,
is that,
Older Man,
is powerful yet quiet, like acid.
Acid that erodes a pretty heart,
and leaves it naked yet suffocated.
This was inevitable,
as an Older Man is a strong body

Hearts can't swim.
Hearts can't survive in acid.
Pretty little heart,
Simply didn't know better

Older man then walks away,
smiling, as this is what he wanted,
leaving a burned, shriveled little heart

People hide their thoughts like they hide their underwear. You never know what goes on in someone’s mind and you never know what kind of underwear someone is wearing, unless you know them intimately (condition applicable to both). My question is why do we hide them? I have nothing against hiding them, but we all wear underwear and we all have thought, so why is there such a stigma around talking about these things with one another? Of course, respecting privacy is important but why do we not even acknowledge that we all take part in the act of having thoughts and wearing underwear?

What I want: I want to live on my own. In the middle of nowhere in a little town with book store and rescue cats. Not one of those white-Hallmark-conformist towns, hopefully something more subversive. Maybe it could be a commune.Life would be so much simpler.

What I know: I know that I will not allow myself to live that way without using my gifts first. I was granted with gifts in writing, debating, analysis, critical thinking, and intellect. I want to put these to good use and help others. This will probably require me to work a 9-5 monotonous job. I will be part of a system I don’t agree with.

What I will do: I will join that system. I’ll take the 9-5. Maybe later I will have the privilege to do what I want, not what I know.