what I never earned

Growing up, we’re taught a bunch of useless stuff, along with some quite-as-useless guidelines that are supposed to help us become better. It’s usually the same for everyone. Be good, do good, help old people cross the street and feed the cat every once in a while. I’ll forever love and hate what the universe taught me from the very beginning: that I’ll always have to earn the smallest of things others just get. That I had to make up for my parents’ mistakes, that I had to build everything from scratch for it to actually be mine.  When you’re a kid, it seems natural, everything looks as if it’s exactly the way it should. And you wake up one day, somewhere late in your miserable adulthood and understand your life does not belong to you. I had to wake up at 10, being someone I’d never thought of, with this cliched backstory, and a couple of years ahead to figure life out, to earn a family, to earn some friends, to find a way to deserve the “normal”.

Now I’m still wide awake. Time passed by, I earned my name and two or three people that know it. Yet everything I never deserved made me into what I am today. I never deserved help, so I helped as much as I was able to. I never deserved love, so I endlessly loved everyone I’ve ever met. I still long for happiness, and I still have some strength left to try and earn it. I still think it’s unfair, I still believe I’m not the only one. I still hope that someday, years from now, things will fall, for once, together. It’d be a life I wouldn’t know how to live. You can only have that much love to give, that much hope and strength to keep going. And I’m running out of them all.

infinity

It sometimes takes a long time. To feel better, to be better, to do better. It took me too long to learn to take a step back and simply look at myself. It was one of those long nights wishing for something to always be there. A thought, a sparkle that would just never leave me. Or one of those nights I was only wishing you’d be okay. And in those nights I’d picture myself leaving, aware that there was nothing I could ever come back to. Turning to a clean slate. Writing in an empty notebook. Writing differently. Yet I knew I couldn’t. Everything in my life has forged me into what I am now. I’d walk through fire and I’d reach the moon in two hours on a rainy Tuesday morning. I’d visit heaven and hell on a starry night in August. I’d be the glass shattered on a hotel room’s floor and I’d be a masterpiece in a museum. It was violent. It was scary and I’m freaked out as I still have a lifetime left. 

It’s not strength, it’s routine. It’s not admiration, it’s pity. It’s not a blizzard, it’s a freaking tornado. And I’ll take steps back and count them. And I’ll reach stars and count them. And I’ll find an end to this infinity.

wish you well

Three years ago today, was the last time I saw you. It was that kind of day that would make me wanna dance on a crowded street as I make my way through the steady figures I didn’t pay attention to. The sense of home, the rush of blood, the sunglasses and an old leather jacket. You were a familiar summer rain. One I both waited for and was afraid of. One that caught me off guard, opened a door to a warm and stormy future and then disappeared. Too quickly. The sky cleared out and the sun was shining too bright. The unbearable heat yet came from inside me. The fire of an illusion was burning from within and I was the clear sky. Shapeless. 

For three years I dreamed of you. I dreamed you called my brother a couple times. I dreamed you died once or twice. I heard you when some friend was talking and I saw you in my mirror’s image. 
You never got to see the person I have become, and I know we’re both fine with that. I found a way to miss you and never want to see you again. I learned to wish you well and to hope you will never drown in that dark regretful soul of yours. I may have convinced myself once that I’ll forgive you sometime. But why give forgiveness to someone who expects empty excuses? I won’t apologize for your mistakes. I won’t ever wish for you to need me or miss me. 

I think I’ll meet you once, years from now, in the coffee shop of some gas station on a highway in some other country and you’ll ask me how I’ve been. Until then, I wish you well. 

things I should have said but never did

You don’t get to walk back into my life
And put everything on hold.
You don’t get to make me follow a damned routine
For maybe we’ll meet again.

Yet, I spend them nights in the same old bar
Same champagne
Same meaningless thoughts racing
And a new order of a world too insane
Which I can barely figure out
From behind the red in my eyes.
And I got to call the ones that own this
My oldest friends.
And I got to constantly look after a certain icy glance
And I kept wondering weather you left already or not.

Yet, I walked the empty streets
At some late hour
It was raining
And I was wearing sunglasses
So I wouldn’t recognize a mirror’s image.

