Things

Hi, I will be writing. Not when I wake up because when I wake up I sit on the bed and stare into space for too long. Then by the time I get out of the bed it’s time to get out through the door. I will not be reading myself. A waste of time. And because I’m that obsessed with time I will not rush my bed times.

22.01

Summer only

I want summer only

Wishing for shimmering rocks and invisible bystanders

Memories sinking into miles between two feet wondering

How far is too far

Things I like to do in the morning:

Shower.

14.01

I see ghosts in the kitchen, I want to run inside a wall, become a paper-wall. Sink outside the frame.

Hide openly. And then avoid myself.

Running away again, till I know any better.

Mushroom sauce seems to be the only thing to write about

In this tiny building lived a man with his dog. It was a brown dog. Neither totally caramel nor totally grey. A sort of brown you forget about.

When he goes shopping, he never takes a shopping cart, but sometimes he forgets his bags so he comes back with complex architectural structures made of jam pots, cheese blocks, wine bottles and cereal boxes. He still didn’t know when it was considered too late to eat cereals as an adult. When is it too late? There probably will be a time when it’s too late, at some point, later. But that moment never comes. He wondered if he would still eat cereals as an old man, regressing already because of senility and the cereals doing the last bit to discredit his stature. Is that the moment when it is too late to eat cereal?

11.10
Waiting for silence to mean something.

Things I can do now that I live alone:

Eat straight from the pot of yogurt
Use the same spoon for everything
Walk around naked
Put shitty music on
Wake up late with no shame
Sit in silence for a bit too long
Cry of sadness, cry of joy
Leave things wherever

Five things I’m not allowed to do:

punch someone in the face
not pay at the supermarket
block the traffic
throw plates out of the window in the streets
shout at school for no particular reason

30.12

Me comí mi tristeza como como el pan. Ahora me duele la panza. Agarrame fuerte, mírame fuerte, abrázame fuerte, porque simple serán las despedidas. Un hasta luego medio mentira, medio verdad. Mientras el ‘hasta cuando’ quede indefinido, nos diremos hasta luego simplemente como si dijéramos hasta mañana.

06.12

I wish for things to be broken. Imperfect, slightly off, slightly rough. I long for broken dreams, raw aspirations, blunt edges. The ones we come across at night, the ones we bump into because we don’t want to turn on the light.

There was a potato in the corridor. He hadn’t bought potatoes. He didn’t usually buy potatoes. So he wondered where it came from. Last time he peeled one was elsewhere, not in the parameters of his own home.

He preferred vegetables that didn’t need to be peeled and still tasted good, like leeks, broccoli, pepper, tomatoes, and maybe carrots if they were clean enough.

His parents didn’t teach him how to peel vegetables. He never thought about doing it. It wasn’t something they would do. It wasn’t something that is done.

The mice approached the feet of the old man. How could you sleep and snore so peacefully when all this tragedy is happening. The mice didn’t understand. The world is falling, everything is wrong yet this man sleeps with his feet uncovered. Of all things to leave out, feet. I guess nothing makes sense.