Writing is me processing every thought: 20 de febrero de 2015
Writing is me processing every thought.
Last night Manuel told me, “Pienso que la gente piensa demasiado,” when I asked him if he thought that the majority of people think about things that actually matter. He said he thought it’d be better if everyone thought a bit less, cleared their minds out a bit. Qué buena respuesta, ¿no?
Now I’m thinking, maybe I should write less and think less, because writing is me over-thinking, over-analyzing. But it’s kind of like masturbating in a way: maybe it makes you feel guilty, or think that you shouldn’t do it, but in the end it really doesn’t matter. So I continue to write. Anyway, I smoked paraguayo from my pipe and all I can do is vomit words…
I can feel the difference in energies from one space to another, positives and negatives floating and spinning and mixing. Chemically, intuitively. Weed gives me a surge of energy, and channeling it feels like learning, like adapting, mejorándome en cada momento. It’s like you get so high you can feel all your own insecurities pushing outward, and you’re forced to deal with them. That whole situation is a good experience. If you can accept it, acknowledge it calmly, nod in its direction, you’re one step ahead on the road to self-confidence. Or something.
Suddenly the quiet air of my room expands and I realize I live in a bird’s nest, a third-floor window with a view of the patio. I can watch without being seen. I’m some mutant flying cat with aloneness leaking from the ceiling; it’s all over my hands as I try to clean it up, finally giving in and letting it drown me. But it’s like those dreams where you’re swimming in the ocean and then realize you can breathe underwater and everything becomes an adventure instead of a choking nightmare.
That’s how I live in this introverted mind: the others become angry when I dance out of their reach, not sitting down, not asking questions, avoiding conversations, not “participating.” But I let them feel angry and continue moving in my own manner. I can only live in this mind, and if I try to change how I am, that ocean returns to the nightmare it was initially.
Qué loco que el español sea otro mundo completamente que el inglés. Para mí, el español es más oscuro y pesado, como si hubiera más gravedad que antes. Pero en una buena manera, como las noches cálidas de verano. Soy otra persona en español. Creo que prefiero quien soy en español. Whooooo, demasiada volada. Me encanta eso, me da creatividad. Escribo más.
De repente tengo tanta energía adentro, manifestada en sensaciones raras e indefinibles, pero beneficiosas al mismo tiempo, porque aprendo de cada una. Cómo me siento en la oscuridad es tan diferente que en la luz. Cambia todo, la calidad de la luz. Cambia la onda, el espacio, las caras de la gente. Meditación trae luz, trae un espacio para pensamientos nuevos. Nah…estoy volada.
My heart is beating much too fast, poison in the bloodstream, lost in springy pumps and dives, my muscles churning, shooting out blood into new spaces, gushing inside me. My skin is a smooth casing, like the meat of a sausage snapping, breaking every time you take a bite. I feel almost guilty for being alone in my room. I don’t know how I feel in this room, and I feel like I should know. I think we need to have a space to be completely alone, a space to be completely ourselves knowing no one is watching, not thinking about if others are interpreting nervousness as insecurity, or in a negative manner.