You came here with nothing and you're leaving with the same

 How many times I've written that I needed to write, but that I didn't know what to write about, but if I didn't I would die out of sadness? Too many, too many.

 I write and I write and I write in Spanish and in English and depending on the year even in French but right now I just want to show you what I write and that you could understand it. The pain, the trust and the lack of it, the songs, the love. It's hard to be here, it's hard to be here with you and it's even harder being by myself. I don't know why I said what I said, I don't know if I have it in me to forgive you anymore. I'm completely devastated and on my period.

We are young is sounding and you will never understand what that song means to me. The cries from that green couch at his place, drinking the cheapest rhum mixed with nestea and pretending I was drunk after half a glass and singing my heart out of that song on the couch, surrounded by too many people that slept that night on that couch. The blood on the mattress without sheets, all together in the living room, no one wanted to go upstairs to sleep by themselves. All singing, making up the lyrics, playing horror games, waxing eachother's legs.  

I don't miss those times, don't get me wrong. It took me long enough but I wouldn't wish to be 15 again. However, those were the times that define me. The songs from 2012 mixed with Spanish pop-rock from the early 2000s. The rise of Youtube, the cheap rhum, the sex talks being all virgins (I know, social construct), their love defines me. But you could never understand. No one could, to be fair. And one day I saw them, not knowing it would be the last. Sometimes I wonder what they would think of you. I'm sure Pablito would have loved you and probably tried to fuck you. Rafa wouldn't, but he doesn't like anyone at the beginning. You would have liked Agustín because he would be delighted to speak in English, same as Andy and Chuprevich. The other Rafa would have looked at you with curiosity, but he wouldn't have cared that much, and Dani, in an attack of introversy, wouldn't have said anything at all. I don't know how Miguel would have reacted though. Depends on the moment I imagine, I guess.  

You just landed in Latvia, apparently. It sounds far. It is far. I don't know what to say to you now. That I'm already dressed up because I'm going out to meet one of the girls I met in Balestrand four years ago? That I spent all day filling up sleeves with photos from February and March and it made me rethink our relationship? That heat is going to consume me anytime now, but still I don't really feel like going to Mexico for three weeks? No, I don't feel the need of telling you any of this, but I keep asking myself why. Did you turn me into you? Did your lack of information hurt so much that I'm doing the same to you as revenge? Or have I really turned into this apathic person that can spend her days without leaving the house, playing games, doing project life and watching The Planet of the Apes saga? What am I gonna do, then, when I arrive to this day in the project life and then I have absolutely nothing to put, because nothing happened? Steve would say that I'm writing too long sentences. 

Project life

 Si de algo me ha servido hacer project life durante estos últimos años, ha sido para tener algo más de perspectiva sobre mi vida. Cierto es que en esta ingente cantidad de blogs y diarios y papeles varios que he acumulado desde que entré en la pubertad también hay tremenda cantidad de información, pero siempre tendí a escribir en el momento, como me saliera. El project life me ha dado esa oportunidad de reflexionar, de tomarme tiempo para, por qué no, curar y programar el contenido que quiero mostrar y cómo mostrarlo. Por ello, leerme y ver las fotos después me ayuda a centrarme, a saber qué fue importante y qué fue solo un producto de mi ansiedad. 

Y claro, si algo ha salido a base de bien en estos últimos dos años has sido tú. Tú y toda tu circunstancia. Y no te quito mérito, todo sea dicho, porque soy la primera que explica por activa y por pasiva toda la mierda que me hiciste pasar, pero eso no quitaba que nos lo pasáramos muy bien. Pero claro, en mitad de una discusión no iba a hacer una foto para el project life, pero eso no quiere decir que no pasara. Pasaron, y muchas. Y tenía que escribirlo, y tenía que dejar constancia del dolor que me causaste, un dolor objetivo, con hechos, un dolor que decidí soportar en pos de un posible futuro juntos. Pero incluso viendo las fotos se puede intuir que todo fue desde el principio muy desigual. Con eso estoy bien, de verdad que sí, pero ni a día de hoy puedo creer que me quieras como dices que me quieres si no lo demuestras. Tus ojos nunca estuvieron llenos de amor. Dejaste de mirarme de reojo cuando estamos en grupos grandes. Te pudo la cotidianidad.

