Lazy from C-Z

It has been over a week since I first and last saw her. That earthshaking nervousness I felt back then feels like a lifetime ago. Now all that fills me is the trembling fear of a foregone conclusion, waking me up every single day with a recurrent nightmare, twitching with a migraine as I gain consciousness, reminiscent of moments where I dare not tread. I am on the verge of being unhinged, losing myself to total dejection.  It seems to me that while that hour of bliss echoes in perpetuity as one of the most exciting moments in my recent life, the same sentiment could not be said for her. It turns out that perhaps I have done more wrong by following my heart, that I have somehow lost her in ways I never thought would be that bad as a result, and that I should not have done it instead. Perhaps I am merely overthinking this, but the manner with which the situation has resulted has turned out to be rather lacklustre and lukewarm, even cold to a degree, and maybe she has found a reason to c

Trying to wrap my head around this... If only I had the answers... The echoes are dying slowly and the void opens up widely, embracing its wide gape to me with solemn charm. Hello, darkness, my old friend. Every passing minute hurts, every second, sweat dripping all over under London weather. I have so many questions in my mind. Do you really even want the answers? Now the smell of melancholy weighs upon my nostrils, suffocating me in intermittent rounds. No warning whatsoever, no heads up. There was nothing subliminal about it. It came to me from the get go, and I kind of just ignored the signs, hoping that the ends justify the means. It was a foolish thing, that, to play with your heart.   No one is to blame but you.  I knew, then, that the place where I was exactly a year ago now never really left. It was always beside me, transmogrified into a cursed bracelet I wore since that fateful day, and why I remain to wear it to this day remains a mystery. You should have left Rosetta'

Vilifying a supposedly wonderful sentiment that once bore me warmth and positivity in my daily routine yet now represents my deepest horrors is indeed a massive demotivator. There has been no inkling of any great and tragic loss, and yet somehow the lingering feeling of mourning occurs within me nonchalantly that is representative of my deep-seated insecurities, now intermingled with the deluge of many unknowable entities of causality, what-ifs, and regrets. Have I done any foolish misstep to deserve this heavy weight imposed upon me by mine own shadow? Does it truly represent that same great evil that once uncovered me for what I could be under unfortunate circumstances wherein I have no control even over my own whims? Or it by some kind of transcendental law or cosmic comedy that submits me into this outcome of inevitability? It seems to me that there is no end to the weight left upon me by the albatross that has found refuge on my shoulder. There is no reprieve to the madness, only

It is time to bid adieu to this great place. Time here has been that of fruits and emotions. Overall I think it was okay for the most part. This was necessary for redemption. The land is prime and beautiful and warm, and so to are its people. And of course, Ainhoa. I could write at length about how I feel, but overall there is a nectar of bittersweet flavours bursting forth when we talk about whom we talk about. Another chance perhaps when the opportunity wills it. Although I will say just one thing: she is splendid. Moreso than I care to deny. Too good for this world. Too good for even I.

Maia, now seventeen years of age, catches the eye of a young man named Stefano, who was two years older than him and went to the same school as her. She is infatuated with his deep brown eyes and sheepish grin, but hesitates to acknowledge his advances out of fear of being made ridiculed for it. He stares at her at every chance he gets whenever she passes by on her way to class at school, and a slight tingle in her body informs her senses of his stare weighing on her. The realisation dawns upon her that this would be the precise moment she would consider her act of first love. One time, as Maia was at the library consumed by the need to study, she finds him at the opposite side of the cubicles minding his own thoughts. She watches him intently without alerting him of her presence, but he notices her anyway, and she has to look away pretending not to be made aware of herself caught in a flagrant act. Moments later, he slowly stood up from his chair and makes his way towards her directio

one coffee silent whispers and apnoea form the velvety thick condensation nuclei where behind is the haunt of your dubious smile losing all inhibitions at the moment in order to please my eager desire to appeal to a broad sensation of multiple emotions entangling all at once tête-à-tête broken illusions now shape tangible fears of formidable flights of fancy no caffeine could ever hope to endure under the most auspicious of nights with aerated laiche in lieu of the more commonplace epithet which I clepe a dream once thought vain now made reality

