Twelfth page V

 

Thursday, don’t throw me back again, please!  Saturday morning: nothing in my bank accounts… the hell with it, it's Sunday morning now. I couldn’t postpone the wills to sit on the water. Duty called. Cartoons are on, so I expect to finish what I started. I’m hearing some complaints. I guess I have to cut. I have to cut in some many ways; either literally and figuratively. Let’s start with this literal one first.  Hold the line, selected by me. It was rainy all day long.  Boundaries testing and its nonstop actions.  I’m alone now. I saw a couple of pictures, a couple of a set of pictures; both of them of vacation time; two different families, both living here, both Venezuelans. I’m not sure if this is just pure envy, or if I ever have a point, but it seemed kind of a show off, and up to this point, a show off is just vulgar. Only that vulgar provokes. Vulgar always provokes. So I’m not immune to other’s good times, and I have worked a lot not to be so. I am talking from my podium of poverty,  as usual of course. Poor envy although vulgar, specially when it’s vulgar. I want to be vulgar too, I just can’t afford it, and I haven’t been able to since so many years. I want to taste, we all do. Only that we can’t,  so we have to drown this feeling with wine and words, and a new chapter of House Of The Dragon. It’s Sunday night after all, but it’s hasn’t been easy, there’s so much going on, but this is always,  every time, anything is something to worry about, to think of, and to probable turn into something we will postpone to live one more day. It’s exhausting, and nobody cares.

 

Another week. I need to get the Alprazolam.  I’m worried.  It’s in moments of sudden that we feel we don’t belong, that we are forcing something is not meant to be, that we will never fit in. I guess it happens to all of us. I have to be better, to get equal treatment.  Did we know it before we came? May be we did, but verbs feels different in first person. The fiction is over, I have to get back to the reality and go to bed. Financial blessing,  I’m still waiting for you.  Only child syndrome for writing and only child syndrome for thinking. Well, not really. Perhaps for writing. I come here when I feel alone. The TV is on. I’m waiting for the CBD to replace the Alprazolam.  Nothing has happened yet. Yesterday was different,  I boosted it with wine. I even forgot about my debts for a while. The CPR course was fine. It was better than expected.  I really thought I was going to blow it. I should trust myself a little more. I would like to, it’s just that repercussions have been coming up and showing off, so now I realized they were all mistakes; missteps, wrong moves I made thinking they were going to bring me back to stability, and I can’t be more disappointed from these results. At least I can lecture myself through words.

 

Home made meat loaf, I love it. Wine is waiting for me, I need a partner in crime, my partner in crime. I don’t feel like taking a shower. Desire is suffering,  I just read.  What if you don’t like what you see? What about it? Coexist is paramount when lacking resources, specially when you just want to be left alone. It’s a space not everyone can afford. So Time then it’s not the greatest asset but Space as well.  Wednesday.  Wednesday I’m in love. Let’s see for how long.  It’s Thursday now,  both countdowns have started; the first one will reach zero next Sunday.  The election day. A good part of the diaspora remains skeptical, specially those who have made a family abroad already, those no longer work  in factories or production lines. Those ones who are not waiting for an asylum interview or a court hearing anymore. Those ones have moved on, or so we can presume. The hearts have their own reason, so nothing is settled yet, but what I do presume is that the skeptical ones are not the majority.  The majority is waiting, expecting,  and basing their next moves upon election’s results. My heart is beating harder every time I think about it. We have one month left. That’s the drama of us; the uncertainty of the next encounters. When? Where? How? And ‘if’, especially if…  If and Why with a bunch of becauses; becauses with no solid reasons. I only followed my heart, and my heart likes to play. I don’t.  Not when it comes to feelings. So I guess that either you play or be played.  I need more wine. Not really, I’m just tired, and I will never get when people drown themselves inside the phone. I’m tired of being this way alone. Something is broken. I don’t know what. I’m just tired and tiredness makes you make up things to keep yourself uncomfortable.  I am uncomfortable, and tomorrow I have to work.  The future is a foreign land. What a title, Ghost! You really got me. Sadness needs space and time; two assets in this life. Two assets not everyone can afford, so being sad can be kind of a luxury sometimes, this time at least, and even more than being happy. Happiness can be found sometimes,  sadness needs a momentum to acknowledge it. I’m not in the mood to acknowledge.  I want to have Sex and forget, but even sex needs time, space, and an interested partner: interesting,  indeed. 

 

I would like your opinion, but you wouldn’t dare. Maybe I wouldn’t dare. I just want to get the hell out and move on with all my complexes. The air conditioning is off. The bill was extremely high. Poor happenings, as usual. When will this stop? I don’t know. Bearing: a verb for the poor. I hate this sort of poverty.  Maybe I hate the company,  who knows! I don’t even know myself anymore.  I just want to keep on drinking. I’m getting  close… despite of the routine, despite of all these disappointments. Disappointment is not for poor either. We have to keep going. Our survival depends on that. So why do we want to survive? That’s a good question, as a matter of fact. How do we say in English when a fruit is not ripe? I don’t know  in Spanish we say verde, yes, green, and maduro, or madura, when it's ripe. In Spanish fruits have gender, the mongo is male, for example, the banana (in Venezuela; cambur, and only in Venezuela) is male too.  The strawberry is female, and we use it when it comes to pretty girls. Again, only in Venezuela,  as far as I know.