sábado, julio 21, 2007
And it's for free.
Due to the lack of human contact I have had in the last few hours, the bewildering exposal to the English language and the fact that I don't think many people visit this blog anymore -thank godness, overexposal has never been my cup of tea, though I think my father has this url still in his favorites..-, this will probably be a long and English post.
Things have been dreadful here. I feel as though the change of pills was not the best to be done, and the fact that my psychiatrist has left for vacation isn't any good news either. Both my wonderous imagination and my unalterably fresh memories have been getting to me and I'm still not sure if it's worth the tears or the effort. It's just not fair to have this much amount of detail -as a matter of fact, I'm the only one on this whole earth who knows the whole stories. Many stories which I shall never trust on to anyone again, due to my proven lack of confidence in pretty much everyone I know, excepting only a couple of people, quite literally. Looking at my torn arms won't be something someone else rather than myself will be doing any time soon. Causing those injuries, on the other hand, must be quite fanciable, lots have been having a blast doing it -not that you need much to make me feel utterly miserable, so there's no much challenge to it.
If only they knew, I wonder, if they knew how much pain they cause. If only I knew how to begin giving it the importance it deserves: none. I have proven that my intellect isn't as gifted as usual when it comes to it.
Change Subject before I come to this unwelcomed tears over an innocent keyboard all over again.
The singing academy gets to my nerves. Each day that passes someone has made a decision which has difficulted things a little more for us, and being the only person who performs the entire thing and the only one with a little sense of logic and leadership of the lot, it's quite frustrating and stressful. I am the one who's got to come with plan after plan to get things correctly done. At least logistically, I am the brain of the group, and I'm getting pretty tired of it.
Painfully enough, the awful dreams about the London underground haven't stopped, and I've got a tendency to believe in everything that scares me. I am afraid recurrent dreams, or more accurately, recurrent dreams in which my friends are exploding and becoming some sort of pink rain, are things which classify in the scaring-things-lot.
This has also awakened another great fear which had been waning before the dreams reappeared. Do I still care that much for him? I am sure he doesn't care back, so it's really a matter of no importance, but the question remains unanswered. Has really this other kid -whom I shall call Mr. K, for Kafka's sake-, has actually won my attention and conquered my heart and thoughts? Sounds pretty, but I shall clear that doing so seems to be quite a piece of cake.
I've decided it's enough trust put into a pretty unsafe blog which, in theory, could be read by anyone who's got an Internet connection. That includes both the blokes up there in Old Toffee's land and the so called Mr. K, whom has developed a strange enough interest in analyzing my every move and word, so I'm guessing he'll find this entry quite fascinating.
...Strangely enough, he DOES does it a little better than my doctor every now and then. And it's for free.
You're just so perfect you don't interest me at all
(Self-convincing Mantra work, mind you).
Así habló cabeza borradora a las 8:54 PM
miércoles, julio 18, 2007
Óscar
Nos reímos ese verano en que todo era diferente, "Todos tienen su óscar", más café y menos responsabilidades, más epinefrina y menos años en nuestros ojos y pestañas.
Ya no me río.
No quiero seguir siendo tu óscar que sólo te sonreirá en tu imaginación y pesadillas y te ocasionará más daño del que sé que ya tienes arraigado en las entrañas por los recuerdos. No te lo mereces. Y no te lo diré a la cara porque tu óscar no es más que una cobarde a quien rehúsas dar suficiente crédito. ¿Es que acaso no lo ves? ¿Por qué fallas en retener la información que deberías? Esa real, esa que habla péstes de mí. Esa que muestra a la Paciente 21 moribunda en la sala de espera de cualquiera que se atreva a intentar salvarla de sí misma. Esa Paciente 21 que no hará más que corroer tu vida y tu alegría...transformándote en un Paciente más.
Mi llamado no es a alejarte. Mi llamado es a que despiertes.
Curioso es que, aún así se cumple la teoría de antaño. Todos tenemos nuestro óscar. Y todo Oscar duele...por la cresta, duele.
Así habló cabeza borradora a las 4:11 PM
miércoles, julio 11, 2007
Una verdad incómoda
Me encanta recordarme lo mucho que me odio.
Me facina decirme una y otra vez que no voy a ninguna parte.
Que lo más mínimo me deprime y me mata, que lo más estúpido puede hacerme añicos, botarme al suelo y sangrar hasta que se me olvide hasta quién soy.
Y olvidar quién soy no es fácil... ojalá pudiera cortar la parte del cerebro que hace que sea como soy... la que me impulsa a recordarme cada día lo mucho que me odio.
Así habló cabeza borradora a las 2:58 PM