Throwing my money shot to whoever wants to catch it. I suppose it is a price to pay in order to counterbalance the big anomaly. Today was a hard pill to swallow. Two ta-das straight and I am feeling somewhat rejuvenated. One before sleep and one again after waking up. The weather was unwell, very unrepresentative of what I know of the island so far. Feels like I have acclimated, and then the next thing you know we are back to English breeze. I fear for the unknown of the morrow. There is an awful lot of crap to deal with from the get-go. I woke up to the accidental discovery of hospital call. An immediate need to remind me of trouble brewing in paradise, and insofar as I am aware, this inherent stubbornness for me to accept this discovery is due to my capacity to give two fucks about overlapping conundrums. Were I to be more receptive about the goings-on, I would be the most altruistic piece of shit known to man, and yet, I clearly am not ready for this news. Immediately informed my si

The silence of what-could-have-been is honestly quite distracting. I could have already had the reason for being here. But as it stands this glass of vermouth is a satisfying enough distraction to counteract the feeling of bitterness. Two days more to go, and then what? So I have been trying to fulfil some prophecy, or perhaps a major mistake, depending on how you look at it from which perspective. Flower shops have always been quite too schmaltzy for my taste, therefore it is best to not to be too wayward with it. I seemingly have lost all impulse of control in my short stay here, or perhaps I have always remained true to myself. Regardless I find myself unapologetic about this whole thing. I have waited patiently for this very moment. But not enough. It is never enough. The struggle will always continue perpetually into the long, dark night, soft rejections notwithstanding. Have I not been clear about my intentions from the very beginning? Perhaps I am stalling towards my grave. But

 "Ma, what was father like?" At four, Maia had just learned how to write her name, so this question shook her mother off-guard. At home, three beautiful women all stood proud and firm. "Your father? He was... he was a good man," a hint of rosy bitterness swept her mother's beautiful face. A short frown covets in the same place where it never used to last, only the perpetual Duchenne one she knew everyone easily recognised. The elder sister Mati arrives and comforts Maia. The mother gestures towards Mati. "What have you been telling Maia?" "Nothing." The mother's frown spreads to Mati like contagion. Her guilt was palpable. "I just wanted her to feel like he's still here." "Let me handle that, Mati. That is mine to explain, not yours." "I know, ma," pauses as she looks to the floor. "But I miss him too." "I miss him, too, Mati," the mother hugs Mati, tightly. Mati leans to her mother

What today would have been is now Monday in the middle of June,  and every night I have the same dream and every day living the same nightmare Now I see what I would not have been had I not crossed the sea would have been a sin as far as the eye could have seen None except one matters in the grand scheme of things as I had done what was needed Not fun, not sun, not even the wings of love would come undone because there was just one thing amongst so many little things these lucky islands bring it is the joy of being near someone none just one who knows who they are no longer afar

We learn to acquiesce even if it hurts because we relied upon one thing for so long and so much to save us from ourselves then you realise there is no one in this world that can match your intensity your passion your bravery your soul which often leads us to disappointments that never heal over time battling embittered hearts swaying branches over scorched earth because loving someone is all you cared to learn all you dared to hope all you risked to surrender leaving you with only the taste of ashes in your mouth unlovable until the end of summer undesirable at the beginning of autumn unemployable until the end of winter when all these longings subside ineffable until the end of time

And the beat goes on ta-da dum da-dum da-dum, ts-tsh... The agony of waiting continues to tickle my senses, long roads of crooked nothings, heartbeats with every step, marked by paved roads of quaint yesterdays, of bygone times and people we have not known. Murders of pigeon flock the crowd, swooping in for the prize, but only the suicidal ones get to choose victory over complacencies. Octogenarians making progress with each step into ensuring lives were well-lived, and younglings smacking each other's posteriors trotting along with little concern then and there to prove that there is no more place here for the eld. These are my day-to-days while awaiting confirmation from a lady of no reprieve to show up, smiles drawn, sass worn, and beauty no longer imagined. Time is running thin, and time and time again. Mayhap it was never meant to be.

