A story of nudes

   I wanted to make myself visible. I had to do it in order not to feel imprisoned in the shadows, away from all that happened in the world. I needed to feel alive and wanted. So I started taking pictures using the few notions I knew of photography. At first, they were only pictures I had taken for assignments. They could be qualified as casual but also as artistic. I didn’t wanted them to be just pictures but also proof of what my life was like. So everywhere I went, I carried the camera. My father had bought me one and the moment I got it in my hands I started shooting. Every interesting plant, every nice sunset, every park or animal. I would take pictures of everyone of those and more.

 But at one moment I needed to do something else, something others were not doing and by others I meant the people around me. And the answer was obvious: nude pictures. No one was daring to do them. Was it maybe because I was twenty years old? Or was it that people are generally afraid of their own body? Who knows? But what I did know was that I needed a way out, a way to feel like myself, even if I had to do it all alone. I had tried dying my hair blue, changing my clothes, just being different from who I had been the past years, the last ones of school and first ones of college. I needed something to be only mine.

 So the first picture I took naked was of my legs. I wasn’t actually naked but it was the beginning of that time for me. I tried different tricks with lights and editing in various ways. I also took some shirtless pictures, never revealing my face. After all, everything that goes into the Internet may never be truly erased. People were going to see me and, even as much as I wanted to be out there, I wasn’t ready to show my face.

 With those first pictures, friends and other acquaintances praised my attempts for a more personal photography. They liked the way I edited my pictures and how I posed in them. After all, they were very personal and did tell tales about me to people. I was very happy to see that they were liked. Not universally but, after all, I was just learning. I didn’t wanted to be a photographer and did not pretended to be one. But I was learning so much about it that I immediately felt fascinated for an art that I had never truly reflected about.

 Back then; I liked it because it was something I could do alone. I love cinema but that needs a team to become a reality. I’ve never cared about the making of music so that wasn’t really an option and my hands are not made for the subtle and gentle work of a painter or a sculptor. No, it had to be photography. How the camera felt, the various shots to get the one I loved, the experiments I did based on what I was learning. It was all so attractive to me and, to some extent, it still is.

 I took the following step almost a year after opening a public Internet account to show my pictures. I had put on flowers, landscapes, sites, and my headless body. So the next step was showing more. I decided to show my face but not my penis. I didn’t want it to be the center of attention, not that it is anything special. But human nature is always governed by the animal feelings and it is obvious that people looking at a naked picture will always stare first at the genitals and then see the whole picture. We all do it and there’s nothing wrong with it but I wanted that distraction out so I took all pictures covering it or cropping the picture just right or even just turning around and showing my butt instead.

 Comments started pouring on the website. They were all very kind and many even racy, which I appreciated too. Friends and others were not as enthusiastic, rather focusing on the fact that I was naked and not so much on the pictures as such. They asked me if I wasn’t afraid of showing my face naked in public but I answered that there was nothing people could do with those pictures to me. They couldn’t threaten me because I had taken the first step. I’m not ashamed of my decision and I stood by it. And if someone sent one of them to my parents, as improbable as that would be, I would acknowledge my art and leave it at that.

 I have to clarify myself, though. The pictures were also an experiment for something else. They were not just about experimenting photography and having an artistic outlet that I had lacked for a long time. It was also, nudity to be more specific, a way to make people see me and judge me. I wanted to put myself out there and be bombarded with comments, good or bad. For a long time, a very long time, I had dealt with insecurity issues and I felt nudity would help me with those problems. And it did.

 With those pictures, and seeing so many more taken by a variety of men, I realized I wasn’t hideous or awful. I understood that the wide range of body types is what makes the human body beautiful. Of course, being gay, there is a beauty standard as there is one for straight men too. But homosexuality is more focused on how you look and any gay man who says they had never had an issue with that is lying. We judge each other harder. Maybe it’s because of the stereotypes that had been imposed for years but there is a certain idea of how a homosexual man has to look like and just be. And that was why I needed those pictures. I needed to prove myself and others that I could be who I am and people would like that.

 Yes, I did to receive approval. And that was the rotten seed that I never really paid attention to. It slowly grew for all those years, more than six to be exact, in silence. Meanwhile, I was successful with my experiment. People liked the way I got naked. At one point, I decided to post one picture fully naked and it was clearly one of the more successful ones in the account. After that, I just kept experimenting: shadows, lights, colors, places… It was all about the body. I still uploaded some other types of pictures that I liked but people seemed to be not very interested in them. Back then, I started to notice mostly men were adding me as their friend and the number grew a lot during the years. I have no idea how many contacts I had in there but I know they were thousands. Yes, thousands.

 Then, people got bold and started to ask for types of pictures, even more revealing ones. I said no to all of that. I was going to make a porno picture just because people wanted it. It wasn’t what I was looking for, to arouse anyone. My goal of helping myself with the pictures was, I believed, successful. Oddly enough, it was a time I had no one to share my new securities with. That was when I realized there was something wrong. Why were they thousands of man complimenting me online but in real life not even one dared to say anything to me? I tried giving the first step and that was always a failure. I cannot remember how many failed dates I’ve had. All of the crumbling fast after just a few words have been exchanged.

