Hate

   They all hate him. I know I do. He acts all perfect and many people around here think he is just that: perfect. I bet he hide so many thinks beneath those stupid smiles and acts of kindness. No human person is like that; we all act of cowardice or shame but never just because we are good. We just want to be it so bad we go to great lengths to transform in those idiotic beings that just spit positivity.

 He’s a fake. I just know it. He gave everyone a present on his floor last Christmas and even organized a party for them, dressed as Santa Claus. And people danced around him like dogs under the hypnosis of a really good trainer. It was disgusting how they looked, as if they were in the presence of God himself or at least one of the many saints. And he even acts the part, always helping and doing and being all over the place.

 Was he fat as a kid? Or did his parents maybe hate him? No, of course not. That wouldn’t have happened to him. People said that he would speak of his childhood often, remembering how it was all easier. Ha! Easier than now, when almost every single idiot in this office building treats him like his a deity? I doubt it. He must have been one of those insufferable jocks, full of himself, with everyone cheering around just because he looked like some guy from a magazine.

 I always try to get away from people like that. All they do is treat people like the stupidest of pets, making them do, as he wants. He doesn’t even have to ask, which is even more revolting. They just do it, as if getting the reward of his smile was more than enough to feed their children or pay their bills. I’ve heard them, women and children worshipping him in the elevator, talking about how kind and sensitive he is.

 People will believe anything if they want to, even if it kills them. They’re not smart enough to feel, to sense. I laugh in my head overtime they organized that annoying secret valentines game. They always try to pull me into that and, once, I almost agreed to do it. At the end of the day, I’m not much more smart than they are and I do work here with them. But then they spoke of how that stupid fuck was organizing it all. So I just said no and left for my house.

 Days after that I ran into him. He smiled to me! As I was a friend or one of his dogs. I just got out of the elevator and went to the bathroom, as I had no need to stand more than a minute in the presence of that cheeky smug smile, expecting me and anyone else to do the same. I want him to know that we’re not all enthralled by his physical appearance and his effort to be liked by everyone.

 He wants us all to like him? Then he should behave like any other of us, just work and shut the fuck up. We don’t wanna know about his colorful life full of beauty, and style and drama that’s only dramatic to him. Of course, he has been employee of the month so many times, no one even asks anymore about the picture they take when you win. They even said he asked fro the pictures to be removed, as he didn’t want to be disliked.

 Funny he said that, if he did say that is. Because I don’t dislike him. I don’t. Don’t ever get me wrong there. I hate him. I fully and truly hate his guts. I hate his smile, I hate those pictures of everyone’s holidays they put up once on the company’s Facebook page. Of course he was on a beach somewhere half around the world, tanned and his body ridiculously fit and lean. It was obvious that he was perfect in every fucking sense. And I hate that.

You may calm me resented or that I envy him. Maybe, I would not know if that is so. What I do know is that a fucking hate that guy and everything he stands for. He makes people feel less than they are and then he just greets them and think that will make everybody feel better because, like the Pope, he stretches the hand of all those less fortunate. And those poor devils do think that they are his friends just because he smiles at them or because they hear one of his stupid little stories.

 I’ve gone to the doctor, the shrink that is. Believe me, I’m not happy thinking about that guy every day in the office. So I went to see one of those doctors and he says I’m obsessive and I’m looking to deep into it. He tells me I should just leave it at that and live for myself. But I can, I have explained to him. How can I have time for my own when I have to go to that damn floor everyday and hear him make one of his lectures to people.

 That doctor doesn’t know I feel ill, sick to my stomach every time I hear that man’s voice. Many people say you can’t really hate, that it takes something really strong to feel that for someone. I tell you, I didn’t take a lot for me to feel what I feel. And it is hate, and I hate that feeling too. I have a life, not much but I do have it and I don’t want to spend it thinking of some male model that parades around.

 He hypnotized me once, that doctor. I thought the idea was stupid but I let him do it, as I wanted peace for once on my mind. He said, after I woke up or however you name it, that I have dangerous tendencies towards criminal behavior and that I have deep problems rooted in my brain. Fuck, what an idiot that doctor is. I could have told him that myself, awake and for a cheaper price. Of course, I never went back to see him. I don’t need people charging me for telling me the obvious.

 I want to kill him. That’s what the doc meant. And I have thought of it many times, carefully. I do it before I go to sleep or when I daydream at work. Some days ago he came to my corner and asked me for some papers. I wanted to throw up, right there. Sick isn’t it? Then, as I reached for the papers without saying a single word, I imagined punching him to his death. How beautiful would he look like with blood all over his face?