Returned to where I thought best to chance upon a miracle. Miracles are a thing of beauty. Of past relics ignored. Amongst the conversation to be had I thought that the one with the same old lady was overly reliant on ellipses. She leaned over to say hello, gave me a fistbump, and went about her yap. Bubble clouds would have been insufficient during our incoherent conversations.  Fortunately today I came prepared. I had brought cash with me which I stumbled upon when I was in Teror. When I handed it to her, she blew me a kiss, said the only thing I understood that came from her mouth (thank you), and walked away. Long ago it would have been hopeless. The world belongs to us both. But my last dance is slowly coming to a droll stop. Images painted in my head have been marked by beautiful memories only tainted by a single inconvenient asterisk. All that was left for some old fool was the memory of someone forgotten and then released, and soon slowly and surely blown away by a Bohemian cus

 In the Eden of ill-begotten serenity Drifting on a memory than with you Lovely as the rays of summer sunlight Lost in the reveries than with you Not about to lose your light 'til I see the end of it Humility to know that I can lose it all Confidence to know that I can take it all back again A few drops of morning anchor Waking at a standstill than with you Blanket of affection cast by your shadow In the midst of all I hold dear but you Not about to kill this fight 'til I see the end of it Humility to know that I can lose it all Confidence to know that I can take it all back again Where are you, my paradise? Don't find me, don't force me Where are you, my paradise? Don't think it's over

We all have tinges of regret. It is about the manifestation of how much happiness it brings upon our reality that drives our core human experience to its potential. The unfortunate aspect of its function however lies around its ability to give back some diminishing returns. If one considers the decadent lifestyle of the consumption of all the joyous things in life without providing in return, then the collective essence of our satisfaction as a community suffers as a whole. We derive so much pleasure from so many things and so many sources in so many places, wherever we could, and thus we forget that feelings and emotions too are finite in nature. As powerful a concept that love is, it is not enough on its own to silence the murmurings of the soul. Moments of drought open us to the reality of our addiction. We slowly lose ourselves piece by piece in the process. We lose the ability to think rationally. Some of us allow it to subside on its own, but some of us just wallow into its lair

A reckoning is bound to happen and soon, perhaps more sooner rather than later, and it is hard to gauge whether or not I am ready for it. Nothing prepares one for such eventuality. I loathe having to use this phrasal verb, but I deem it apt and all I really have to do now is to simply "man up." Minds will be shattered, hearts will be broken, and tears will be shed. Mostly mine, for the record, obviously. A one-sided affair almost always ends up unwell for one party and a massive vindication for the other. Perhaps I have been there myself to know. Nobody here owes me an iota of anything, yet I do wonder if the main reason for all of this itself will reflect to that of my severed expectations? Or will it be a curious whimper? Or perhaps even worse than I thought? I was in a tragicomedy all along! A melodrama, a revenge thriller, perhaps, or maybe an elegy to all the crocodile tears being wept at my funeral? Or will it simply be buried under a cacophony of excuses and half-truth

If anyone is reading this, welcome to the story of my defeat. Now I am slowly acknowledging that failure and resentment is going to continue plaguing me on, as it should be, I mean, I guess that is how life operates, but before it succeeds in its endeavour, I might as well try to make light of the situation moving forward with the little time I have left, bring some levity prior to the demise, before reality comes roaring back, and realise that the fantasy I have conjured for myself is perhaps preferable over the actual thing. Sometimes when you create something beautiful and special with your mind, you would want to protect it with all your heart and soul by keeping it where it should be. Inside your mind, where it is untouchable, irreplaceable. Subliminal, but fragile, a figment of the imagination, to be sure, but a welcome one. Never meet your heroes, never consider anyone a true friend, leave everything to no one but yourself, and most especially, never love without reciprocation.

Plan B failed. It is difficult to separate the image of a person associated with the place and the place itself, and no matter where I go I am beseeched by this person's echoes. Nowhere in this island is safe, so long as I am here. I have never felt my radar beat louder, knowing that that person is closer to me than ever before, and yet impossible, even for a hello, even a glimpse, even a shadow. Kung ayaw may dahilan, kung gusto palaging mayroong paraan . As I lay out these feelings I start to feel the fear of consequences, because whenever I feel strongly about something, in my experience, nothing good ever comes of it. One could justify that I may be right, but to the detriment of one's happiness, none of it is worth the pain. Honesty is good when it serves you well, and not when in a Catch-22. I was so happy before I left London -- and happier and more excited than ever been in my life -- but this trip has not worked out as well as I hoped it would be. I try. So very hard. 

