I am crashing 

I’m stuck in a pattern. Has this ever happened to you? You realize the same thing happens once and again. What am I suppose to learn universe? Please tell me and I’ll read up. I’m lost. I must confess I’m lazy. I don’t believe in doing anything for money. I refuse to sell my soul. I thought energy was the most important currency; it is. But money’s power cripples in and leaves me speechless. 

I’m falling down without a sign of a parachute. It’s not that bad. I enjoy the wind and the words that pop into my head while I fall. There are things that keep me from crashing into the ground. 

I am crashing and falling down but I’m wishing and hoping to create the tools to make a hole in the ground that will take me to Wonderland through the rabbit hole. I don’t want to crawl up the building that leads to the boring office, I wanna find my way to Wonderland. Please show me the way universe; please shed the yellow light. I need it. 

I am crashing down but maybe it’s just what’s suppose to happen; at least that’s what I need to believe. Go on gravity, bring it. I won’t fight you, I’ll come crashing and it’ll be epic.

Written in the stars

It was a wondrous day. She woke up and something happened.

It was a normal day. She woke up and nothing happened.

What fills our days with wonder? We do.

I have a wondrous mother. She wakes up and smiles. She’s been through thick and thin and still decides to look at the good. She’s a good witch.

I’m a combination between a good and bad witch. I have a bundle of emotions inside of me battling on a daily basis. My biggest enemy is inaction. I know I’m meant to be doing something great and I’m still a bit stuck. It’s OK. This is my magic. My magic is expressing myself; even if only one person reads, that’s my magic. I also sing. I also paint. I have colors and shapes trying to make their way out of my being. I apologize to those things for not having more time and discipline to let them out. I’m sorry I haven’t had more people listen. I swear I will keep trying if it kills me.

I am an artist. Saying that is hard. Who decided what you are? I guess it’s just what you want to do even if they don’t pay you. No one pays me to do this and here I am.

I have potions that make me be understanding and I am. I feel what the person next to me feels. I always have a sense that I’m in the wrong song but I sorta keep calm and carry on. There’s no room for everyone to be someone in this world but there is room for me because, once again, I am here. We are human beings; not human doings. When did we forget that? I always forget and if I’m not doing anything I feel guilty. Enjoying and living and pushing through is sometimes enough.

It’s either written in the stars or it’s not. You either do something or do nothing. You write your story on a daily basis and you decide what you do with it. I certainly want to do much more with it and all I truly want deep inside is to make my mom proud.

Follow your star and if you haven’t found it yet, write it.

Maybe the happy ending

It’s a little bit messy and imperfect. It’s a little bit beautiful and confusing. We all want the happy ending, but where is it? It is here and I just missed it? Or is it not here and it’s what motivates us to get out of bed in the morning? I’m not sure and that’s O.K.

Martin says it should all be pretty and fun. Him saying that helps. Me actually believing that is a whole other story. I love characters and I love stories; maybe that’s why I always expect that haunting happy ending. I like the part of the story where there’s struggle because it makes it interesting and intense. It’s been a bit more boring than usual and the fight feels long. Being real can feel like a full time job. Being real has never been hard but it is hard when someone refuses to see authenticity. Some do. Some don’t. That’s that.

Trees are always beside me and they speak to me. Their strength and their roots remind me that some things do last even throughout windy and dark times. We must keep calm and carry on. Will I keep getting older and have my dreams waiting for me anxiously to make them a reality?  I hope not for long; I hope not forever. I hope I can get a head start and finish soon enough to get some sort of prize. I hope the audience won’t be gone by the time the curtain goes up. I know talking about this isn’t as transcendent as actually doing something about it. But hey, I’m used to being a tortured artist; I can’t help myself.

Maybe the happy ending is now. Maybe we create it and accepting its imperfections is what matters most. Maybe.