 This is not good. I know killing is a bad thing, that’s obvious. But what can I do? Every single time I see him, that strange rush invades my whole body and makes me feel like I could really do it. You know? I’ve thought several ways to do it, all of them fun to me. Of course I don’t share this with anyone. People would overreact and say I’m mass murderer or some shit like that. And the truth is I just want HIM dead. I know if I do it, I wouldn’t do it again. No need to.

 The day after he asked me for those papers, I decided I would follow him to his house. Why? Easy: before he dies I want him to tell me what lies beneath that entire perfect surface. Because, as you know, I don’t believe for a second all of those nice little details about his life and how he loves everyone and so on. I know there must be something really rotten below all that beauty. There always is. No one is perfect in this world and, the better the cover, the nastier the secrets.

 So I followed him down to the basement, because he’s one of few that comes work by car. And then it struck me: it doesn’t matter. His life, what he has or hasn’t done. I don’t give a fuck about that. What I really care about is the image he gives to the world. He might fuck children, kill whores or spread STD’s. I don’t care. I care about that fake smile he gives to everyone he meets. I want that finished.

 Yesterday, I almost went for it. I went to the bathroom to pee and he went in to and went for one of the stalls. We were alone. He was whistling. The rush came back and I knew that was the perfect moment. I could strangle him myself with my hands, seeing his soul leaving his body and his smile finally disappearing from his face. But when I decided to do it, another man came in and I just went out, breathing heavily as if I had been running.

 Then comes today. The guy announce to everyone, as if he was the president, that he will be leaving us to pursue other endeavors. I almost went crazy when I heard about it. But then, I relaxed. My life could get back to normal and I could make all these thoughts go away. Him leaving would be my cure. And the only person that would ever know about this all would be me because here, inside my head, there’s only me. And I’m thankful for that.

Writing Crap

My days are always the same: I wake up ten minutes before 10 AM to watch this tv show I like. As I do that, I eat breakfast. My breakfast is basically anything that lays around the fridge or the cupboard. I don't like breakfast, it annoys me for some reason.

After that, my mom is already up too so we watch more Tv for like an hour and then I shower, get dressed, tidy up my bedroom and by 1 PM I should be writing on my laptop.

And then, things get really easy or really annoying. Sometimes I've had an idea before and it comes back as I seat in front of the screen so it comes right up: every detail, every character, everything there is to say to make it good enough to read.
However, I practically never make corrections. That's because I'm lazy and also because I think that makes me kind of a bad writer, if I'm not capable to see errors as I write them.

Well, that's on the good days. On the bad days, it sucks, big time. I normally come up with stories I can write fast and don't make me go crazy. As one day I write in English and the following day in Spanish and so on, it gets easier or harder depending on how ready I am to write in one language or the other. Some things are easier on one or in the other. it just depends on my mood or something.

It happens a lot too that after i began, already with two pages finished, I realized how awful my story of the day is. I read a paragraph and I get pissed, sad and annoyed at the same time. It either doesn't make sense or it sound stupid or childish... It make me angry.
Sometimes, if I spent too much time doing it, I just post it and think "Fuck it". No one appear to be reading these so who to fuck cares.
If I happen to be particularly annoyed by my writing, I just erased it all and start again. Those times, I think how awful it would be if someone read my blog and thought "What is this?". So I write something else, out of the blue.

Writing is the only thing I think I am able to do correctly. I mean, I make cupcakes and I read a lot of wikipedia, but writing is my thing. I'm an idiot with numbers and social issues don't really get to me. Let's just say if I was a president I would very rapidly become a dictator.

And I know it's weird and frowned upon, for a so-called writer, but I don't really love reading. I mean, sure I read but not huge books and 5 in a year. Maybe I read one a year. I mean, for many people I know I suck a lot. But I believe writing and reading are two different things, that have little to do with one another. But that's me and, quite possibly, I'm the only one who thinks that.

So this is what I do. Write a blog and just hope for thing to pick up somehow. I have a career and a masters degree but no company gives a fuck about that. They want people they can mold and I'm past that. Not to say I'm such a creative soul but I'm not an empty canvas either.

After writing, I normally go walking somewhere. my goal every week day (there's no way in hell I'm going to exercise on weekends), is to walk 10 kilometers. I do it through nice little neighborhoods or by avenues or on huge malls. I don't care as long as I have time to make my brain calm down.