Woke up uneventfully, shaken by tremors of the not-much-at-all. You have to beg for scraps in order to get some quality moments of serendipity. Pretty much convinced now that there is not much left for me to do in this place, still just waiting for that same elusive miracle. So I have decided to do the inevitable. With time running out and soon I will have to leave this island, perhaps it is best to set out the second reason I came here to do. Executing Plan B. I still have it in my hearts of hearts to believe Plan A will bear some fruition. This is why I find myself slammed into a corner of not-much-at-all, because I keep hoping and hoping and hoping that maybe perhaps...

No words come out No safe space Nowhere to run No place to hide The struggle remains Invisible shores Love of my life None Nevertheless I will be true It aches my heart Crushes my soul The beauty irates Land ignored Sights and sound Buried in the wind But there she goes Nowhere to be found None

There are a lot of things to take in today, and I still have not had enough time to masticate it thoroughly and completely, so at times I will feel half-and-half about it, but the best way to handle this new information is to digest it slowly and with time. That just means that this is a premature draft of what I actually want to say and feel. Sometimes the preliminary deliberations give a bit of legroom for whatever I may actually come up with, and it seems to me that I have indeed a lot to think about in terms of who and where I am and the progression of my feelings and emotions in general. I feel like it is best to address it unhindered and unadulterated, because truthfulness is a resolute motivator for a healthier path forward towards the next goal. When I woke up today, I still had a hangover from the anguish I feel for possibly losing Ainhoa for good, and perhaps the same would be the case today had I not drummed the courage to confront her with a single-line text message on my w

Going home from a quick day and I passed by a market to buy confections. It was owned by Asians. What struck me as funny was having to converse with them in Spanish. I was already confused enough as I was. They greeted me warmly and I should not have been perplexed, why should I? On my way back, I found myself overwhelmed by emotions, feeling as if a double-decker bus just ran over me in a dark and empty street. Next thing I knew tears rolled down my eyes... It was frustrating. I have not had tears in awhile, not since... I do not even want to bring it up. I arrived at the top of the hill and loitered around a bit with the nice view. It had never felt so bittersweet. I arrived to the darkness that followed me all the way from London, and the tears dried on their own.

Today I went back to Guirlache for the Tropicalia flavour that Ani mentioned last week when I first arrived. The first time I did, they gave me a smoothie expecting an ice cream, which was her favourite, and today I finally got round to having that ice cream even though I was not really looking specifically for it, and I remember telling Ainhoa last week that she lied to me, because I was expecting an ice cream but instead got a smoothie. It was not really a lie though, it probably just was not available back then, I was just bantering, but I still feel guilty about it. What if I made her feel uncomfortable at that moment? And I start thinking of all the possible times I may have made her feel uncomfortable without my knowledge and realisation. Have I? I frown now thinking I may never truly know for sure. She has not spoken to me since then, and perhaps this to her is by design and intentional. It saddens me to no end knowing she may never want to speak to me ever again......

On the sixth day, not much has happened. Ever since I arrived in Las Palmas things have been even slower than it had been in the company of the Italians in Guía. The Italians were gracious hosts, very accommodating, despite my lack of overall delicadeza . Ennio and Ariana and Juan (the only non-Italian, Venezuelan) will always have a place in my heart even in the short span we have spent. Now I am staying with Diego in Las Palmas. A sweet man, aged, like wine, almost to perfection, with a taste for the finer things in art and sensitivity. He spoke very little English, almost none, and we communicate through the use of technology, which works somehow, although I could have preferred a more nuanced approach, but it seems highly unlikely to learn so much of the language at a short span of time. I came to him at a very difficult spot in my life, fragile, and prone to fits of down, and yet I have never felt stifled by his presence. He has been overall warm and welcoming, kind-hearted, like

Slowly I am starting to realise that all of this French bread is due to vocabulary technicalities. I should not have called this whole thing a holiday to begin with. This is a retreat, plain and simple. A walkaway from everything weighing me down, including this one. Piling it on top of the other one means diddly squat. This is just reaping from what I have sown. So sure, it has not exactly been smooth sailing, and perhaps it will get worse before it gets better, but it is what it is. I am in no mood for any leisurely or touristic activities any longer. The itinerary has changed from resting it all on one thing to resting it all on whatever feeds me the least amount of crap. I have to change the chemical wiring on my head to stop fixating on the ropa vieja of feels that keep triggering whenever I allow it to. I have to learn to see the wood for the trees. This whole thing sucks.