 Then came the people that denounced my pictures on the site where I had them. Each time I uploaded a picture, I left it without any safety advice on in order for more people to see it. After all, it was a picture of the human body, not from a corpse, or sexual or a violent act. But no. People started pouring saying my pictures were not adequate for the website. A website that had thousands of users pouring in only to check out naked men and women. If there’s something that I hate is hypocrisy and that was just the best example of it I had ever seen.

 I finished college and the rotten seed then activated, still silently. My old worries came back. Every picture I took was mediocre next to the other older ones but I decided to ignore that and do something else with my life. I traveled, I did other stuff and I even did some new things with my pictures and people liked them but less than before. And the opponents were still there, trying to push me off the edge.

 When I came back home one day, I realized they had succeeded. My account had been erased. The details are not important but I then suffered a very great depression. The rotten seed had finally won, all because I had made the wrong decision years ago. I kept failing in life, the future looked pitch black and now, what had been my only creative outlet for years, had been erased permanently. I was angry and outraged but also sad and vulnerable. A failed attempt to have a relationship pushed me to an abyss, from which I barely came out.

 Eventually I found out photography had lost most of its appeal to me. I still like to look at them and appreciate them but I haven’t held my camera in some time. Selfies, sure. Artistic photos, not really. I also found myself another outlet, one you are witnessing right now. And, to be honest, I hope I never have to leave this one, as it keeps me going, as photography never did. It was a stage in my life but that is the past. The present is this and the future… Well, let’s hope it’s there.

Life change

   She was only allowed to smoke only one cigarette in her lunch hour but the day was so beautiful that she stayed longer in the rooftop of the restaurant, watching the clouds and smoking her second cigarette. She knew they weren’t very good for her but she didn’t mind. As far as she was concerned, she had to die somehow and if it was because she had done something that made her happy, well, she didn’t mind at all.

 Finally, Richards, her boss downstairs, came to call her to her workstation. During the mornings, she was in charge of cleaning the bathrooms and sweeping and mopping the floors before anyone arrived. After that, she would have to flip the burgers and serve the fries if the person that was in charge of that was too busy. In the afternoons however, she was in charge of one of the cash registers. Some days, she enjoyed taking people’s orders and advising them on what they might like or what new menus they had that month.

 Sadly, it wasn’t one of those days. She wasn’t feeling well and it wasn’t a physical thing. It felt deeper and even more worrying. Waiting for people to decide on what they were having or what toy their kids wanted didn’t make it better. She tried to smile, as she was obliged too, but she just couldn’t. It was as if life had been drained out of hair and she couldn’t properly smile. Her shift finally ended at six, when Georgia came in to replace her. She did asked to the other woman if she felt good but she just couldn’t point her pain, her issue so she just dismissed it all and left to go home.

 On the ride on the bus, she realized what was that made her miserable, because it wasn’t pain but that overbearing feeling when you realize your life hasn’t been what you expect it to be. Lily was about to turn thirty years old and she had worked in that restaurant for the last five years. The job had been found almost by chance and it had been the only one to which she applied that had succeeded in any way possible.

 She had gone to school to study literature and she had even got a masters degree and congratulations for many of her works. But all of that had amounted to nothing, at the end of the day. She was stuck in a point in her life where nothing was moving forward. It appeared that the fact that she was stalling at work had affected everything else. She didn’t spoke with her family as often as she did year’s prior. She had thought it had been because of the death of her father but that did not make sense.

 She only had a couple of friends, literally only two that came to her aid when they were able to. One of them had been married for seven years and had two children and one on the way so she rarely left the house in the last few months. The other friends traveled a lot and had left the city a couple of years ago but every time she came back they tried to reunite to have a drink and talk about the old high school days, which weren’t specially nice but it was nice to laugh at them from this side of time.

 But now, Lily would have loved to be back in high school. She would stand the annoying girls and the boys that were so full of themselves for a peace and quiet she missed so much. When she was there, she didn’t have to worry to pay a rent or get her taxes done or managing the few pennies she won from the restaurant, which wasn’t her only job. On weekends, she would babysit all around, clean houses and even walk dogs around. It was impressive, but with all that she always achieved to get through the month alive. She didn’t really spend much money on herself, wearing the same clothes for the last few years and avoiding all extra expenses like parties and dates.

 Yeah, she avoided men at all costs. When she was younger, her mother had put her in self-defense classes, which had proven useful, specially when men got annoying after just a couple of drinks. She had learned how to flip a huge guy over her head and how to break someone’s arms or legs. She had used it all once, when two assholes had tried to rob and rape her. They had been quite surprised when lying on the ground after she had shown them her skills.

