Thoughts by the water

   The beach was almost empty but that did not matter. I stood there for a long time, looking at the ocean and just thinking and thinking about everything: my family, what I was doing there, the chances of meeting someone to fall in love with, job opportunities and so many other things I can’t even remember. After a while, I sat down on one of the many steps of the stairs that lead people from the park to the beach and just sat there for at least an hour. During that time, the climate change from bad to worst and I could see a storm forming over the ocean, not very far. It looked awful but I didn’t care. Or maybe I did but wasn’t afraid, I don’t remember which one it was.

 After a long time there, I decided to walk the few blocks that separated myself from the metro station. And during that time, maybe ten minutes, I kept thinking about all of that again. At some point, after validating my ticket in the station, I found myself being bored out of my mind by my own thoughts. Why was I so melancholic or depressed or whatever it was? It wasn’t unheard of for me to be like that but it was never that deep, that strange either. When the train came, I sat down on a chair by the window and just looked out the window to the darkness outside and the passing stations.

 That weird state almost made me lose my station but I “woke up” just in the right moment to descend the train and almost run up the stairs. By then, I just wanted to get home and to my bed. I walked some more blocks and almost didn’t realize it was already raining and thunders could be heard in the far distance. But somehow, I didn’t really care. Normally, I would have been shaken by the sound of thunder but this time it was as if nothing was happening. The journey in the elevator towards the top floor seemed eternal but when I got to my door I felt kind of a warmth feeling, maybe from finally being in a place I called home, where I could be safe and in peace.

 It was an odd thing to think because I could be safe in many other places but there I was feeling like I just had saved myself from the apocalypse or something like that. I actually felt relieved to get off my coat and walk into my room, where my bed seemed to be waiting for my arrival. I just let my body fall on the bed and I closed my eyes, trying to avoid thinking about anything. I was successful in my attempt to do so because I fell asleep quite fast, something I wasn’t usually able to do at that time of day. I only slept for three hours but it was enough to feel recharged and less pessimistic and emotional.

 It was already night when I sat in the bed and took off my clothes. The general heating system of the building had been lit up and the climate had changed to a more cozy one that at the time of my arrival. I stayed just in briefs for a moment until I realized I lived alone and anyone looking at my windows would be a person freezing in the outside. I actually walked towards the window and almost missed the street below as the rain, and the mist that came with it, had invaded the city, making only things that were incredibly close visible. I caressed my arms and then walked out to the kitchen. MY apartment was small: bedroom, living room with kitchen on a side and a bathroom. But it was more than enough for just me.

 I heated up microwave lasagna I had left and, as it was cooking, I grabbed myself a beer from the refrigerator. I probably gulped down half of the can’s content before I started eating but I guess that was because I was dry from three hours of sleep. I had no TV so I took the lasagna and the beer to my room. There I turned on my laptop and looked for something fun to watch. I smiled and even laughed while eating so my trick to get back on the bright side of life worked, as it often did. I thought of those moments down at the beach, but couldn’t really explain them. I had just stay there to think and nothing more.

 It is true that my life is not the most exciting one in the world but I thinking so much about it was useless and pointless. I had a small job that paid badly and I was trying to look for a better one but for now nothing had come up. Somehow people saw my resume and said “no” because I have no experience. But how could I have any experience if I’ve never even been hired, not from the age of eighteen when I started looking for work. Not my fault in any case but here we are. I had to tell myself that, eventually, something would come up and I could be improving my life in that aspect. I didn’t want to be dependent from my parents forever.

 I love them and I missed them. For a moment there, eating lasagna, drinking beer and watching a silly show online, I was reminded of them again and this time a couple of tears went down my cheeks, one on each side. I really missed them a lot and there where not near, not near at all. They lived across the ocean and we hadn’t been able to talk for a few days because of damage to their Internet network or something. It had been painful because every couple of days I chatted with them put the camera on and tell them about my day and they would tell me about theirs and so one. Maybe that was to blame for how I felt but maybe it was just a part of a bigger thing.

 I finished my lasagna and my beer so I went to the kitchen to throw it all to the garbage bin and to take another beer from the refrigerator. I took two steps away from the kitchen but turned back and took another beer can because I knew I wanted to be at least a little drunk to sleep. After many years of getting to know myself, I realized that when I was drunk I never had awful nightmares, not even nice little dreams filled with hope and joy. I just didn’t have any or didn’t remember. Whatever it was, it was fine with me and hat was what I needed on that rainy day: to stop thinking and just sleep. I opened of the cans and started drinking when I heard a silly music playing. When it stopped, I realized it was my cellphone.