Sometimes I fear the night here in the Canary Islands, when the skies at times are dark orange and ominous, jaffa-like, as if signalling something egregious is about to happen, then the next day arrives and nothing does happen, so I go about thinking that that is probably even worse than the doom that never occurred. Nothing much of value happens here. Life swivels slow and steady, a perfect setting to loaf about, be completely still and nondescript. I could see myself settling down here, somewhere idyllic. But this fantasy only works under a massive caveat. The whole island to me is associated with images of her, and so if I do decide to do something worthwhile down the line, absent the person in question, then it would be very much like walking on eggshells around people. Even if the morrow provides no concrete assertions of what this image would have to be, I still find that that thought is reassuring knowing that I have similar reveries about Italy from the time I went there, now s

Another day, another hard-fought battle. You try very hard not to let it get to you, but the harder you swerve away from the airborne bullets, the more it adapts, and no amount of dodging will allow you to move fast enough to evade multiple successive rounds in a row. You lose, eventually. You watch all the stars in the sky on a dark night, and you send static signals for it to lend succour. And you wait, and wait, and wait some more, until thirst starts building up, and wait further still, hunger, frustrations, sadness, anger, madness, hollowness, void, and yet to this minute still waiting. The battle rages on. Three full moons, all sweetness engaged.

It is quite a conundrum for me to think about the events happening now in realtime whenever I sell myself short in dealing with my emotions thinking of Ainhoa. All day, even at night, I keep wanting to do something else, but my head keeps going back to thoughts of her as a distraction, dreaming of that fantastical few minutes with the fabled lady of my desire, so eventually wanting to do anything else just becomes somewhat impertinent, because it is. What a beautiful mess it is when she lives inside my head rent-free, because I feel like this is all that matters in the grand scheme of things; I can play as a matador in this bull game , or I don't and spend the rest of my days here in bull shit . Her hesitance to commit to a single meeting drives the screw inside my head loose. Soonafter I no longer have the urge to do anything that does not have connection or relation to her, but I have to, to keep my mind off of things, and it is not as if she is not really busy. I do believe tha

Somewhere on the landscape lies a place next to your heart But the grass grows wide and even And soon that too will be torn apart The dread has metastasised all over my body. It has taken ahold of my being, slowly wrapping it around its tendrils, making pastries out of seeping emotions, gestures of lewdness and mockery, parasitic in its endeavour, telling me how life and everything around it just seems so absurd. Tread lightly and gently. Every step is weighted, so the individual stomp carries a context of meaning, abysmal even if it should not be, causing misery in its wake. Somehow in order to contextualise this sort of notion borders on the side of ludicrous, for we mere men of lyrics are creatures of habit, and we, at times, do things regardless of the repercussions an event may incur, knowing fully well that the individual experience may be compromised by the idea of constant rejection. A concept that is well understated beyond the grand scheme of things, barely scratching the sur

What am I doing? What am I doing really? Time moves quickly without discrimination, no sigh nor reprieve, just the stirring of echoes slipping out of the queue again and again, from back to front and back again. Time moves further still. In the wake of some unmoving and invisible villain passing me by, I then tremble in its wake, wondering, commiserating the eventuality of my purported demise. Time awaits for no one man. If love truly was a force of joy, I have failed in that aspect spectacularly. Not even a flicker of the benefit of doubt. It will be a long and winded trip down a path of mortal highpain, the likes of which none dare tread. In this nightmare I insisted upon myself, I begin to wonder what it is that is supposed to be. If I lie awake at night and think about going forward or back, would it matter not so very little at least? That I may hope and hope alone which cannot satiate me. Some foolish notion of romanticism that binds me to this painful crawl. There will be answer