 And dating was out of the question. All men she had ever know where extremely boring to her. Not one ever seemed to be real, to be actually telling the truth. She always felt he was lying or at least trying too hard to be liked. And if they were too shy or too outgoing, she didn’t care at all. It was always boring and even more when they wanted sex after the date, as if it was a duty she had to fulfill. She never did actually.

 She then thought she might be a lesbian but it wasn’t long enough before she realized that wasn’t the case. She apparently wasn’t all that into people, preferring to stay at home with a good book, caressing her rescue cat Mr. Turner. He was a big black cat who loved to disappear for days only to reappear days later wanting food and shelter. As he wasn’t able to speak, the relationship was perfect.

 That day after arriving home, Lily turned on her computer and started watching a TV series episode while eating an instant soup, one of those you put on the microwave. She never really cooked, except when she was able to buy some actual groceries, which wasn’t that often during the year. She sipped her soup smiling from time to time, watching a sitcom. Sure enough, Mr. Turner appeared out of nowhere and started demanding his food. Lily realized there was nothing except a carton of milk about to go bad. It didn’t smell all that awful so she served him a big bowl of it, which he drank as Lily checked her emails.

 She had gotten none but she scrolled down and checked one that had been sent days ago. It was the invitation to her school’s reunion. They held it every single year and her friends had gone a couple of times but she had never been there. According to the email, it was being held that same night which made her imagine who would be there but then she remembered she had never really liked high school.

 Not only because of the friends issue but because she always felt out of element there. She felt nothing that was being said during class was actually useful and it was then, during the boring classes, when she started writing diverse little stories that she never shared with no one. She stood up fast, scaring Mr. Turner a bit, and went to her room to look for her school notebook. She knew it was around and felt she suddenly needed to see her handwriting again as well as reading her past inspirations, which were now almost non-existent.

 Lily found her notebook in a box on top of her closet and decided to read some of the stories. She laughed at them because they were a bit childish but a couple of them were actually very good, with the right corrections. She then felt that pain again, that strange feeling on the bottom of her gut that made her think that her life was just a piece of shit. And somehow it was because she was alone, no one to share her thoughts with, no one to listen her bitch about everything. And she didn’t mean love as in romance but love as in friends and family.

 She then grabbed the phone and, before she had thought it through, her mother was answering the phone. They started a shy and strange conversation that turned, in matter of minutes, in a festival of apologies and tears and regret. She told her mother how much she missed her and how much she missed her dad too. Her mother told her she could come back home anytime to have lunch or just to have a nice time. They spoke for about an hour until the conversation naturally ended.

 Full of energy from this action and without even putting down the phone, she decided to call the restaurant and tell Richards she wasn’t going to be at work on Monday, nor any other day. She apologized for the sudden decision but stated that it wasn’t the best thing to do. Surprisingly, Richards wasn’t mad at all. Instead, he told Lily to go on and go after her dreams because they really needed to be taken care of. He congratulated her and assured she would get a full month paycheck once they settled it all.

 Then Lily stood awake for hours, making calculations under the close interest of Mr. Turner. She had come up with the idea of moving out of town, to a nearby big city where her mother actually lived. She didn’t want to live with her because she appreciated her freedom too much but she did want to have a renewed relationship with her and that was the best way to do it.

 Besides, she supposed other opportunities where waiting for her there. It wasn’t far or all that different but she felt she had to do something different and radical in other to shake up her life and start being the woman she had always wanted to be.

If I couldn't write, I would go insane

I used to like being naked a lot, taking pictures. I was rather popular for it. People would ask me why I did it. Well, here's why:

First, and I think I just realized this, I loved the attention. I had tons of pictures, good quality, up on Flickr. And people would mark them as favorites and even comment and I will important somehow. People would like me and that felt nice. At least at first.

With time that attention wears out. You just stop needing it or maybe you want more or different. I have no idea. The thing is I just stopped liking the attention. I had that account for five or six years. It was an important thing in my life, as funny as that may be.

I have to clarify: not all the pictures were nudes. I would upload "urban" shots too or maybe just portraits or whatever I found was nice to look at. I guess I wanted to make others see I had talent for something. Of course, I didn't. I'm a professional photographer and my "work" on Flickr lacked any real quality. I knew that all along and never really cared about it. It wasn't the point.

I would love to post one picture per week, normally I would post at the first second of a new day so the statistics would more accurately show how much a picture was liked. When I uploaded an urban view, a building or trees or whatever, the picture was not that well received. Maybe a couple of people would say "yay, it's great". And that was it.

But me, naked, showing maybe my ass or my penis (never an erection, mind you), was always received by what I can only call "critical acclaim". Of course this acclaim came from people I had never met, mostly men. All men to be honest. And they were all horny. I mean, I should be an idiot not to see it.

I used to be more naive, more innocent if you will. When I remember those times, I don't know if it was a good way to be back then or if I should've been more intelligent, more perceptive.