Ahora busco en los álbumes algo a lo que aferrarme cuando a mí me puede la nostalgia y las ganas de decirte que vuelvas a casa. Leo las partes de atrás de las tarjetas, las que están escondidas de ojos que no sean lo suficientemente privilegiados, buscando un atisbo de la realidad que fue estar a tu lado. Tu indiferencia, tu seriedad, tus mentiras. Y lo encuentro, claro, pero rodeado de un halo constante de felicidad. Y entonces vuelvo a preguntarme si no merecería la pena darte otra oportunidad, por lo que pudiera pasar. 

You're sick of crying for blue eyes

 ¿Y ahora, qué?

Me duele la barriga, como siempre.

He empezado a hacer una lista mental de las cosas que tienes por casa y tienes que llevarte, como siempre.

Tengo ganas de ver Love Actually, como siempre.

Pero este mareo burocrático y semántico es nuevo. Tener que pelear por hacerte entender que no podemos estar juntos es nuevo, como si te debiera una justificación. 

He bajado tu maleta, pero no soy capaz de poner las cosas dentro. He conseguido mantenerme firme en tu presencia, pero ahora no puedo dejar de llorar.

A couple of days passed and I kinda feel like I want to ask you how's the trip, how're your parents, how are you, but instead I put The Black Parade and I clean and I make chicken stock from scratch and I look out the window hoping to find a solution to these feelings. 

I search in my memories, in memories I thought lost from past eras when I was more insecure and more naive and I loved with the same intensity but less knowledge, hoping to find a similarity, a scenario that could help me dive into this abyss with a glimpse of what's coming.

But nothing comes up. This doesn't resemble anything. This is all brand new and I thought I was done with new.

Y vuelvo a él, a ellos. A aquel que debió ser pero la edad se interpuso entre nosotros. Y a aquel que no me dejó quedarme, no me dejó volver. Vuelvo a ellos y me reconfortan sus recuerdos, aunque los siento tremendamente lejanos. Hace diez años de aquel bañador. 

En un alarde de melancolía intento evadirme a base de música que no uno a nadie y a tareas de bajo rendimiento intelectual, sé que si hago algo más me romperé. 

And your suitcase is still there. Your things are on the table, on the couch, but not in the suitcase, I don't have the will yet. I know what I'm doing is right. I know it. Then why do I feel so bad every time I stop and think about it? 

El gato está en celo

 Hoy ha sido un día raro. Ocupado. Por un momento pensé que llegarías hoy, pero tu mensaje a las seis de la mañana diciendo que habías llegado a Bucarest me sacó de mi error. Tener que salir de un curso para coger el metro e ir a otro podría ser la definición de toda una generación: no me da la vida, y eso que ni siquiera me pagan. He vuelto, he almorzado y he aplicado a una beca en Dublín para algo. No sé el qué. Tiene que ver con comunicación e investigación sobre calidad de trabajo y de vida. He empezado la segunda aplicación, esta vez en no sé dónde de Italia, algo que ver con la comida. Qué apropiado que todo tiene su departamento de comunicación. He mirado el calendario y tenía dos tareas pendientes: ir a hacer la compra y depilarme. Pensé que lo de hacer la compra mejor mañana para no sentirme culpable por usar la cuenta conjunta cuando tú no estás aquí, así que pensé lógicamente en depilarme. Es temprano, pero también quería arreglarme el pelo, echarme potingues como si no hubiera un mañana. Y la cosa es que no sé por qué lo estoy haciendo. Por qué voy a cerrar el ordenador y me voy a pasar una hora metida en el baño acicalándome como si fuera una niñata que va a su primera cita. Tengo la sensación de estar arreglándome para un funeral. Pero vienes mañana y yo no quiero tener pelos en las piernas. Como para que sepas lo que vas a perder. También lo pienso y me pregunto cuánto de esto es mi decisión y cuánto es constructo social. Me gustaría que tú también te arreglaras cuando sepas que vas a verme, pero no lo haces, no sientes ese je ne sais quoi de que todo irá mejor, de que causarás una mejor impresión si estás recién afeitado, si te recortas los pelitos, si te echas desodorante. Yo lo siento de vez en cuando y creo que está bien, sea mi decisión o no. Me gusta tener un motivo para arreglarme, independientemente de lo que eso signifique para cada cual. Pero ahora mismo no lo entiendo. No quiero acostarme contigo ni que me digas que estoy guapa o que vaya pelazo que me traigo o nada de eso. Sé que no lo vas a hacer, pero no quiero provocarlo. Quiero que llegues y que te vayas. O no. Pero sobre todo sí. La cosa es que empieza a hacer buen tiempo y hace sol y empieza a anochecer casi a las ocho y me gusta esta época cuando aun hace frío pero apetece estar al sol. Apetece usar pantalones cortos y morir de frío con ellos. Apetece follar sin manta y que me comieras los pies. Apetece hacer pizza y recordar el tinto y las aceitunas en la ventana de Santiago cuando no podíamos salir de allí. Apetece ir a Mairena, todo sea dicho, pero no lo haré. Apetece coger carretera y manta con esas flamantes luces nuevas. Pero respecto a ti no sé qué me apetece, si que te quedes o que te vayas. Por ahora me voy a depilar y voy a intentar convencerme de que lo estoy haciendo para mí y no porque crea que así tengo más posibilidades de que me hagas sexo oral (lo cual, ya lo sabemos de sobra, es una quimera).