 I looked for it in my pants, which had been lying on the floor, and checked the missed calls list. Shit… To add more fun to the party that was that day, my ex-boyfriend had called, probably because I always forgot about that stupid watch he had once left in my house and now he tormented me with it. When we broke up, I took everything that was his from my apartment and just left it in his doorstep, without even ringing at his door to say “Hi” or anything of the sort. I just wanted to get it over with and move one. But apparently I had missed that stupid watch, which was able to avoid my cleaning by being stuck behind one of my bed’s “legs”. Now I had it but I had no urge to give it to him. If he wanted, and I had already told him this, he had to come for it.

 You would think that a person that you find having sex with someone else would be at least a little bit ashamed of he’s behavior but no, he wasn’t like that. He didn’t care at all about those “little” things and was just obsessed about that ugly watch. I had never been very lucky with men but that time I really missed it by a long shot. He was a handsome guy, true, but that should have alerted me. He was too close to the ideal men, in body at least, and those kind of men had never even been close to me so there was my red flag and I didn’t even care to see it.

 Anyway, I still thought about it. Not about him because I realized I had never really cared about him as a person, nor as a lover to be honest. But we had a good thing going on about how we spent time together and that was something very nice to have. But those six months were over and now I was in my briefs drinking beer and watching cartoons. Of course, I still wanted to find a person to actually care for, someone I could hug and kiss whenever I wanted and for that person to want to do that with me too, someone to comfort me in a day like that one and for me to hug tight whenever he felt weird or sad. But who knows if that will ever come my way.

 I think it’s better not to torture oneself with what could have been. That’s one more of those useless things. I decided to stop think and just drank the third can of beer like a professional, almost without breathing and just gulping it down as if my life depended on it. I turned off all the lights and just looked to the window, where the rain was still falling heavy on the street and all over the city. It was a nice thought to think that many people near me and maybe further away were having a similar moment, just looking out through the window before falling asleep. It was comforting somehow.

 I closed my eyes and, before I fell asleep for another eight hours, I thought of the men I would like to have in my arms, the job I would be proud of, my family and how their hugs felt and a future where nothing mattered, only my true happiness.

Who We Are

   I don’t believe it. I just can’t. The pure concept of a “community” is, for me, just nonsense. If there were a community, any kind, they would be there to stop all atrocities and crimes from happening. But that’s not the case, is it? This world is rotting at a formidable speed and there’s nothing that can stop it. It’s just the way it is. Is it intentional or did no one see the signs we are just fucked?

 People say, often, that we live better now than others did fifty or a hundred years ago. That is obvious. Any person with half a brain, more than most people use, would know that. But I’m not talking about the comforts of life; I’m talking about people as people. We have gone down the drain and gotten worse with time. Of course, not to wonder much about it as humanity has been capable of killing itself in mass. What comes after that then?

 Yeah, yeah… “Humanity has done great things too”. Well, really? Medicine they say… Well why do you think we advance in medicine if it’s not for lengthening our lives, to be able to be more powerful, more than the bags filled with gas that we are? Medicine does not exist to make life better but to make it longer. The innocent that thinks that vaccines and medications are made to take care of the frail and hopeless, are just too innocent to see what’s really going on.

 So, what comes after we have killed so many of ourselves? Well, hate of course. People hate they are free from xenophobia, free from actual hate, senseless and insane. Well, we’re not. We all hate something or someone. We might not consider ourselves racists, but we still fear the people that oppressed us and those who we oppressed. It’s only natural, after generations that behave like animals. Now it’s us who have to be scared of the world around us, which has gotten more dangerous.

 And why is that, we may ask? Well, precisely because people in the past did so much to prove they were above others. Little stupid groups claiming they were in possession of universal truth, telling people how to live their lives, who to admire, who to loath and even what to eat, how to eat and when to eat it. Sounds insane? That’s because it is. We praise the human brain so much but the truth is our biology is so easy to influence. So much that today it’s not hard to make someone ill, make them have a headache or make them sick to their stomachs. We can even kill someone without using a real weapon. We are weak.

 The interesting thing is that we just won’t admit hoe fucked we are. People are killed all over the place, disease comes and takes a shitload of people and many are still denied the same rights as others. Nevertheless, less important “news”, that aren’t new at all, invade the papers to make us feel fear and hope at the same time. The grand media folk make us love someone and hate others. They just shift the pieces of the puzzle and make up dozens of variations on the same subject. So there’s a little bit for everyone but the truth, the real one, is always lost forever, known to no one, not even to the ones that make her disappear.