Like, when I was nineteen I think, I went out with this guy. Just cute, not really a beauty or anything but you know. We went to a gay café and chatted and kissed and I felt awesome. It wasn't muy first time kissing but it felt right and beautiful and all that shit. Any way, it ended soon after and I never really understood why. Why he behaved like he did, always distant and weird.

He was fucking (or being fucked, who knows) others, kissing others while dating me. He actually kissed another guy that same night I was in the café with him. Somebody would later tell me all of this and I just understood it all. I also understood men were not to be fully trusted as, it is true, a man always acts commanded by his dick first, then his brain. And it's even more real in gay men and they know this is true.

Many people judge me saying "Hey, why haven't you been to a gay parade? Have you really never been in one?". And my answer is simply because I don't believe in it. It's not a casual walk to just show how proud we are to be who we are. That's what is SHOULD be about. But it isn't. That parade has mutated to be many people's chance to just rub in the faces of everyone what they do with their lives. Well, good news: no one gives a flying fuck.

There are homophobes. Of course there are. But there are others that just don't care. They don't think twice if someone is sleeping with a man, a woman or a horse. They don't care. And I don't think that is a reason to be pushy and annoying. I am fucking gay and the only person I need accepting me is myself. If the world doesn't, believe me, I don't care.

There's no gay marriage, that does not exists. The only thing that does exist is two people who get together to sign a paper that says they must share everything and live together. That's it. It's nothing more than that. You're not selling yourself there, in any sense, and it shouldn't matter who does it. Who cares?

But I digress. I made those pictures, the naked ones. And all that attention and it felt nice for years, yeah. I don't like discos or whatever they all them now. I just don't, I feel like an octopus in Japanese restaurant. Just like that. I've gone to a couple and that was enough for me. So I was happy to have some guys attention.

But that faded away. I got bored. To be honest I'm bored and fed up with people every second of my life now but that made me even more bored. All those empty comments and no one coming to me in real life to say "hey, you cute". And before you give me shit, I say "coming to me" because I deserve that. I won't crawl to a guy simply because I won't give an inch of myself to someone who would just expect everything.

The thing with gay guys, and all guys I guess, is that you must test them. And no, that doesn't mean annoying them and being jealous 24/7. I mean asking them things, getting to know them for real. Just being interested to get to know the person, take time.

But no. Most people fuck after 24 hours of meeting, if not before. I'm not saying people should be nuns and monks but, come one, love yourself.

And then I started having problems with the Flickr people and they ended up closing my account. You know why? Because it happens I didn't only do those pictures for the attention. I also did them because they were like therapy for me. I have hated myself for too long and that outlet made me feel good about myself. I almost fully stopped having crazy crisis every month.

And, besides that, I personally think the human body is beautiful. I don't believe in a god so I say nature is pretty smart and resourceful. Just get naked in front of a mirror and stare at yourself. Take a good look at the details, not the superficial shit of society but your actual biologic body. It's a work of art, inside and out.

So, that ended for me. It stopped existing, that outlet, that I needed so bad for so many years. To be honest, when it ended, I said "Fuck it, I have something new now: writing". So around that time I started working on some small things and it all came down to this blog with which I have a really hard relationship.

Today, for example, I had more than five ideas. I couldn't write more that ten lines for each. I felt awful, like an idiot, because this is my thing, my only thing. And if I couldn't write, I would go insane. Simple as 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.

Breath In, Breath Out

Brenda had been going to the doctor for a year now. She had discovered she suffered anxiety and depression and they told her that she should be medicated and doing special exercises to be calm.

She went to yoga class, two hours every day. There, she tried hard to do the exercises correctly but the truth was that Brenda had never really exercised in her life, at least if you don't count walking the city looking for a job as a sport.

She had been jobless for a year and her health problems, or should we say mental issues, were to blame. Brenda had a crisis one day, punching herself, yelling, screaming and attempting to jump from a balcony. So she was fired.

Her parents, already disappointed that their daughter had not found a suitable husband, found her problems to be the last drop in their glasses. So they just sent her money and try to help her that way.

Besides yoga class, she had to attend a psychiatrist. This, she hated. The woman would only sit there and let her talk for a whole hour, an expensive hour. Brenda would have dropped out if her doctor wasn't like a falcon, watching her every move.

Sometimes, she would only tell the psychiatrist what she had dreamt. She found out that an hour could pass fairly faster if the woman had to decipher dreams, all of which had apparently the same theme: her suicidal thoughts.

Brenda had only thought of that option at that time. She had been cheated on, she was miserable at her job and meeting her friends proved to be a difficult task.

She had only three females friends from school. They would reunite at least once a month to chat about the new and exciting things they were going through. That was precisely what Brenda hated: as she was not banging anyone and her job as assistant archivist was not precisely movie material, she would always spend those meetings in silence or fake smiling and laughing at the precise moments.

It was not that Brenda had not had her share of fun. She had indeed: sleeping with men and going on interesting vacations. But they were anecdotes that one could only repeat once or twice, before they became annoying to others and hurtful to herself.