Last words

I thought... I really thought you could be the one. Crazy, huh? You were so different I could never be bored by your side. You were so handsome I could put you on a frame and just observe you for hours. You were so funny I wouldn't need jokes in Spanish anymore. You were so intelligent you could even try to win me at trivial (though you wouldn't because of the lack of cultural knowledge). So I thought you could really be the one. The one to get married to, the one to have children, beautiful, anxious and terribly smart children with, the one to share a life with. 

But that was when I was being very optimistic and naive. Those glimpses of time when it didn't bother me that you took so long to feel something for me, it always made me feel lower, less than the rest. All my life, because of just the fact of being a woman, as every woman in the planet, I have had to work more to get the same result as the guys. But I didn't expect to have to work more among other women to get your affection, like I was always missing something to make you notice me. It is not your fault and I am completely aware of that, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt because I will never understand why you are with me after all these crazy absurd love affairs you had with other people and the line of thought usually ends up with the classic "there wasn't a better option there at the moment".

And now I don't feel anything anymore. I lost my capacity to cry, to laugh, to be anything more than a jellyfish. I'm exhausted by this bureaucratic life, full of CVs and cover letters and applications that end nowhere. I thought you could be my stone through this. Through the masters, through the cinema and through the endless search for a proper job. And I wanted to be that for you in return. But you never really were. You left in the most crucial moments, when I had to deliver papers and I barely had time to make food, when I was the bussiest, when I spent the nights crying out of frustration over the British job working system and I thought all my decisions were wrong, when I just wanted to go back home. You weren't there when I made the shopping for the studio. You weren't there when I made the first dinner. I spent the first night there with someone that wasn't you, but it should have been you. I wanted and needed you to be there.

And, you know, in my anxious mind everytime you did something like that I wonder if you would have done that to any of the other girls. If you would have made them wait. You yourself told about that great time when you cross your country just to give a girl a surprise that ended up badly. Would you give me a surprise like that? You have never given me a surprise. Not a single time in two years. And I'm supposed to feel glad precisely because of the amount of time we've been together. How can I when you did and felt and said more in two months than in two years with me? And then it all ends up the same: I'm crazy, I'm jealous, that's just not true.

Sometimes I wonder if you really understand why I'm so pushy about certain things. The job. The language. The house. Beyond obvious reasons, all of them are proof that you are being serious about this relationship. I didn't make you pay for the studio, I opened my house to you, I helped you with all the administrative proccesses I could, I think I made my part. But you still feel like a guest here, a very comfy and long-lasting guest. And since you don't really make any efforts in learning Spanish, or getting a job, or actually care about anything in the house, I should not be what you're making me be: a mom, a handmaid, a whore.

