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?