The psychiatrist once asked about sex. "What about it?", Brenda replied. She hadn't done it in a year and a half and the last time the man she had done it with had cheated. She had enjoyed, during college, the crazy sex nights. It didn't happen often but she had her fun. But when she liked someone for real, Brenda was always honest. But honesty was not a quality most men found appealing, or so it appeared.

Love was this mystical being for her, like a unicorn. Very few people actually see it and there's the strong possibility one would never see it in this lifetime.

Religion? Another fun question. Of course she wasn't religious. She just couldn't. Temples, of all denominations,  made her nervous. It was this overwhelming aura that felt too much to carry on your own and the words were simply not helpful.

After her breakdown, Brenda hid herself in books. Adventure and science fiction, as they were her favorites. They told stories of worlds that didn't existed, that could not exist. And she liked that very much.

Brenda lived alone, only with a dog named Luna who was her only real friend and companion. Luna had licked her wounds of self hatred and would always sleep beside Brenda as she read a book. The dog, ironically, was a gift of a college flirt that she had never had anything with, besides smiling and having small silly talks.

What she liked best was that moment after you put your book down, pull the covers up and wonder about the world in the darkness of your room. She would imagine a life that would make her happy: writing her own stories and becoming famous, sharing her thoughts with people, having a beautiful house with Luna and a special male friend.
He would take her hand often, kiss her in the most unexpected moments and comfort her when she would fall into the pit of her mind.

Brenda would often go to sleep just like that. And then, the next day, she would realize the world is not made of fulfilled wishes but of an almost endless effort to be a bit more happy.

You've gained 5 kilograms

And that was all the stupid machine could say: "You've gained five kilograms". Brian knew that, boy did he knew that.

Exercising in winter wasn't as easy as doing it in the summer. Besides, he had too many good, big meals and he didn't wanted to be that stupid person that says "I'll pass", as if food was something not much more different than a poison.

He got down the scale and, for a moment, thought it might be broken. But that was impossible: it had been bought only a few months ago and worked digitally. No, the stupid scale said the truth.

He went to the bath room and got naked as he had to take a shower. He turner the hot water faucet and then, he glanced at the mirror: he looked back at himself, a little sad, a bit disappointed. He looked down and saw his body was far from those in ads and movies. He wasn't obese or anything but felt bad for not being that perfect model society wanted all of us to be.

In the shower, as he did in bed as he slept, Brian imagined meeting someone who would love him for who he was and for discovering things about him that not even Brian knew.

But when the water stopped falling, he knew that wouldn't be the case. Again, this wasn't a TV series or a movie, there wasn't a someone for everyone and people didn't love you more for being different, just the opposite.

He put on his clothes, grabbed his keys and walked to the nearest bus stop, to wait. Being there, he remembered trying for a whole month to exercise and he did good but no results were evident so he stopped. He wasn't a patient person, so doing exercise for days and days wasn't fun, or interesting or anything. It was just painful and empty. So he just quitted.

He got in the bus and traveled through town for around half an hour until he got down near a mall. He had to go inside and pay some bills his parents had left for him to pay, with their money of course, as he had none to spare.

Standing in line in the bank, he saw a good looking guy also waiting to be served. He was just perfect: blonde, skinny, skin the color of milk and nice behind. He was even well dressed.

To be honest, Brian hated that. People that went through life just being perfect, being the ideal every other normal guy wanted to be. He must even be good in bed and well endowed. That's what Brian thought, checking him out one last time before running his errands.

He had just the time to get to a nearby café and meet Anita. She was had been his best friend for a number of years and he had told every single part of his life to him. Even that time he tried to take his life.

The two hugged, kissed, asked for cappuccinos and started talking about college memories, people they had met and new developments on their lives. Brian talked a lot, mainly because he didn't get to do it as often at home. It was to tell your parents "I hate my life" without a lecture on how easy the solution was.

Anita said the same, though. And Brian got it, he wasn't stupid, but things were hard to do. He didn't have that drive to try new things. A major impediment was the money factor. He felt bad asking and asking and trying and trying, like an idiot.

He parted with Anita, who encouraged him for the last time but he just answered: "I only do one thing right and people don't wanna pay me for it. I'm fucked". And he didn't even feel passion for writing. He just did it.

Back home, he enjoyed silence for a bit and then watched a movie. But in all honesty, he was still thinking on how much he hated his belly, his penis, his face. He hated to be the one that has to try and try and not get anything. Not all people fight for what they have and still they have money, a job, love and much more.

Trying to dissipate those thoughts, he repeated to himself that he at least had a loving family. Although one day he had to leave that house or he would really feel awful.

At night, he published the first chapter of his only novel. That was the boldest thing he could do. The subject was hard to swallow and his writing skills could sure use improvement. But he did it anyway as that was the only thing he could do now, to ease the pain a bit.