To sum it up, here are the reasons why I NEED to walk everyday:

 - Live with parents
 - Never had a job. NONE.
 - Have never been paid to do nothing. For real.
 - I'm 25.
 - I'm gay.
 - Social life in a coma.
 - What the hell. I do need the exercise.

And those are all (probably not) the reasons why I need to breath some fresh air and prevent myself from going crazy, again. I have my "rage episodes" and they can get pretty ugly but I writing has gotten those under control.

See? Writing is not only about doing the one thing that I do good. It's about doing something that makes me calm, that has the incredible capacity of make me think and just concentrate. I left school and college so long ago and I need some structure in some kind of way.

Before you think "the gym is nice" or some shit like that, let me tell you a little something. I hate gyms, I loath them and the people that love them. That's it. I won't apologize for that and won't explain it because, let's face it, how many people will be reading this?

Anyhow, what I like the most about writing is the imagination part. Many people think about techniques or structures or storylines and I don't really care about that. Actually, that doesn't really matter because what really matters is a good story, a real one, kind of original. That's it.

My career was focused on cinema and that made me think about how brilliant minds can be when they put all their energy on something. We are all in awe of people that have come up with awesome tales and characters and dialogue and we worship them like gods but we forget they were once like us.

Ok, maybe not like me but you get my point. They were people just looking to make their dreams real and by that I don't mean "dreams" like in "making your wishes come true". Not that. I mean taking out from you mind what's there and put it in display for others to see. That's the dream that comes true, not if you find a loved one or win the lottery.

Imagination for me is the most attractive thing. Maybe that's way my social life is in a coma. Yes, I have friends and they are a small number, which for me it's great, I know them better because of that. But I fail to make new ones because I get bored fairly fast. I mean, if I'm not interested in you in the first five minutes, believe, were not going to be anything.

Same goes with guys. If they prove to me that they have no imagination whatsoever, there will be no second date. Or second chat, to be accurate. Nowadays, not even that. I have no energy or personality left to have a steady relationship with anyone. And before you say "Someone will come when you least expect it", let's just say I have been waiting for 25 fucking years so kiss that.

Well, I think I digress a bit from my main point. For me writing makes things happen were I need them to happen first: in my mind. Yes, life is about physical things and so on but that hasn't worked for me, so what's bad about creating stuff for people to read and, first and foremost, to make me feel I'm not a failure and that I can do something?

No harm done I think.

To be honest, I prefer writing my crap every single day, that forcing myself into a life I know I will hate and loath every single day of my life. Unemployed and poor? Well, yeah. But hey, there are always fast food chains.

Keljbalāh

It was a small moon, orbiting a hot, unwelcoming planet. Keljbalāh was all green, spotted with blue lakes and small settlements all around. No more than one million Keljbalans lived on the small moon. They were mainly farmers and enjoyed a simple life. They worked only to feed themselves, each family receiving a crop. It wasn't a property as such. The whole moon was their property, of every Keljbalan. If someone had a bad crop, their neighbors would help them. No problem, no ulterior motives, no evil.

Keljbalans had light yellow skin, due their conception of "mush". Mush grew all over and could be cooked into hundreds of dishes, combined with fruits and vegetables grown on the dark side. Most people lived in the light side but they thought that, with basic technology, they could bring light to the dark side and so they did.

Keljbalāh was peaceful, never having wars of any kind. They did have disease but the species was intelligent and used their natural resources to take care of the sick. Poverty was unknown as well as richness. They were advanced but preferred to be at ease, enjoying their time alive.

One day, however, the moon witnessed a historic event: an eclipse. They didn't occur often but, when they did, every Keljbalan would look to the sky and thank the Sun for everything he allowed to exist.

The day of the eclipse many people gathered with their families, on fields, mountains and arounds lakes, to contemplate the all mighty sun. In a matter of minutes it turned black and many gasped and screamed and laughed. The moon was all dark for a time. People held hands and kissed and hugged. It was their most special event.

The the sun returned to its normal state. But something was wrong. Some of the Keljbalans interested in astronomy, where looking at the sun with telescopes. And what they saw when the planet left was very strange.

In a matter of minutes every person knew, as no secrets existed on the moon: a small object, apparently increasing size with the passing of minutes, was detected in front of the Sun. The object was not another planet as its shape was similar to the arrows some Keljbalans used to hunt flying animals when in the forests.