Twin Peaks

 Twin Peaks is coming to Filmin. It was about fucking time, to be honest. And my first thought, of course, was "I can finally show him", followed up by the obvious "he's not gonna like it", to be summarized in an even more obvious "it doesn't matter anymore". You're leaving as soon as you come back and I won't have to see you again. It's strange how that feels, swimming between the inevitable of the situation and the fear of realising everything is true. I thought it would be complicated to not see previous partners considering how close we all live, but the truth is there has never been an accidental encounter. And yet, this feels way more real, if you go for sure I'm never gonna see you again. And I think that's okay. You drive me crazy to absurd limits, your lack of understanding, of care for details, of passion... I just can't understand why you can't love me like a normal person. Why do you have to be such a lovely human being just when I'm about to break down. It's not fair. I find myself being humilliated over and over just to get your attention, to get you to love me because that became my objective, but I don't know if what I got was love or it was just a natural reaction. Because you never felt them, didn't you? The butterflies. You never felt the longing, the need for connection, for words, for everything that was related to you. You were too busy being sad because you weren't able to be with someone else. And now you don't feel the need of structure, of caring for eachother, of having dates, of finding things together. Of travelling together, when it is so easy to travel for free without me. You know? I thought about new things to do, since you're always saying my only plan is going to the cinema (at least I have a plan): I found a swing dance class, I made a list of day trips, I checked cheap flights for easter, I even downloaded a very complete PDF of something called "partner summit" which I thought could make us both cry for quite a while, I even spent 15 freaking euros in multiplayer games for us to try, I looked for 2 players boardgames in English. I don't know, I tried. And I never got to tell you and now it doesn't matter.

Me dices goodbye en tu nota tan ricamente

 Hace ya años que empecé a ver mis patrones, a darme cuenta de qué papel tengo en todos los círculos (pequeños o grandes) sociales en los que entro. Y es que ya por 2012 Celia me decía que era la madre del grupo, la que se preocupaba de que todos recibieran la comida en el sitio de cenar de turno, la que siempre tenía pañuelos para los dramas inesperados, la que les compraba condones a sus amigas para asegurarse de no ser tita antes de lo previsto. Soy la que no quiere hablar pero habla en un grupo nuevo, para que nadie tenga que ponerse en la tesitura de hacer el ridículo. Soy la que invita a casa, la que abre las puertas, la que ofrece desayuno, merienda y cena y tiene miedo de cómo vayan a dejar el sofá cuando se vayan. Y lo cierto es, todo sea dicho, que no me desagrada tener ese rol. Mis amigos me apreciaban por ello y los que tengo ahora también lo hacen, aunque en una forma mucho menos efervescente y más callada.

Sin embargo, no es lo mismo estar en un grupo de personas en las que cada una asume un rol distinto, con más o menos acierto, que ser solo dos personas. La dependencia es enorme. La injusticia también. Tiendo a asumir este rol absurdo por culpa del complejo de salvadora que dios me ha dado y no soy capaz de romper el círculo. Ya con Sebas lo vi, incluso con Julio, y eso que éramos unos críos. Pero todo fue siempre idea mía, todo surgía de mis iniciativas, desde los viajes a las obvias rupturas. Siempre he sido yo la que ha llevado la maquinaria pesada mientras la otra persona se dejaba llevar. Ahora no iba a ser menos. Ahora es exponencial la desigualdad. Ha llegado un momento en el que me siento una máquina de hacer personas más preparadas para la vida real. El problema es que por el camino suelo salir malparada. Leía hace un rato que pedir reciprocidad no es algo malo, que tiene sentido en una relación equitativa. Siempre he leído lo contrario, que todo lo que haga tengo que hacerlo sin esperar nada a cambio, que debo ser solidaria hasta unos extremos enfermizos. Suena también a doctrina católica. Y tiene sentido, ¿no? Porque en ese acto tan simple de pedir reciprocidad toda la culpabilidad se abalanza sobre mí. Hago un esfuerzo sobrehumano por ignorarlo y mirar por mí un poquito, pero cuál es mi sorpresa cuando veo que nada cambia. Así que espero. Y vuelvo a hacer de tripas corazón. Y nada cambia. Y me empiezo a sentir no ya culpable sino estúpida. ¿Cuántas veces el pie y la piedra?¿Cuántos chocazos contra la pared? Demasiados, demasiados.

Dónde estabas entonces

 Imagino que el dolor pasará tarde o temprano. Bueno, no imagino, lo sé. El problema es que esta vez es diferente, no puedo irme y anclarme a otros grupos, salir, beber y el rollo de siempre, a la vuelta estarás ahí. Tener que esperar hasta el 11 sin arrepentirme se va a hacer cuesta arriba, eso también lo sé. Mi propósito de este año era tener una relación sana contigo y henos aquí, 31 de diciembre y viviendo en un limbo de decisiones y, sobre todo, indecisiones. Tú somatizas y yo me bloqueo. La vida se me hace bola en este último día del año, sin ganas de escribir, de traducir, de vivir. Tu apatía me supera. Y tú sufres y no ves que yo soy la destrozada, en una inmensa cantidad de amor tengo que elegir el dolor de dejarte atrás. Si al menos me dieras un resquicio de esperanza al que aferrarme...