The next day, he went to buy some cinnamon rolls for the night and something uncomfortable happened: a guy stared at him, as if he was checking him out. He just blushed, bought what he came for rapidly and ran out of the place like a lunatic.

It was still unbearable when people did that. So cruel even. He tried to forget about it for the rest of the day but couldn't. He decide to log on to his blog to check out if someone had written and comment but nothing. "Self centered bastards".

But the night was even stranger than the day. An old school friend called him to his cellphone. He said he had read his first chapter and told him he really liked. Brian was a bit embarrassed. The guy then said: "We should really meet some time". He was red as a tomato. His only answer was "Ok".

And then life went on with Brian. What happened with the caller or with his ambitions as a writer, I just can't tell you. Why? Because those things haven't happened yet, so we might have to wait for some time to pass until we know what kind of life Brian had.

Afterwards

Helena got of bed carefully, not wanting to awake Dave. Last night had been fun but she saw no need of staying around, least of all in his bed.

She pulled the covers as slow as she could, thanked God for Dave being on a fetal position on the opposite side and tiptoed all the way the the bedroom's door. She opened it fast and closed it softly.

- Fuck!

She realized her clothes were in the room. She was only wearing her panties.

The young women, rather short and with a beautiful average body, entered the room again and stayed on the doorframe trying to locate her belongings: her stockings were just beneath the bed, her shoes just by them, her dress near the door and her purse under his briefs.

It was funny, but she had always being judgmental about men wearing briefs. She saw it as a childish thing to wear them but all indications lead to her not minding about that the night before.

As she took her clothes, Helena felt some nausea, feeling her head hurt as she bend over to grab her things.

She went out the room, again, and walked to the living room. She had to be honest, the view from there was just amazing: from there you could see all of downtown and even more. As she noticed the apartment was on a high floor, she decided to dress by the window, checking everything out.

The girl could see people walking on a park below, some cars passing by, a rather peaceful day. She recalled it was sunday but had no idea of the time. She grabbed her purse and pulled out her cellphone: almost dead. Any way, it was 1 PM.

She got scared as maybe her parents had called home or something, but she was soon put at ease when the cellphone begin ringing. As the volume was on full mode, she almost dropped it, scared Dave would wake up.

She went into a bathroom by the living room and closed the door. Now she could answer.

- Hi mom.

- Hey sweetie. Where are you?

- I'm buying bread.

She just said the first thing that came to mind.

- Oh, sleeping late?

- Yeah. Had Monica's birthday yesterday.

- Right... How was that?

- Good. Had... fun. Mom could I call you back when i get back home?

- Sure sweetie. I'll wait.

- Ok mom. Bye.

- Bye.

She hung up on the middle of her mother's "bye". It wasn't a good idea to keep talking in a place where there was a man she didn't wanted to confront.

Helena got out of the bathroom, put on her shoes and took a last look on a mirror Dave had as decoration. She was a little pale and her makeup was a mess. She decided to clean up her face so she entered the bathroom and rinsed her face with water. When she was ready to dried it up, she let out a scream as she saw the man on the bathroom mirror.

To be honest, she didn't screamed because she saw him awake. As she walked out the bathroom she confirmed what she saw: Dave was stretching, still half asleep, naked in front of her.

- Hey... - he said.

She didn't answer. Her face was soaking wet and it seemed as she had forgotten how to talk or move.

- You should dry yourself up. I don't like wet floors.

She reacted then and took a towel. As she did this, Dave entered the kitchen, only separated by the living room by a black marble counter. He turned on the coffee machine and took out a mug from a shelf.

No, Helena didn't even faked it: she saw his body as she hadn't seen it the night before. He was really not a model or the example of perfection but there was something really attractive. She couldn't really point out what it was.

- You want coffee?

- Sure.

No doubt. She needed coffee. She came out of the bathroom again and walked to the counter. He poured some coffee on two mugs and had a big sip before speaking again.

- Have to go?

- Yeah, kinda.

- Oh, ok... Last night was great.

- Guess so...

He smiled.

- What?

- You were drunk, I knew it.

- I wasn't!

- Yes, you were. Do you even remember it all?

It was not her style to lie. She didn't saw the utility of it.

- No.

- It's cool. Just a crazy night then.

He winked at her and drank some more coffee. She only sipped some, not really in the mood to stay longer.

- Look, I have to go.

- Sure, ok.

Helena walked to the door, grabbed the doorknob and turned to Dave.

- I remember you're great in bed and I hadn't had so much fun having sex or talking to sometime in quite some time. Thanks.

He smiled and raised his mug, as if toasting. She smiled too and went out the door.

Dave finished his coffee, scratched his belly and passed one hand over his hair. After thinking of her one last time, he took out some bread from the pantry and put them on the toaster.

He went to the living room to turn on the TV and entered the bathroom to pee. As he did so, he noticed something by the sink: Helena's cellphone.

Sure enough, just after Dave had put on his briefs, he heard the doorbell. Second chance was ringing.

