Can't Let You Roam Inside My Head

I met you almost fifteen years ago in a literary workshop.

You started to read a poem. 

It was about a woman and a man having an affair. 
She was on her knees and the scene described her in a position on which she was about to give him some sort of pleasure. The man was on his feet, looking at her breasts. 

For days I couldn't get rid of your poem.

The image persisted in my mind. 

It followed me day and night.

I thought it was a poem about you and me.
I could not stop thinking about you on your knees.
I could not stop thinking about you a seconds away from giving me pleasure.

I wondered, on my darker moments, when I was so exhausted of being lonely, about to close my eyes, what kind of pleasure would you give to me.

Once we went to a party. 

It was December. A few days before my birthday. It was cold. 

It was on a big house with fancy walls made of red bricks. 

We sort of slept in a couch. 

We were drunk. Another guy from the literary workshop was in the same couch with us.
He had a crush on you. 

As I closed my eyes and I sensed you by my side, trying to get some sleep in that awkward position on the couch, I remembered your poem. 

Instead of thinking about you on your knees, the first thing that came to my mind was your breast. 

So far, I hadn't thought of them.
Dunno why I thought your boobs were a couple of tiny pears.

In the morning, as we left the house and moved to our own places, we took a bus and the subway. 

You told me that you had noticed that I could not stop watching your breast since you had read that cursed poem. You were convinced of it.

I told you it wasn't true at all. 

Days later, on my birthday, I invited you to a party.
We slipped from people and you told me that you desired me. 
We had a strange thing. 

It was sad. I felt so abusive. 

No matter what, you insisted to repeat the experience.

The second time, it happened on January.
That day we had been drinking on nasty places. 

I just dreamed about you. 
I haven't seen you for almost fifteen years. 

In my dream, we were on an academic meeting, in a round table. 
You spoke about the possibilities of your career. 
You said that a person studying Literature could get a job as an economist and crazy non sense things. 

Then we took a bus. 

It seemed Ciudad Universitaria. 

I felt so sexually attracted to you. 

You wore a black and white turtle neck stripped sweater. 
It made your breasts looked so clear. They seemed a small pair of shy fruits.

You were by the exit door of the bus, about to walk out. I was by your side and we said good bye and we were about to do it kissing our cheeks. 

We accidentally kissed in the mouth. 

Your lips felted like velvetine. 

It excited me. 

I felt guity. 

In my dream, I had a girlfriend and she was on the bus, too. Obviously, I didn't want that she notice that we had just an accidental kiss. 

I felt guilty and excited at the same time.

You smiled and I couldn't stop thinking about your breast. 

Why did I dream of you?

Sometimes, dreams are so meaningless. 

Sometimes, they're not. 

Winded Is The Sailor... Drifting By The Storm...

I woke up this morning from a vertiginous sleep in which I was a teenager.  

I woke up really sad, missing who I was then.

I could be so indifferent to common issues. I didn't need to socialize, nor tell people who I was in the world to feel comfortable.

I thought guys from my age were silly and older guys thought I was silly, but that was OK.

I really did not care about people, nor I really had an interest on what people thought about me.

I studied Psychology 'cause it was a college career between science and literature (or I thought it was so) and I wanted to be condescendent with my mom and dad. 

Then, besides my dad, I was the second in the entire family -I have two aunts and three uncles, and half of them had sons and daughters older than me- to get to college.

I really wanted to be a writer. I wanted to study Letters and to have a degree in Letters. 

Somehow, since I owned a scholarship in elementary school -mom and dad asked me to reject it in high school 'cause they thought someone else would needed it more than me- due to my academic ratings, my family thought it would be a waste of time if I studied Letters. 

They thought I would die by starvation.

I think I would be happier.  

Since I learned to write, I write. 

I learned it when I was four years old. 

Then, as any other kid, I played with toys, but I enjoyed more to write stories.

