Desiderative thinking on a lonely night

I want someone who'll dance with me, hold me to keep me from falling and turn that move into art.

I want someone whose voice will merge with mine, creating melodies that'll bring joy to our souls and smiles to our lightened faces. Melodies that will only stop when we kiss.

I want someone who'll listen to me even when I don't want to talk.

I want someone I can listen to for hours without ever getting tired.

I want someone that agrees with me, I want someone that also disagrees and still respects and values my opinion.

I want someone that'll make my heart follow the rhythm of love. Someone that'll make it as scary as worthy.

I want someone.

On what we share.

We are all the same, yet we are so different from each other. Studying psychology, that statement has come to me as an epiphany.

Psychology studies human behavior from so many points of view –environment, variables that affect our growth, even genetics. We all have a brain. We all have skin, eyes, lips. We have hearts. Lungs.

We all have a brain, and yet each brain works differently. Isn't it like magic?, the fact that everyone has a brain and no one thinks, does, speaks, imagines, dreams of or loves the same stuff. We were genetically programmed to have brains, but we weren't programmed to have the same experiences. It's overwhelming and sometimes scary, studying psychology. It's also exciting. There are so many posibilities for each of us to be unique… And still, it is so hard to know someone deeply, completely.

The only thing I can know for sure is that we all share one thing, something some of us have already experienced but everyone will get to live one way or another: death.

On missing her

Months have passed, though they feel like a hundred years. Bringing back the memories of the last time I hugged her entails salted tears and tight lips. I don't want to cry.

This is my first time. I've never lost someone I cared that much, cat or not. Am I over it? Maybe I'm not, because I still miss her. Maybe missing her doesn't mean I haven't moved on. How could I know?

She is out there. Alive. Well fed. Sad. Does she know that I love her, that I just can't have her? That I wish things were different? Will she ever be happy again? I don't want to cry.

I don't want to cry.

I don't…

Nomeolvides.

Identity

We are everything we are. Everything we've lived, everything we've experienced, liked, hated, forgotten…, has turned us into the people we are today.

We are, but we change, and changing is part of who we are. I'm not the same person I was five years ago, yet something remains: I still have a thing for chocolate and books, although I'm more mature and fearless than back then. I was, but I'm not who I was anymore.

Identity is complicated. It changes, but there's always something there to comfort us, a tiny little voice that calms us down whenever we don't recognize ourselves. "It's still you, this person you've become", it says. We believe that voice because it brings back our memories. Those stay with us forever, and yet they change too. Some we forget, some we remember quite differently to the way they happened. Some we love. Some we don't.

The change is good and also something we need to get used to, because we can't stop time and stay the same forever. However, it's always a relief to recognize the person you've become and identify it with the one you were. We are the ones that are gonna be with ourselves until death comes, aren't we?

That's why it felt so good to re-read “The unchosen one” the other day. It's something I wrote a while ago about something that happened years ago, yet it feels fresh. It feels like me. That text is not everything I am; I chose which things I'd say and which ones I'd keep to myself, and that choice –which is something only someone with my same identity would've done the exact same way– is one I don't regret at all. I feel identified with it, if I were to make that choice again I wouldn't change a thing.

“The unchosen one” is not everything I am, but it is everything I once where and one of the many reasons why I am who I am today.

Midnight in love

   “So… you actually like me.”

   “Wasn't it obvious?”, she replied perplexed. He felt the urge to caress her red cheek, although the fear of ruining her irreal beauty dismissed that need. Instead, he just answered. “Maybe. I was too busy liking you to notice.”

   “Flash-back of you liking all my pictures from Facebook”, she said winking.

   He couldn't help but horselaugh, his arms holding on to his belly as if the laughter could tear him apart. She immediately joined him, and soon they were nothing but a pair of young lovers hugging and laughing under the moon.

On how to fully understand love

  Love is the purest of the feelings. It gives and never asks for anything in return, yet it makes us feel complete although we are the ones giving.

  I have always had that clear in my mind, but today I've had an epiphany: "I love you more than I love him/her" does not exist. Let me explain this carefully.

  If we talk about true love, I must make clear that it is different for everyone. I don't love my mother the same way I love my sister or my friends, but that does not mean I love one more or less than the other. I love them differently, just like they love me back in their own way, and when it comes to truly loving, there is no limit on the amount of people you can feel that towards.

  I have to confess I felt a bit sad a few days ago. I wrongly thought my father had a deeper connection with my brother, which made him love his son more than his daughter –me. But coming to this conclution, I now know he loves us with all his heart, and shares some things with my brother and some others with me.

  Understanding how love actually works has erased the emptiness I carried, my heart feels lighter and happier and I can finally say goodbye to jealousy, because that doesn't exist in true love's world.

De sueños y cobardía

   Escribimos sobre lo que soñamos y soñamos con lo que nos falta, porque lo que no nos falta lo disfrutamos. ¿Quién querría imaginar y plasmar en un trozo de papel el abrazo de un ser amado si esa misma criatura existiese a dos metros de él? ¿Quién inventaría aventuras en lugar de vivirlas en sus carnes? Sólo los cobardes y los locos enamorados de ciertas ideas lo harían. ¿Para qué querríamos soñar nimiedades, pudiendo elegir cosas que sólo somos capaces de hacer cuando cerramos los ojos? Los cobardes sueñan con ser valientes, los introvertidos son famosos y admirados por miles de personas dentro de sus cabezas.

   Soñamos con lo que no tenemos y a menudo nos falta lo que somos demasiado cobardes como para conseguir. Por eso yo soy escritora, cobarde y loca enamorada.