Lies

We love to believe them. They are comfortable an easy to accept and to live by. We don't really assume them as the truth but they are easy to come by and, let's face it, the truth is sometimes too much for many.

Let's say love. Many people still think they can change others or that love is eternal and forever. But we know what's real: no one changes for real, they only evolve in their ways of being. And love dies, and is reborn once and again. As we are beings of mutation and evolution, love is not bound to us and sometimes breaks during those transformations. It's unavoidable, unless the two people involved have worked for it.

Now, we have to state something else: the obsession of the human race for working and effort. Our humanity tells us that in order to be accepted and even admired, we have to work our bodies off to get somewhere and then, we will have recognition.

But is that really the way things should be? Some people say they work hard all their lives to have a better life but they realize that they never enjoy the life they have worked for. Is that really the life we should have? Or the one we want to have?

What about a life of going after what you want? About discovering your needs and passions? Many think they only can do that when they're young, in school. That's way many young people do drugs, have sex, crazy parties and trips. They think they have to gather memories for the future as their adult lives may not enable them to enjoy the things they like in the future.

That's no way of living, although is a respectable one. Many people worry about money and, unfortunately, they have to. They have no chance of avoiding the responsibility of work, unless they have no real goals.

And that's another problem nowadays: people who have no passions or goals are ostracized, as if working hard made them better than others. The world today has created levels and ranks, making certain people admirable and others, not. Those who work and show their work, are admired, even if their real effort was to look for the right people and doing something slightly better than the rest.

No goals means no ambition and this world runs on ambition. We are made to think we need more and, no surprise, most people work hard to get things that they already have or that they really don't need. In many countries it's more important to buy a TV or a car, rather than assuring a good education or healthcare.

More listings have being created even to classify us, to separate us in groups, in order to divide us even by the way we look: ugly, good looking, fat, skinny,... Or by our perceived behavior: rebellious, slut, intelligent, dumb, empty, sportive,...

And what about creativity? In our world, creativity is only appreciated if it server the general need for more of the same. The most award "creators" are the ones working for advertising companies. It has being proven that most campaigns in that world are rip offs one of the other and of the other. Less than 10% are actually original and even when they are, they serve only the great capital and no the people.

So, when our capacity to create is put aside, scientific thought is also put aside. Many countries prefer to invest their earnings in weaponry and other defense related items. Science is not really appreciated, even in "first world" countries. If the United States invested less in war and more in science, many needed discoveries would have already taken place.

We have been obliged to comply with physical models, for men and women, that are impossible or unlikely. Companies want people to think that they will be much more desirable if they are seen in the gym or doing some kind of exercise. The fact that exercising is good for your health, is almost not important. Looking good is what's important.

Our world is one of lies that we decide to live by. But what if we just said "Fuck it" and started living by our standards? Not everyone has to go at the same pace to get somewhere. If your friend is a successful actress, good for her. But do not try to be like her, try to discover who you are, good and bad, and go from there.

We are told to be fast and not stop because time is money. But time is also life and life, if science is correct, is not done twice by the same entity so we have to live as we want to and not as we are told to.

Let's always remember no to divide ourselves in tiny groups and ranks. That creates discrimination and discrimination leads to hate and hate is no way to live life. Just go as you want and see how much more fun life is if you just do your thing.

To Heal and Live

 * This piece of writing is dedicated to all young men and women that have died because of the narrow and hateful minds of others. Love and peace.

  We were never the kind to dwell on anything. It was simple really: we were officially not wanted anywhere in the world. It wasn't surprising or confusing, just a bit painful.

People in general didn't care. That had enough with the war ravaging life here and there. Human rights were not really on the top of the list of things people cared any more. They just wanted to live in peace, like before. We did too and that's how we decided to leave.

Eric had learned that Iceland was a safe haven for many people and was being overlooked. This wasn't World War II, planes didn't need to stop in the middle of the ocean as they could easily do the trip.
Besides, Iceland had signed a pact with the Confederation: they wouldn't mess with them as long as they didn't mess with Iceland. Fair enough. The Confederation wasn't really interested in them, at least not yet, as they had bigger fish to capture.

The day Eric got with the news of our future journey on the Aurora, a freight boat bound for Canada, it didn't came up as a surprise when we the news broadcasted live the invasion of West Africa by the Confederation. Horrible images of gruesome deaths and bombing were broadcasted daily and, as the country had surrendered to the confederation, they had to show it all, no editing.

We gathered the few possessions we still had, put them on one big suitcase and hugged goodbye our families. It was clear that it might be the last time we saw them, so we were sure to say it loud one last time, in case they died or we died. That was the reality of things.

For one whole day we hitchhiked to the coast. Many men and women were heading there: they thought that there was still a chance to head out of the country as the Confederation hadn't invaded yet. The government, strangely, didn't care or was sure no one would be successful. No one really knew.

I said goodbye to my city too. Bombings and rioting had left the mountains hollow at some points. It had always being a rather grayish city but now that gloomy ambiance was permanent and real.