I am wasting all this time

 Should I tell you what I really think?

Would it change something?

In these past couple of days I've been reading my evolution since we met, the problems we (I) had at the beginning, the mistery, the fear, the pain and it all came from the same: an absolute lack of communication. You didn't let me in, you had your reason and that's fine at this point, but the problems evolved and the cause was the same. Me needing information and you not giving it away. Just a bit, just enough to not be paralyzed during the whole day because you're on the other side of the continent not wanting to come back.

In the end I was right: I don't miss you, I miss the idea of having someone that gives me conversation and companionship, but it could be you or someone else. We haven't built anything and people are starting to be very adult and I just feel stuck with you. Stuck in the monotony of blaming someone else for our problems, stuck in how easy it is to live at someone else's expenses and I'm seeing you getting too comfortable here and I need to get out of this place. This is not your home and it's not mine either anymore, disassembling the bed was definitive proof of that. I need to get out of here and you don't seem to understand it. Because you come and you go as you please and want a job that you like and at this point in life that's too much to ask for.

We will go to Mexico and we will have a good time, I am sure of that, but I don't think you will stay for much longer after that. I told you if you didn't get a job before Christmas it would be over and I stand by that, because if at least I would have seen you trying, things would be a bit different, but you decided that we would make the NGO and that would be everything when, since day one, that wasn't the plan because we knew we couldn't live from that for now. What do you want me to do? What would you do in my shoes? Love isn't everything, it never was. I have my masters and I know that's no excuse but it is my reason (and the savings I have from the time I actually worked), what do you have? Anxiety? Boredom? Lack of motivation? I don't care, I told you I would follow you wherever you could find something and I refuse to believe you are useless to everyone, you are just not trying and that is killing me. Because you keep taking me for granted and I am not, you think I will eternally forgive you and say things will get better while you play your things and forget that looking for a job is, in fact, a job. 

But I am getting very tired and I definitely do not need you. I never did, and at this point (I'm sorry) I'm pretty sure you did actually need me to become a bit more mature and a bit more like a normal human being, and that was a very fun experience to be part of, but it took away my mental health along the way and it is still doing it, you are still making me feel sick and it doesn't compensate the times I feel good. So if this is who you are it is fine by me, it really is, if this is all you can aspire to be then by all means be yourself, but you will have to be yourself without me, because I want more than this life of expectation and sadness.

No hay música

 I am in a limbo again. I wonder between the possibilities, hearing and reading about contradictory points of view, asking myself what am I going to do, but at the same time not wanting to answer. The sky is grey today, it's cold and wet and there were people dancing in blue vests in the middle of the park, it looked like a cult. I should've told you that, right? But we are not talking, we haven't talked in over a day. I want to ask my mum if she speaks a lot with my dad when they are apart, to have some perspective. I have Ro's one of calling each other everyday, but I still think that's excessive. But if I ask her she will know something's wrong and I don't want to talk about it. So I don't know if this is a mature relationship or just one without passion. I mean, I would speak to you all the time, but I don't because I am pretty good at controlling myself and I don't want to end up like last year, with a bag full of yes and no. I tend to compare with the past but there's no point, I feel I'm at a different life point right now and nothing from before is valid.

I see the red flags and I am scared of them, I just feel everything is wrong, from the beginning it was wrong and I just decided I could fix everything, like always. I can get your attention, I can make you fall in love with me, I can learn to love you properly, I can make you want to be with me for the rest of our lives... but I forgot about being happy in the process. I forgot about the compatibilities and that maybe if we were fighting so much it meant something. If I always felt left out, ignored, and I had to be mean to catch your attention, maybe there was something definitely wrong.

Creo que, después de tanta reflexión y tanta tontería, toda esta situación podría definirse en dos sencillas frases: no hay música y mi instinto dice que aquí no es. There's no music and my instinct tells me it's not here. La música no deja de sonar cuando estoy sola, al igual que sonaba con frecuencia con ellos. Los grupos cambiaban, de Manel a Twenty One Pilots, pasando por Smash Mouth, Estopa y Fun, pero siempre estaba ahí. Cuando pongo música no te mueve nada y tú nunca pones música. Cuando bailo no me sigues la corriente. No tenemos grupos en común.