Y yo encontré Enigma, Suicide, Fool y extra porque me gustó Leave

(Me preocupa el suicide)

I'm the girl...

I'm the girl who covers her mouth when anything exciting happens

I'm also the girl who covers her eyes when something scary happens

But mostly I'm the girl who smiles when anything romantic happens

BTW: I missed you like I had nothing else to do

I wanted to tell you

I wanted to tell you a thousand things.

I wanted to tell you about someone completely stupid that I don't hate

I wanted to tell you about my last mistake with every detail

I wanted to tell you about this crazy dream I had

I wanted to tell you about every tear I cried and every laugh I have had

I wanted to tell you about my family

I wanted to tell you about my dreams, the ones I have with my eyes open

I wanted to tell you about flying

I wanted to tell you about this book I read, that I loved

I wanted to tell you about my friends, and how they're going crazy

I wanted to tell you about this thought I keep having and how I push it as far away as possible

I wanted to tell you about this crazy cough I've been having

I wanted to tell you about how I'm worried about myself

I wanted to tell you a hundred things but you don't care about them

So, I swallowed.

Te invito a mi domingo, no prometo que nos vamos a divertir pero podemos aburrirnos juntos.

Date a girl...

Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.

Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.

Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilightseries.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes.

(via This)

No puedes culparme por ocultarte información, sabes que es prácticamente mi pasatiempo favorito, sabes también que no lo hago a propósito, por lo menos no siempre, además sabes perfectamente que si es realmente importante eventualmente te lo diré, me demoraré y daré un montón de vueltas, diré un millón de cosas, pero lo diré, en parte porque sé cuanto odias que me demore comunicándote cosas que consideras importantes y porque sospechas (con toda razón) que esa es mi forma de evadir problemas, no mencionarlos nunca.

Y esta es mi forma, totalmente indirecta de decirte que tienes razón, de nuevo, que sí, hay algo dándome vueltas en la cabeza y que he intentado ocuparme y darle vueltas a todas las pendejadas que se me han ocurrido solo para no tener que pensar. Prometo decírtelo en algún momento de mi vida, prometo contártelo y prometo lidiar con eso tan pronto me sienta capaz de hacerlo.

12.03.11

No necesite muchas pistas, no cuando las pocas que entendí eran claras como el agua, por supuesto que estaban hablando de... sí, de eso.

Todo el mundo supuso que era... el mismo tema de siempre, no?

Y en parte tenían razón, el problema es que no sabían cual era el mismo tema de siempre y de nuevo ahí estaban, otra vez recordando todo, una vez más, solo que en mensajes tan cripticos que no estuve segura de que estuvieran hablando conmigo y luego mencionaron un mameluco, julio y una locura como olvidar el pasado y de repente me llego a la mente el estúpido mameluco con una camisa manga larga.

For one night, no regrets

I do not know how did you manage to do it in just one night, but you did, you gave me one of the best nights of my life, one of those you never forget, because it wasn't perfect, it was probably meant to be the worst night ever and you managed to make it fun, you managed to make me enjoy myself and let go, you managed to make me dance and laugh at the same time, I know I acted stupid and you didn't make a big deal out of it and I know I asked the most stupid questions ever and yet you answered them, so thank you, because thanks to you I don't regret anything, except not seeing you again.

It's funny how life works.

It's funny how one small comment ruins a whole day, it's funny how nothing works out during a whole day and you see how everything goes down the drain and yet you manage to remain calm, you manage to shrug it off, and then, at 11 pm, just one hour for the crappy day to be over, there it is, the one comment that ruins it all, the stupid little, tiny drop that makes you feel like garbage, like a waste of everything, that's when you feel the meltdown coming, and it comes, everything just comes to haunt you, the whole stupid failure in every single part of your life, because let's face it, everything is going down the drain in your life.

Yeah, life's funny like that.

Bogotá

De Bogotá no me gusta hablar, sé que suena tonto, pero Bogotá es mía, sola y únicamente mía.

No me gusta compartirla, vale que cuento algunas de mis anécdotas de buses, porque pues son francamente inverosímiles, pero de la ciudad, de su cielo gris y azul cuando le daba la gana, de la brisa que podía ser desde juguetona hasta totalmente molesta, de la lluvia que iba desde pendeja hasta torrencial, de mis caminatas largas y cortas por sus calles enredadas y sencillas, de eso no hablo, porque esos recuerdos son míos.

Las lluvias torrenciales con brisa que volteaban paraguas, esas que podían durar 15 minutos o una hora, esas que cuando era un buen día y había paraguas a la mano podían ser geniales, esas que me dañaban el paraguas justo antes de montarme al bus o justo después de bajarme, esas lluvias torrenciales que nunca me dieron gripa a pesar de que era feliz mojándome, esas lluvias no las compartí nunca.

También estaba ese cielo que era solo mio, cada tarde al salir de la universidad, me fijaba en los colores, porque sin importar lo que dijera mi horario, lo más temprano que salía era minutos antes de la puesta del sol y amaba ese cielo, siempre me sacaba una sonrisa y ese cielo no lo compartí nunca.

Y claro estaban los buses, estaban las anécdotas que nunca conté de los buses, todo lo que encontré en ellos, uno de los chocolates más ricos que he probado en mi vida, el señor que vendía manillas y era costeño, la señora que se montó a pedir trabajo y consiguió números de teléfono y promesas de donaciones, la vez que en un bus totalmente vacío se monto un señor y se sentó en el puesto al lado mio y cómo rece para que por favor no me pasara nada y nada paso, las dos mil veces que me quede dormida y me pase o las veces que me levantaba corriendo a timbrar para descubrir que faltaban todavía dos cuadras, la vez que cogí un bus en la dirección opuesta y la que camine porque me equivoque de bus y no tenía plata, todas esas anécdotas, todas esas historias son solo mías.

Las caminatas, los paros, los buses que cambiaban de ruta a medio camino, la primera vez que cogí un bus a las 8 de la noche, la universidad, con todo lo que eso incluye, la candelaria, las tiendas de barrio, los almuerzos de los domingos, los restaurantes de siempre, los helados a pesar del frío, las apuestas idiotas, los paros de la nacional y la ESMAD que llegaba...

Mi relación con Bogotá es como esa relación que uno tiene con un ex-novio, no quiere hablar de él porque se entristece uno, fueron 5 años maravillosos y uno no quiere compartir nunca jamas los momentos especiales y aunque diga que la odie, que prefiero mil veces Cartagena, que Bogotá jamás va a ser ni la mitad de linda que Cartagena, la verdad es que amo a Bogotá, la amo como nunca pensé que lo haría, la amo como si fuera mía, porque lo fue.

De manera que esta es mi manera de homenajear mi hogar por 5 años.