Miedo acechando a cada paso,
Escondido tras cada esquina.
En el pecho, miedo en la espina,
Temblor, temor, noches de espanto.

Nada amedrenta la costumbre
A la inquietud que me acompaña.
Cualquier haz de luz que vislumbre
El miedo enseguida lo empaña.

Pienso en el último de octubre
y en quienes el miedo celebran
cual macabro entretenimiento.

Su ignorancia, quizás, encubre
las vidas que los miedos quiebran
incesantes, sino cruento.

Reasons underneath my chosen isolation

“If I’m going to feel lonely anyway, I’d rather be alone,” she thought.

And that’s what she’d tell herself every time anyone came close to her. She’d rather be alone than open up and face the possibility of being misunderstood. She knew she wouldn’t stand having her feelings out in the open while everyone judged them to be excessive, an overreaction, a call for attention, an intimate selfishness buried underneath layers and layers of care for others.

“I’d rather be alone than surrounded by people who can’t understand what it’s like to be me. The pain it bears. The solitude, the sorrow, the fears and abandonment, the feeling that I’ve been alone all along and that that’s what awaits me for the rest of my existence.”

Choosing to be alone always came with a price. If she had been feeling lonely before, now she also had that burden of loneliness on her shoulders, as she could’ve remedied it but had preferred not to. “I’m lonely, alone and it’s all my fault,” she’d cry in her bed after her desperate attempts at putting herself together had miserably failed. In moments like that, she couldn’t stop herself from glancing at her phone, looking forward to any message from anyone with equal parts of hope and dread. “Please, someone notice I’m lonely,” she thought. “Please, no one ever know how I feel. I’d have to explain, and right now I just can’t,” she thought.

Whenever she finally checked it out, only an empty screen would be witness to her solitary tears.

And so, another day would go.

And still they keep trying - And still I keep fighting

Behind those fake smiles I can see
All they understand is how flawed I'd be
In all their generosity they want to help me
get rid of all that's wrong
Yet they're too blind to see
All they're doing is push me gone

They don't understand me
All they want is to change me
Without honest knowledge of the cause within
All they want is to change me

Tough life of a full-time dreamer

There's a land of dreams I can share with them. And we're happy here, though sometimes we have to return.

Back to real life. Where they have loved ones they can return to, whereas I only have those dreams and that bitter solitude after knowing something better.

Reversed artist

Some say it takes misery and pain to create art. Most believe it, actually.

For me, even though inspiration is always hard to find, it's absolutely impossible when I'm depressed. It's the time when I get back on my feet that helps me put things in perspective and turn my experiences into something beautiful, may it be a drawing, a painting or a short story. That's what always made me believe that I am no artist, but maybe no artist is that way. Maybe they all went through bad times and exploited them through the good ones. Maybe some did.

On the other hand, even if pain is not needed, maybe not being complete is. I write because I seek in my pages the love I can't have in real life. I seek to expose myself to no one and everyone, to have my feelings and thoughts out in the light but never discuss them. I write only to myself, the same way I didn't need to write when I wasn't alone. I'm scared of falling in love because I believe that'll make me less of a writer, but if I stay this way forever I'll likely lose my mind.

I don't know if any of this made sense. I don't care, either.

We can't change anything but the way we look at something

It's always been a mystery to me, but today I had an epiphany: we choose what we like and dislike.

Of course it's deeper than that. It is not something we do all the time and it's surely not something we're usually aware of, but it's there. And it is as simple as looking at the way we see things.

My favorite House was Gryffindor until Pottermore sorted me into Hufflepuff. After whining and doing my research, I came to love Pottermore's result because I wanted to like Hufflepuff.

I've never liked alcohol because I haven't tried it that much. Sure, maybe there is an alcoholic drink out there that I wouldn't mind drinking, but behind that taste issue there's a conscious decision: I don't want to like alcohol. So I don't even give it a try.

Once, someone said that we choose who we fall in love with. That, even though I still don't believe it, makes a lot more sense after thinking all that liking stuff through. I'm a hopeless romantic, so I don't want to wrap my head around it, although, from a logical point, it clicks.

In conclusion: if you want to like something, look at its bright side, forget the ugly parts or do both. If you don't, do the exact opposite thing.

It's hard to believe you can feel this way until you do.

That feeling of being alone in a crowded room.

Of believing you're empty.

Of not caring even though you know you should.

Not being able to gather strength to do the simplest tasks.

Lacking motivation to do things you like(d).

Life becomes grey, no taste in food, no smells, no comfort in anything you see or touch. Smiling physically hurts when it's such an obvious lie.

And you're not even bottom, it can get worse. And you know what the cure is, but you can't have it. So you just let the current drown you. You'll care later. Now, all you need is to be sad.