 It is true we live better than before. But that is because we have been taught what to think of society and we have learned the model we live by is just the best because they haven’t create a better one. Haven’t they? May there be something better? Who knows? We are in no capacity of knowing that because even the most “perfect” place in the world is deprived of something. And whatever it is, it makes that “community” and incomplete one.

 Take for instance rich people in a rich country. They can buy all they want but any of us know that that’s not very important at the end of the day. No, not because it doesn’t matter. Try to live life without money on this planet. No, it’s more because we don’t really fill our head with riches. We fill it with experiences and those who make us feel better are not specially attached to money.

 Many, for example, seek for love. The one true love. Most people are so enthralled with the idea of “real love” that they don’t even stop to think what that means. How do I feel love? Does it feel the same for everyone? And here’s comes the real news: no, it doesn’t. It is a fact that feelings are chemicals reactions happening in the brain. Rats can feel pleasure if we put some electrodes on it and influence the right area of its brain. Same thing can be done with humans. But feelings are more than that. Why? Because they are stored inside our heads and have consequences beyond the mere experience.

 When we love, hate or feel curiosity, we feel something. But we also create from that. A relationship is made by what you remember and what you don’t. And all of this is classified: this is good, this is bad, and this is weird. We keep it in mind and we use it as words or actions if we need it. Those are still feeling but they have stopped being only chemicals in our bodies. We keep them in there if we need to use them.

And we do. But not in a very good way. Humanity has always been very trivial. We have always, in one way or another, loved staring at shiny objects. Whether those are nice precious stones or a beautiful body, we have always idealized what it is to be human. We have grown as a species thinking we are just the best there is because we can speak and walk and conquer. But what’s the use of all of that if don’t have anything to show for ourselves?

 Yes, the discoveries. We cannot deny some humans have gone beyond themselves to explain certain things and create new objects from what nature has given us. That cannot be denied. But another fact that cannot be denied is the fact that most of us have no idea how to create and we are really not interested in it. We created religion precisely to do that. To explain what we, lazy as we are, won’t or can’t explain. Humanity doesn’t like when something cannot be explained and that’s why so many crazy theories exist. We just need to explain, even if the answer is obviously fabricated.

 Then again, we keep killing each other, just because they decided to lie to themselves with different lies that we did or because they eat differently or dress with other clothes. Or just, and we never admit this, because they live far and looks different. This would mean xenophobia but this is the real reason of many wars that humanity has gone through. Just hate, without sense or consideration.

 We fail to see that biologically we are exactly the same. And we are not special. Other creatures walk and breathe and speak. The fact that we don’t understand them doesn’t mean we are better. I won’t go to saying we are the same psychologically because that is a creation of man to explain what’s inside one’s head. And the explanations, often, are as ridiculous as the explanations the ancients have for why the sun was up there with the moon.

 No, the best we can do in this world is acknowledge that we are different, even unique, inside our heads but that we are all the same outside of them. Of course, this doesn’t bring any peace of mind to anyone but nature rarely cares about that. We are just one species on a small particle of dust in the vast universe. And we fail to realize that daily, we fail to see we don’t really matter in the broader context of time and space.

 This doesn’t mean we should just go in deep depression and die. It means we should really live, like real people would do. Let’s just not get into the lives of others and let’s try to learn from each other’s differences that reside inside our heads. If we took a moment learning about what others do in life and what they think on certain important matters (not politics, of course), we would see how similar we are, even inside our heads. That’s the surprise of it all.

 We are not unique, special or precious. We are flawed, simple and unimportant. But we are here and that’s what really matters.  

Tomorrow

In his dreams, he had a perfect life, every night going to bed with the one he loved and doing what he wanted in life. The thing was that dreams left out the problem of financial instability, which was the biggest problem every person had in their lives. Not the relationships with others or the achievement or some dream or yearning, but plain and simple money.

He knew that every time he woke up and realized how it was not all that beautiful and calm, as in his dreams. In the real world, he still lived with his parents, had no prospect of finding anyone soon to have a love life or anything similar and, of course, money was not there.

He was prepared, meaning he had a career and further studies to say "I know a couple of things". But that was it. And apparently no one really cared. Every so often he would enter web pages to find a job, sent his CV to every single production company or creative group he read of and then waited. He couldn't do much more than that.

He had even sent his CV to major fast-food chains and retail stores, as he wanted money at least to buy himself a coffee every so often or for being able to pay a movie ticket at least once a month. But nothing. He thought he may have been overqualified for some jobs and under qualified for others. 

Besides, one had to remember how the creative world works: creativity is the least important aspect, ironically. There are no companies that hire someone for being creative. They hire people, anywhere, if they see they can use them some how. That's it. And most creative people don't let themselves be caught by that elegant form of oppression, so here you go. People then have to do things themselves and that takes much more effort and time.