Now, every person had to go home. And they all thought about the same thing that night: what's the object? Other people? A small moon? Some kind of transport?

The answer came two weeks after the eclipse. The ship, almost exactly like an arrow, landed near the largest settlement. And did nothing for a whole day. People from every part of Keljbalāh came to see it. The hull was silver, a color not many Keljbalans had seen, only the miners. The apparatus had some windows around, but no one to be seen.

The following day, a big door no one had seen before, opened and a ramp was deployed. People that had stayed to see more of the sip, gather close but not too close. From inside the sip, two creatures stepped out. Different from Keljbalans, their skin was light blue and they were tall and with big eyes. Slids insted of a proper nose and three toes on each feet and three fingers on each hand. They wore capes, the same colors of the blueberries that grew by the lakes.

The creatures then bowed and it appeared it was hard for them. Not because they didn't want to but because of their large bodies.

  - We are Xysperians. We are explorers. We spent a day before coming out as we were learning your   language and your physical traits.

Everyone was a bit scared but mostly intrigued. The creatures seemed peaceful and decent. No one understood how they had learn to breath and speak in a day but more questions arose.

Some villagers took them to take a stroll around the fields and up to a hill from were the largest lake in Keljbalāh could be seen. They explained their history to the explorers and they just listened.

The following days, more Xysperians came out of the ship. They said they were from a planet with a dim red sun and that they had explored the galaxy looking for other life forms. They had thought, for a time, they were alone.

Keljbalans asked them about their planet, their traditions, their food. And Xysperians did the same. They shared meals, jokes, work and stories. And the two species rapidly became friends.

After on week, the Xysperians got back to their ship and stayed there for another whole day. They told the Keljbalans they had to meet and talk about some important issued and that they would now soon enough the results of their discussion.

Not just waiting this time, Keljbalans thought their new friends might leave soon. So every single Keljbalan came to the valley were the ship had landed and organized a feast, like no one had seen in years on the planet. They wanted to give the best to their friends.

The following day, Xysperians enjoyed the feast. The food was delicious, and it was accompanied with dances and tales and laughs. Everyone had a great time.

But when the food was almost disappeared, the visitors told their hosts they had important news to share with them: they had come to this system as they had detected life with their scientific knowledge. They had actually detected life in at least a hundred other places in the galaxy. But they had chosen to visit Keljbalāh as another discovery led them to.

An asteroid was coming and would hit Keljbalāh planet with strength. The Xysperians thought that event would finish life in the moon, rendering it barren, if not destroyed.

It was hard for the people of the moon to pass from great happiness to that hollow feeling you have after receiving terrible news. The Xysperians said they would share every piece of information with them as they revealed the reason why they had come to Keljbalāh: they wanted to save them.

So for the next ten years, Xysperians and Keljbalans worked together to build three massive ships and then they had a day called Koflar: the day of ripping. The day they had to leave the place that had given them everything. Every single one of them left something on the ground, a memory that would stay there forever.

They boarded their ships and the Xysperians led them to a new planet, a place where they would relocate close to their new friends, to built something even better for everyone. Due their extraction from their home world, all Keljbalans developed blue lines on their bodies, different from everyone. They said they were there to remember them of their origins.

Twenty years after, the asteroid hit the planet and debris hit Keljbalāh, transforming it into a ball of rock, with no life or heart. The planet, however, slowly became habitable and it appeared to be the new hope of this system.

The Summit

They were almost there. Raul, the guide, had said it was only a hundred meters or so to the tallest point. Or so they thought he had said. Hearing wasn't an easy task, as the wind blew stronger in the altitudes Breathing was also difficult and the freezing cold made it even harder.

It was the first time any of them, except Raul, had attempted to hike such a tall mountain. It had been called Ritacuba Blanco and the name was fitting: the place was covered in a think layer of snow, that confused every sense and the mind.

Again, Raul, who was the first in the line to the top, yelled something but this time no one heard him. The wind appeared to be muting all of the members of the team on purpose, although that was obviously preposterous.

They walked another fifty meters and then they understood what Raul had said. Laura, the scientist from Pasto, fell in a crevasse and pulled everyone else into it. Luckily, Raul and Juan had their tools ready and held strongly on the white floor. Fast, the others helped Laura getting out and avoided the crevasse. Franco put a red flag by the gap on the floor, pierced the snow with all his strength.