I remember myself on a sunny saturday morning waking up and writing immediately about a dream I'd just had. It was a sad dream about Mickey Mouse asking Minnie to divorce him.

Mom and dad were slept and the apartment was so quiet. Maybe I was on the first grade of elementary school. I was an advanced student and I was five years old.

I remember feeling in a cathartic way, thinking that I had never felt so focused and excited.

Writing seemed the deepest human activity of all I knew. 

When I played with toys, I loved to play alone. I made up stories with my toys -the kind of stories I saw on cartoons mixed up with the stories of the soap operas or movies my mom used to watch- and I hated when an intruder destroyed those stories. 

(Mom had a friend and her friend had a boy older than me, and the boy went to our apartment to play with me very frequently. He had a Grayskull Castle and he wanted to stole my toys all the time. He was so abussive. When her mother saw him with my toys, he used to say to her that I'd just gave him away my toys, that it was OK with me. His mom forced him to return the toys, but I was so silly -or maybe I just didn't care enough for toys- that I wasn't angst at all for that issue. I really felt uncomfortable playing with him.)  

After all, I was a happy kid. 

When I was a teenager, I devoted my life to literature and music.  
I really never committed to school, to the point that most of my contemporaries saw me as a retarded with a low IQ. 

Once I tried to get involved in a debate team and one student told me that it was so complicated 'cause "I needed to show some kind of  intelligence". 
I wonder in what kind of man does that guy became.
Certainly, to be a teenager, he was so prejudiced. 

Everything seemed boring and exhausting in high school. 

Then, besides writing songs and poems, I played guitar and I read alot of poetry and novels and I listened alot of garage punk and I fantasized alot about girls I liked. I wrote them poems I never gave to them, and I dreamed of them with me in a movie theater, or places like that. Of course I wanted to have a girlfriend, but it was so difficult to me to get closer to girls in a spontaneous way. Do not why, but I always liked older girls from other classrooms. 

I was so quiet that I seemed so retracted and, perhaps, scary.

But maybe when I was about to finish college, I started to care about what persons thought about me. It was so common to find out arrogant classmates presuming what they knew, what they do and so on. 

I started to look for social recognition, but at the same time -which is pretty childish- I grew up thinking that I was so selfish and egocentric. It was a dilemma, a dichotomy between what I hated it and what I needed it.

(That's why I obtained a PhD?) 

Mom didn't like that I was not affectionate with her, and maybe that's why she always told me that I was so selfish and egocentric. As a consequence, I learned to be as quiet as possible, to the point no one really knows who I am or what I do. Sometimes I even suspect that my wife doesn't even know at all why I feel suddenly so sad or angst.  

On the other hand, alot of guys seem to not understand that a conversation implies at least two persons. To listen up everyone around me and to not have the opportunity to be listened up is exhausting.

At this point I'm so frustrated. I think I'm useless.
I have no power to get out of bed. I would like to sleep forever. 
I finish this year being a coward. 

Sometimes I'd just love to yell who I am or what I do, but I must be patient.

Tremor Christ

Try To Erase This From The Blackboard

“Sometimes I wish I could fall asleep”, Tania said. 

“Excuse me? You slept the entire night!”, I screamed.

“Honestly, I believe you need to give a fuck, if you really want things to happen”, she said, as if we were in the middle of another conversation. She used to change topics in the very same way kittens look at any moving object. Her eyes explored the entire bedroom.

“What do you mean, dear?”, I asked her. 

“You know... like when you really don't want things to happen, and, actually, they don't...”, she murmured. Her eyes stopped at the corner of the bedroom. A spider was climbing up the wall.

“I don't follow you, so far”, I complained.

“C'mon! I don't believe you...! But, for instance, when you really want something to happen and it never happens... and the opposite, when you don't care about something and then it happens sooner than you'd ever imagined...”, was her confusing answer.

I had a coughing attack and I got exhausted. For a moment, I thought I was about to vomit and to hyperventilate and to get paranoid once again.