Broken dreams 

It decided to be born by accident. It wasn’t planned. It started with a desire and died as an idea. Once upon another time the voice lived. It still lives in a dream and doesn’t know how to become real. Its creator is struggling with the living. And so it patiently waits to be brought forth. 
The closest it got to becoming was in a small town full of broken souls. Everyone was lost enough so that the dream hostess did not care enough about the judgment and just sang.
Life got in the way, as it usually did, and the almost dream got lost once more. It’s been silent for yet another year. In the shelf it remains. 
It’s a broken dream, it’s many broken dreams. Where do they go? The desire to make them happen isn’t always enough and they become passive. They remain in a world created by wandering souls. 
It’s a day when the dream remains lost but not forgotten. It will be waiting to come forth until the desire dies or burns brighter. I wait for the day where the voice can scream and be heard. I’ve been silent all these years and silence is an interesting teacher. I’m trying to learn and hold the desire in my heart. 
And to those dreamers that feel like giving up, don’t. Even if you want to and think you should, don’t. I have nothing else to say except: don’t. 

Meant to be

It’s a struggle until you unlearn what was taught to you by the passing voices in the halls of the school or the college you never went to. By the authority figures that think they’re doing you good by making you fit into the box. Boxes aren’t for everyone.
The leaves fall year after year and our expectations are left hanging on the wall as an art project because no one told you it’s never going to be the way you thought it would be.

 
We create beliefs and hope that most of them are positive instead of negative. You know what you don’t want, and so you venture out thinking that you’ll find what is perfect. But more than finding perfection you find life. You’re left between the cracks and you think that’s a bad thing but then you realize that that’s what makes you; that’s what makes art.

 
Those who can see beyond what is happening and have the understanding of a wallflower are the ones that are screaming on the inside. They’re the ones with opinions and all they want is to be heard.
Once in a blue moon you find one of the others and smile knowing you’re not alone. Sometimes one of the others turns away because the light is too bright for the darkness.

 
And then one day you’re woken up to a beautiful mess and all you know for sure is that it’s yours. The pieces, the colors, the memories, the moments aren’t there to be judged but observed and acknowledged. The books read will forever be stored in your hard drive. The opportunities missed will forever live in a parallel world.
The events waiting to happen and the stories untold are waiting for you to step in and bring them to life.
The love is felt by a beating heart and the pain has evaporated the tears but not without leaving a tiny scar on the left side of your brain.
It’s overwhelming and it’s all a part of it. It’s completely undone and touched poetically by the talkative sky. It’s here and it’s yours and it doesn’t have an ending; very much like this story.
It goes on and on until it’s easy to transition into what is meant to be.

Pain

My choices have made no sense. I look back and don’t understand a thing. It all made sense until I graduated high school. I was the perfect little girl. I didn’t question anything. I had no issues with any teachers or any authority figure. Some people around me did have some issues with me. Just my existence seemed to bother them. I had a cousin whose sole purpose was to make my life miserable. There was this other girl Regina, she wanted me to have no friends. So, even without me being aware of it…I was an outcast. It was all subconscious. I was different but nobody informed me. More than that, I was thrown into the most logical, structured, controlled environment you could think of. I was innocent, I was pure. I didn’t know much at the time. I graduated with good grades and then it all began. My subconscious mind started to act out. I got into a very prestigious University, as it was to be expected. I got in, the extended family was happy. Then, everything the professors were saying made no sense. They were telling us how to think. They were telling us nothing mattered more than money. I snapped.

I had always liked music but I had been shy. I didn’t want to be like everybody else. Odd since that had been what I had done for 18 years. How could I know anything else? Maybe it was my mom. My mom was typical but not quite. She also had this spark in her that told her there was more. She saw me before I saw me. She knew I was an artist. I didn’t even know the definition of such person. It’s OK to be odd? How could that be? All that had mattered was doing what I was told.

I said goodbye to the prestigious University that would have gotten me any job I’d like and decided to move to L.A and study music. There was one little problem I did not quite contemplate. I didn’t know how to commit to being a rebel. Yes, it was there…but so was the logical side that I had worked on for so long. I embarked on my journey as an artist and didn’t make it. That’s OK. Everyone needs a happy ending; I’ve learned that they are not what they seem. Life isn’t what it seems. And that’s fine.

So I’m always in between. The only little thing was that I never committed to the logical side or the artistic side. I’m both. I’m always in between. Because of this, I suffer. I don’t feel like I fit in here not there. This all started when I was 19. I realized I was half and half. It has caused much pain but hey…you can’t be something you’re not.

