The Source


This is he.
My source of pain, my source of love, my inspiration.


Wonder, wonder, Wonderland

I wonder what you’re thinking,
I wonder what you’re doing,
I wonder if you’re playing your guitar,
I wonder if you’re singing.
I wonder if you think of me as I think of you.
I wonder.

Wonder, wonder, Wonderland. I’m Alice in wonderland. Alice wondered and wandered, and kept wondering and wandering until…Well, I don’t really remember how she got home but she did.  I’ll get there too, I just wondered where home would be?

I don’t know where home would be but I know where it was. Home was there and then, when I had your arms around me, and your voice whispering in my ear and your hair brushing against my cheek.

Your hair in my face, that was my home. The home of Alicia en el Pais de las Maravillas, Alicia who wandered lost and did many things and met many people. She did strange things with weird people, but then again keep it weird or so they say around these parts… But unlike her, even though she is me and I am her, I am not lost. And as my good friend Tolkien once wrote Not all those who wander are lost.

Home, home where are you?

The futility of hope

Why do we hope? Against all odds, against reality, against nature even. When our well educated minds and our exercised brains tell us that all is lost. When time tells us that whatever is gone, is gone. When everything and everyone, and even ourselves are against us. Why do we hope? We keep on dreaming and hoping.

Dreaming of impossibilities and hoping for miracles. Dreaming of lives full of light and wonderful serenity, Sunday mornings in bed and nights full of music. Dreaming of dreams themselves. Hoping for miracles, waiting for miracles, working towards miracles. Living life, what more miracles could there be?

We live our lives dreaming. Dreaming is what drives us to continue, to achieve, in the end dreaming is what drives us to live life. Hoping is what gets us through difficult times. Hope for the best, hope for more or hope for less, in the end hope is what drives us to live life. Why do we hope? Why do we dream?

We hope and dream because we live.

The letter I never mailed

After your call on Thursday I knew what your response would be.
On Friday I wrote you a letter.
On Saturday I rewrote you that same letter.
On Sunday I new what I wanted to tell you.
On Monday you didn’t call .
Since you didn’t call your response is crystal clear. Now I really know what happened between us.
I wrote you a letter on Friday. In fact, I have been writing to you or about you for a while now, I’m a bit obsessive that way. Even though I wished with all my heart and hoped beyond all the harshness of reality that you would want us to stay together, I could tell from your voice you would come to the decision not to continue together. It is a tone and a cadence that I have heard before, it has become strangely familiar. It has become strangely comforting.
Monday would be emotional, I knew that, not only because of you but because of the finality of my divorce.
I wrote the letter on Friday because I wanted to be prepared for you.
This is the letter I wrote you:
“I love you and  want us to stay together and see where this relationship takes us. Also, you have my respect in your decision, even though I don’t fully share or understand your reasons. We will miss each other, I know I will miss you. We have great emotional potential for love and I can see a life together for us. But I will not contact you anymore if that is what you want, it will be hard but I will do it. If in the future you want to get back in contact with me I will welcome it, but will be nothing more than an old friend getting back in touch casually.
When I got back in contact with you I wasn’t expecting for us to fall in love so fast, but we did. I love you and you leave me heart broken, but because I love you I want you to find happiness and I support your decisions in looking for and finding that happiness. No matter how far from me those decisions take you.
Thank you for being there for me and I hope to see you in a dream sometime.”
I know, I am such a romantic idiot, with emphasis on the idiot.
Now, after you didn’t call I have a different idea of what happened between us. It was all about you fulfilling your fantasy of having sex with me and once it was done, you were over it and moving on. I made it so easy, it seems unbelievable to me my own degree of stupidity and blindness . . . Well, we grow ad learn.
The problem is I believed you and loved you, may love you still.
Be careful whom you hurt next time, hate to tell you (well, not really) but Karma is a bitch.


Why are we the way we are? And when I say we I mean women.

As soft as butterfly wings are his kisses, as sharp as neddles too.
Yet, knowing their sharpness I take them.

As light and void of substance are his words, and as empty as a black hole.
Yet, knowing their emptiness I swallow them.

As cool as ocean water is his mouth, as briny as it too.
Yet, knowing its pungency I quench my thirst in it.

His touch burns me, scaring my skin, searing my heart and soul.
Yet, knowing its heat, I hold him against me.

Why are we the way we are?

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