They continued for a few minutes until they made it to the top. Raul warned them, breathing with difficulty, that they could only stay for a few minutes. As they had no oxygen tanks, staying more than necessary could mean dying there or on the way down.

There were six explorers, seven with Raul. They all sat on some rocks that overlooked the cliff, on which the tallest point was located.

Juan, as experienced as he was, took just one moment to see the scenery and then went back to Raul and started talking about the descent. It wasn't that he took it all for granted, not at all. Juan was just thinking of so many things at same time and seeing mountains from the top of another mountain didn't do anything for him. He had a wife and a baby girl to think of. At the cost of loosing what he loved most, he had to choose either a well paid job or loosing them both.

Laura, however, sat on a rock and filled her lungs with the purest air she might ever breath. It was true that oxygen was scarce, was somehow it felt cleaner and better than anything else. She loved how the mountains looked and how beautiful the world looked like this, just peaceful. It was different of what she had known her whole life, and the fact that this beautiful place existed not that far from home, was overwhelming to her.

Luis, an mature hiker with a thick beard, inhaled too but many more times, as if he defied the world. Only Raul knew that Luis was dying of cancer in the blood and this journey was a way of saying to life "you can't beat me up". The mountains and what he saw weren't as beautiful to him as the fact of having being able to do it all on his own, this last few months. He was going to die, true. But he wanted to imprint his mark on the world.

Veronica, a geology student, had come with a camera and started taking pictures as soon as they had reached the summit. She was a cheerful photographer, having documented her life and her family's life in huge amounts of pictures. Digital or analog, she didn't care. She only cared about keeping memories alive forever and this was her way of doing so. She had lost her father recently, and he had promised to go hiking with him. She wanted to take the most beautiful pictures to honor her father's memory.

Marcos and Tomás thought of each other as brothers. They admired the view, never kneeling or crouching or sitting but standing up to it, taking it all in as if it was a gift that one couldn't just let pass by. Both men, still young but already working through life, had decided to take this trip to defy their bodies and test, once more, the limits of their friendship. Marcos and Tomás were not real brothers, not relatives by blood. They had lived together from a young age as orphans, on the streets and under the care of others. But they never let each other go.

The six visitors came to the mountain, each one with a kind of mission. Some of them were successful, others not so much. But what was valuable wasn't the physical prowess as such. It was the fact that they had decided to take a challenge in order to honor something, to be true to themselves.

As they returned to the base camp, near a beautiful blue lake, their lives seemed to have improved, at least a little, even for a tiny space of time. They had learned no one defies a mountain out of courage or for the need of glory. All who do it, do it just for the urge, the need to define who they are.

The Celestials

I laid there and they came in, down the mountain, pass the stream.

Four, maybe five, walked slowly down the hill. Their limbs moving slightly as their legs transported their big, illuminated bodies closer to me.

No, they're not beings of light: they are made of stars. The deep black skin feels like a familiar fabric, their heads forming a beak and the back arched as if they've had to carry heavy burdens for far too long.

The time is short, but sweet. We hug and we play, all around the meadow and in an old ship, reminiscing of pirates that have never been here.

I never ask where they come from or why do they come to me. The happiness and comfort I feel being besides them prevents me from asking to many questions that do not need to be answered.

More people come down the mountain and join us. I do not know them or maybe  I do but it doesn't matter. The meadow feels like a safe place to be and maybe that's why we're all here.

Then, when standing against the sunlight, I can see a glimpse of who this being once was: a young, tall man. Hair the color of wheat and skin as pale as the moon. Who is he? Again, it doesn't matter.

The creatures stand by us, watch us laugh and eat and play and live. But they, the beings of celestial stuff, remain still, as if moving too much or too fast may break them. And we don't push for them to do anything they don't want to. Because, if they break, we break too.

No eyes to pierce with mine but I still try to see it again, the boy inside the stars. But there's nothing, only the thick blackness of space, splattered with millions of beautiful bright stars and galaxies, quasars and pulsars.

No... Not now... The moment has come when they begin to disappear, as mysteriously as they first came down the mountain. I try to grab his hand but there's nothing to grab anymore.

I wake up, in peace, but still worried. As I stand up, feeling the sheets off my body and the feel of the ground below my feet, there's a thought that dares not to live me.

I never had the chance to say "Thank you". For protecting me in the forever land of shadows, for taking care of my wounded body.

Slowly, my mind begins to erase the feelings and the thoughts done during the dream. But his face, the universal one, stays with me to fight the scolding light of reality.