The rest of the journey was easy: several days on the Aurora, helping the sailors and becoming sailors ourselves. We worked hard, helping with everything but we knew nothing of the sea. We didn't feel relieved when we got to Saint John: we had learned to loved the sea in just those few days and we felt the ocean might be the perfect getaway from the crumbling world around us.

But we had to go on. We were careful as the Confederation had been in control of the territory for quite some time but they still permitted life to go on as normal as it could. For three days, we avoided contact with anyone, hiding in almost destroyed buildings or in the surrounding wilderness. Finally, one night, we entered an oil tanker bound for Reykjavik and prayed for the boat to sail soon.

And it did. They discovered us but we begged for them to let us go as soon as we got to the mainland. Of course, we had to make an agreement: we were slaved for the duration of the journey. Everything from kitchen duties, to moping floors and cleaning bathrooms. I cried every night, wishing all would end. Eric couldn't infuse me with positivism as he felt exactly the same.

We we got to Iceland, we realized the journey wasn't over. The capital was filled with confederates and we needed to avoid them at all costs.

The truth is that we were part of the resistance, the one that existence for just a few weeks before the invasion of our country and the signature of the annexation treaty. A puppet president, a former president to be exact, was established and we became something less than a colony. Eric and I met for the first time after I had put a bomb on an official's car. He saved me from being arrested and I thank him for that up to this day.

We offered our work as fishermen and soon we had steady jobs, fishing herring of the coast. Our boss was a fat oppressive man, but he was fair nevertheless. He never missed a payment and even let us live on one of the boats.

Two months after arriving in Iceland, we were sent to Akureyri, a small port in the north coast. We sailed alone, the two of us in our boss's boat. I think that was when I really fell in love with Eric. The beautiful scenery, the relative calm and the fact that we could finally be open without anyone looking, pointing or eavesdropping, were all ingredients for it.

But life was a bitch with us, with all the letters. In Akureyri we met with the boss's son, who wanted us to fish in some dangerous places. We were obliged to do it as we had no papers and, officially, immigrants were banned. So we did it, we had to use explosives for fishing and I almost blew a hand off when using one.

It all ended one night, after we had arrived from our fishing trip. We were exhausted and in need of food. We didn't had much money so we shared a plate of herring and a beer. And then, again, the looks came back. It was like being in our country all over again. We finished fast and left the place.
A group of men followed us, surrounded us and beat the crap out of us, with a metal pipe and their arms and legs.

We thought that they were going to leave us there, in a dim lit street, but they decided to put us on one of their cars and rode for more than an our. I was on the edge of fainting but couldn't. Eric did faint but he was woken up when they got us out the car, by the road and the started again. They spitted us at the end and one of them peed on our heads. They laughed and threatened us and then they left. I finally fainted, wishing I was dead once again. I thought that if needed, I would kill myself if I woke up.

Sure enough, we didn't died. I woke up to a sniffing and licking dog. He was a shepherd dog. I recognized it as my grandfather had one when I was little. I could only open my eyes a bit but not talk or stand. I couldn't see Eric and I thought of his death. And I cried, with horrible pain all over.

So it happens, the dog's name was Odin, as the norse god. And his owners were farmers. They owned sheep in a small farm near Lake Logurinn. I have no idea how these two elderly people could do it but hey put both of us on the back of their car, alongside bags of manure and dog food. I fainted and had a an awful dream, of the beating and Eric dying. It seemed to go on forever until I woke up.

It was a beautiful little house, made of wood, as if it had been taken out of a fairytale. The room was small, only big enough for a double size bed and a furnishing with some drawers. After I had overcome the pain of my injuries, I noticed Eric sleeping besides me. He wasn't dead. I hugged him, hard, not caring for our physical pain. Him being there was everything.

We recovered slowly but steadily. Antonia and Carl told us we reminded them of their two sons that had left the country to fight the Confederation in Canada, some years ago. They decided to pick us up and help us as they thought of our parents.
We told them our story, nothing edited out of it and they offered us their home and kindness. They lived on the cotton they could sell and asked us for help so we learned the craft and in a few months we became farmers.

It was painful but, in order to fit in completely, I had to change my name. I became Johannes. Eric's name was just perfect, as he was after all that happened. Often alone on the hills and fields, we could really fall in love with each other. sharing every single part of our lives. And we were fine with it. Only taking his hand made me feel safe, even if this place seemed to have been forgotten by the world. The Confederation never came here, we were told by our friends, they only cared for resources and the vicinity was deprived of minerals or anything they would care to steal.

A year after our arrival in the country we were able to build a small house near our friends home. We did it ourselves with stones and wood. I think that helped us regain some trust in ourselves and makes us heal psychologically.

And that was our life. For five years, before the Big Battle, we were happy and everything was perfect. It wouldn't last forever but that wasn't important: we were given time with each other and to heal and I have always being grateful for that.