Yet, I drove home and I thought of you
I bought a place and I thought of you
I danced alone and I thought of you
I kissed someone and I thought of you
Someone died and I thought of you
I called off the search for my soul
And I though of you.

will try to fix you

I collect people. I count the days by the smiles of loved ones and years by the people I’ve lost. I try to fix people, thinking I’ll fix myself in the process. Somehow, something or someone always needs to be fixed.

We’ve been taught everyone has a backstory, and that either daddy issues or a heart once broken are the unspoken reasons behind a miserable existence. We motivate one’s choices and mistakes by assuming they’re broken inside or that there’s much more to their story than we’ll ever know. And we’re always right. We’re the generation that wants to be deranged, that craves a deeper meaning behind every action. We write poems, burn our lungs with cigars and our throats with alcohol to make reality bearable. We trust no one, let alone ourselves. We blame our parents for what we’ve become and for not accepting our constant discontent with the whole damn world. We pour our souls on walls of empty buildings. We may actually be broken inside, and we want people to know it. Our misery is out in the open, making others curious about the reason behind it. It’s not as selfish or attention-seeker as it sounds. Through that, we connect to one another. We reach the ultimate level of intimacy not through making out as through drunk conversations late in the night. We feel closest to someone when they’re vulnerable, messed up and asking for help, because that’s when we know they’re as damaged as we expected them to be, and that explains everything. That’s the backstory, that’s what made them who they are and that’s what makes them interesting. Because nobody ever wrote books about people that were simply happy, and no one sang about the ones that had their life together.

We romanticize everything that destroys us and we want to be a little sad, a little deranged, a little messed up, hoping that someone will prove us there’s no reason to.

I’ve forgotten my heart in places I’ve never been to. I’ve fallen for people that aren’t there. There’s sun flowing through my veins and salted water flooding my lungs. I’m burning alive and it’s hellishly perfect.

soundtrack

There are people, thousands of people who grew up miles away and years apart from each other, yet they all have a similar story to tell. I’m not one to love to hear about someone’s day, but I know that, at the end of it, we’ve all been through ups and downs. And we all had a song for each.

We’ve all had a song we used to dance to before we could think properly, before we could even walk. As the tiny little human you were, you used to hear your mother singing you to sleep or the radio making some insanely attractive noise that made you wave your hands and put a smile on your face that made everyone around you smile even brighter. You don’t remember the song. Yet, that was the soundtrack of that time.

You actually may remember those children parties you used to attend whenever one of those kids across the street you used to play with was getting older than you. You were fascinated by the candles, by the sounds. Wheather you were singing ‘Happy Birthday’ or trying to master the dancing moves of some blonde teen on a spatial ship you’ve seen on TV, you were still smiling everytime, and, once again, making everyone around you love the soundtrack of your childhood.

Do you remember the first song you were able to sing along to? I can only imagine it was one of those you used to hear on the radio thousands of times a day, yet I don’t know the name, nor the lyrics, or at least I don’t know which one it is. I remember the music my dad used to play in the car whenever we were travelling, as it was always Coldplay, or the one my mom used to play on the radio as each and every song, somehow, made someone move to its beat or dream of something the lyrics spoke of.

Now? Now I wake up every day and put music on before even looking in the mirror. I have headphones as part of the outfit and I know that no matter what happens, I’ll find a song to fit the whole situation. I’ll get it inside my head for weeks then I’ll forget about it for years. But after a while, I will remember how I once listened to someone saying I should ‘’pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars’’, or how I got to believe that ‘’space may be the final frontier, but it’s made in the Hollywood basement’’. I will remember about a time when ‘’it was all yellow’’ or about that summer that hurt. About how I realized that I may have taken things too far and ‘’saw the headlights shining in the dark night’’ or how I swore I’d fall in love that summer, how I heard that I ‘’ain’t getting any younger’’, how I promised ‘’I’ll be good’’ and that I’d somehow always find my way back to the blue sea.

We dance through life without a choreography, we sing without knowing the lyrics, and somehow, once in a blue moon, we get the steps and the notes right.