Time... Something that seems to pass so fast. The boy we talk about has his school yearbook. One day, he decided to browse it after years of gathering dust on a shelf. He saw pictures of people he hadn't seen for a long time and then he saw his face on some of them and, for a moment, he wasn't able to recognize himself. It looked as he had age so much, although he had aged the same as every other person on that yearbook.

He then thought of the many faces he stopped seeing and wasn't surprised. He let it happen knowingly, as he didn't have the best memories of school. He had the yearbook as a memento his parents had bought for him but he wasn't keen of reading things people had written to him back them, knowing now how the friendships had fractured and, eventually, ripped apart. He knew he was to blame too, but that was the past.

He went for a walk after that to try to clear his head. He was thinking of useless things, such as the school and what hadn't happened. It was pointless. He walked for eight miles until his legs hurt and decided to sit down in a small park, away from any loud streets or sidewalks filled with pedestrians coming and going.

There he started daydreaming once again, believing there was something better out there. He knew that. But the problem was that many others wanted exactly the same as him: live a life doing the things they liked or knew how to do.

He wasn't a brilliant writer or anything but it came easy to him so that's what he wanted to do. He had no idea of real drawing, he hated numbers as he was incapable of understanding them and sports were not really one of his interests. So he only had writing to keep going. If someone took that away from him, well, he didn't wanted to know what would happen.

The young man checked his pants and realized he had some money so he walked a bit more to a mall. He got a coffee and something to eat with it. As he did, he looked at the many faces around and wished he could hear all of their thoughts. Was everyone as worried and hopeless he sometimes felt? Or were they really happy with everything, even when bad things happened?

That was his real need, his hobby if you will: just thinking on what people did and thought. Human beings were just amazing in horrible and excellent ways. People were capable of amazing deeds and also of such horror. And besides that, they have a large array of feelings and not everyone experience them exactly the same. That was what fascinated him and made his days go by a little bit smoothly.

He wrote every single day, no matter if he was inspired or not. He thought that even in a bad day, he could be able to write something great and even if it wasn't, an awful piece of writing could be the base of something much bigger and better.

The 26 year old man went back home and took off his shoes. He wrote about the people he had seen that day and what he thought of them, what he thought they might be keeping secret or the worries they had every day. Some were shallow and not very interesting but others were just a planet of opportunities and wonder.

It was not every day, but sometimes his parents would interrupt those thinking moments with a question like "Are you still looking?" or "You should be doing something". Of course he understood their worries, he was worried too every single day. But it hurt a bit to think they thought he was careless and only wanted to be a bum or something.

They wanted him to keep studying but he was done with that. He didn't feel he had any more to learn or at least not anything that was been taught anywhere. He had investigated schools and courses all around but they were all about what he had already learned and seen and he knew that so why pay big money to study the same thing again?

Of course he had interests beside writing but they thought of them as hobbies or just things he liked. Cooking was relaxing to him and photography had been extremely important to him at one time, but he didn't see those things as life choices. It would be a joke, he thought, to study cooking as he knew he didn't have many qualities needed to be a proper cook.

Same went for photography, with which he had a relationship that was now on a standby. He had used it before to overcome problems he had and to make him believe his world could be wider than he thought. But that was the past and now he felt a bit more mature and took things as they were. Evading himself from life wasn't the answer.

As he laid down in bed for one more night of sleep, he remembered he had had problems with himself, his self-esteem to be exact. It wasn't like he was done with that but he them now under control as his views had changed a bit but, of course, a problem like that doesn't just disappear. To be realistic, it never does. You learn to live with it and, after having a couple of breakdowns, he realized he needed to change the way he saw some things or he would get worse in a short time.

He finally thought of the love thing. That was a rather annoying subject he liked to avoid. In that moment of his life, he had no need or place for love. maybe for his family and friends but no place for that one person that is supposed to make you feel special. He couldn't afford, even if he believed in actual love, to have that right now. It would be the worst timing and it could only lead to unnecessary pain and he wasn't a masochist so why look for something like that?

Of course, he thought his life might improve and then he would be more open to love, if it were to happen. His self-esteem problems and thoughts on the world didn't really give him much hope to find someone that like him and no one else. It sounded a bit like an utopia.

To him, it was funny too how people thought doing things every second made them better, more prepared or prone to better things. It just meant they were active. And there are many ways to be active. People tend to forget there is more than one way to do something, even love.

But then again, like they said on a movie, tomorrow will be another day and no one knows what the future holds for anyone. It's a box full of awful and great surprises and even if we sit down and do nothing, the world will keep moving forward.

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.