I love prestige and success. I love raw and real. I love being free but I think money is great. I like things to be easy but the struggle also inspires me to write. I have a logical boyfriend and he pushes me more towards the logical side and I think deep down inside I’m more an artist. Why? They’re cooler, they’re rarer. They are admired, they leave a mark.

And so, the last three years and a half was the longest I was able to commit to being outside the system and some sort of artist. I wrote a book, I had gigs around town for a year and I started two blogs. I guess that’s something. And then, suddenly, I ran out of money. It had happened before but and this is a big but; now I’m in love. As most know, love changes everything. Love doesn’t allow you to get away with a lot of crap you can get away with when you’re single. You can eat soup everyday and it doesn’t matter if you’re single. But, as I’ve mentioned before, he’s the logical type and he’s somebody. I don’t know what that means. That’s a lie; I do know what that means but I’m a bit surprised I ended up with someone so different than what I’ve become. I haven’t just ended up with him, I’m madly and deeply in love with him. Who am I then? I’m willing to move to a high paced city and get a more corporate job so that I can “make it”. Am I being a hypocrite or is that who I am? It doesn’t matter. I guess sometimes some things shouldn’t be associated with our identity.

Our plan is to work and save and travel. Yes, that’s right. I said our plan. Never had my plan included someone else and now it does. I’m grateful for this love. I’m simply going through this transition. I feel blindfolded. I feel neutral. I feel this is what has to happen. It has made me cry a couple of times. It has caused pain. But that’s fine. Who would I be without pain? My life never seems to be calm, it never seems to be figured out and I should embrace that. It has been anything but boring.

So yes; this is a bit painful. And you know what? That’s fine. Pain isn’t about avoidance. Pain demands to be felt so there you go pain. I feel you, I embrace you, I don’t resist you. We can be friends and write beautiful things together. You’re here and you are not ignored.

That’s the thing about pain; it demands to be felt. Yes, I feel pain. But I’m smart and pretty and I can keep calm and carry on.

Who I’m supposed to be

I know who I’m supposed to be: confident, happy, strong, independent. I feel like I can have anyone. I feel powerful and in control of who I am. I walk in and everyone looks at me. Girls want to be me, men want me. I have a strong foundation and a small but very special group of friends.

I get to have it all. I work in art but with a fabulous successful life. I perfect my skills on a daily basis and never procrastinate. I have the ideal weight and don’t really have to worry about being healthy because I simply am.

I know exactly how to dress and what my look is. My past inspires me to inspire others. I have long hair and can travel as frequently as my heart desires to do so.

But then the evil forces take over.  I don’t know her name. Let’s call her Malia. She’s insecure, stupid, procrastinates and cannot seem to have her shit together. She goes on and on about her insecurities and is looking for approval from anyone and everyone.

I’m a Gemini, maybe that explains something to those who believe in that stuff. If it is true, I am in this constant battle between who I should be and how I sometimes feel I am not. Will it ever feel right? I do know that in those moments when I am who I know I’m supposed to be, life shines. The light is so bright, I can’t even stand it.

Maybe we’ll never be completely who we’re supposed to be, but better. The trials and tribulations make us more human and help us help others. I do know some people that seem to be perfect, I’m not one of them…and that’s OK.

I’m an artist and artists have the responsibility of feeling absolutely everything.

Knowing who I’m supposed to be is better than not having a clue. A few years ago I didn’t have a clue. I do not know why it has taken me so long but that’s fine too. As many books point out: you cannot go against what is. Try to become a better version of yourself little by little and try not to be too hard on yourself. I know that’s all I’m trying to do. And I know now I’ll get there somehow. I don’t know exactly how or when…but I’ll get there if it kills me. Good night and good luck.

Endings?

I’ve had a million beginnings.

Once upon a time there was a little girl. She only cared for purple and had a lovely lady watch over her. She’d tell her stories at night, so the little girl learned how to dream. They were mostly fairy tales. She started to dream. She wanted to dance, sing and get all the attention that these perfect princesses seem to naturally attract. Mandy was quiet but had dreams hidden inside. Boys never liked her, she was too strong and big for them. She’d hope there would be at least one that would come and play. He never showed.

Once upon this other time she was a teenage girl. She started to grow an interest for books, strange words, unique sounds and other weird creatures. Her loneliness made her creative. She completely forgot about the little boy that wouldn’t play with her. She was too young to remember. There were a couple of boys she fancied but they chose other girls and our dearest Mandy stood alone again. This one would be harder to forget.

Once upon any other time Mandy was in her mid twenties. She wasn’t just looking for love this time. Somewhere along the way she got distracted and lost her soul. She was looking for both now. She started with the soul first since she figured that’d be pretty useful for everything else. After trying really really hard, she found neither.

Once upon many other times our girl was tired and a few years older than before. She didn’t have a soul, she hadn’t found love but she did have a restless heart. It wouldn’t leave her alone. Here she was again, as usual, alone.

Once upon another time, she’s 30. She’s never known love. She’s the sun and recently found a moon. He doesn’t believe love exists. She likes him but isn’t sure if this is yet another perfect opportunity to be left stranded as usual in the middle of nowhere with barely enough water to survive. She running out of bandages to mend her broken heart. When will there be any sort of ending? A girl needs closure.

I guess sometimes we aren’t supposed to understand.

Once upon the perfect time…

Why perfection?

It’s an abandoned place. There’s a little girl that feels lonely. She doesn’t know what to do except pretend that everything’s perfect and express herself. There isn’t much to eat and she’s lost a few pounds. She’s pale and has short hair. She has forgotten what real life looks like. All she owns is one skin colored dress. Her feet are dirty from walking around.

She grows up through struggle. She doesn’t know what she deserves. Against all odds, she survives. She doesn’t know what to do so she decides to create. She dances and she sings. She starts to write these imperfect stories. Because of these imperfect stories, she’s curious about others that have also led imperfect lives. Perfection seems like an impossible dream. She still fights for it.

She’s on her way there and gets trapped in the middle. In between the old broken life she had and the perfect one she strives to achieve. Will she get there? It’s up to her.

On a cloudy afternoon she looks up and sees what she’s created. She’s made songs, she’s made a mess but she’s made something. The little girl is now a woman and she likes to forget. But when she remembers, she documents. She sees pain and feels it. She also sees a strange kind of beauty in others. She opens her eyes and realizes that the ugliness made her. The graffiti wasn’t a mistake after all, it was art. The stories she tells reminds others of where she’s been and how there’s nothing wrong with it, even when it shouldn’t have happened.

The hungry little girl still lives inside of her. Why strive for perfection? She doesn’t know but she doesn’t want what wasn’t meant to be had. Maybe perfection lives wherever we are now and what we get to create with what we have.

Seeing others have these seemingly perfect lives makes her wonder why it doesn’t feel like that for her. It doesn’t matter. What matters most is that she express herself. Even if all else fails, she must create. What saved her as a little girl will be what saves her as an adult.

Alle is beautiful. She doesn’t remember it often and others don’t tell her enough, but she is perfect. She might not feel it but her abilities are beyond belief. She’s flawed and isn’t afraid to show it and that’s as close to perfection as anyone could ever get.

Party girls

Party girls don’t get hurt, Sia’s right. Why does the numbness make big girls cry in the darkness then? Where do these suppressed emotions go? Do we bury them deeper or do we become so good at pretending that they actually disappear.

 1,2,3…1,2,3

 Party girls drink, this is true. Why do some have it together so easily and these girls don’t? How did we become these party girls? We like the attention, we like the emotions. We’re fabulous and nobody can deny it. Behind the scenes isn’t as glamorous but equally beautiful.

 1,2,3…1,2,3

 We just want to fly through the night and have our tears finally dry out. Will they ever disappear? Will age help? I don’t know. Until morning light, we’ll keep the glasses full. Until the moon vanishes, we’ll hold on as tightly as we can. The shame will show up but soon enough, the night will come again.

 1,2,3…1,2,3

 Losing count might be the only thing that makes us not lose it completely. Swinging from a chandelier seems perfectly understandable when this living situation makes no sense whatsoever. We don’t know where we are or where we’re suppose to be. It rang true to my heart.

 1,2,3…1,2,3

 I don’t know how many times I’ve tried to escape. Have I succeeded? Well, can anyone escape themselves? Until I know, I’ll hold on for dear life.