Confessions & Wine

I am fucking tired. Absolutely, effin, bloody, extra, duper, hyper, re-contra, harto, mucho, muchísimo, greatly, terribly, pinche, irrevocablemente... cansada. 

It is really exhausting to even try to write this right now. 

What is it so hard to understand? Why is it so fucking complicated?

It is not that I am too proud, nor that I feel that I am really that special, pero supongo que todo el indescifrable universo no puede estar mal. I am too complicated. Unfixable. I don't blame anyone anymore for turning around after understanding how fucked-up I am. 

And yet, I hope, somehow. 

Anyways. 

I'm nothing special. Just another person. A contribution to global warming. 

I don't get myself many times, which is why I don't blame people for giving up on me. And yes, I know it is personal; it's totally on me. 

Maybe that is why I run away every couple years, every couple months, every couple hours. I just want to find myself somewhere, below these layers of meat, bones, and more fat than my doctor would agree to be healthy. 

I take planes, I take boats, I take ubers.

I drink wine, I drink mezcal, I drink... water?

I dive, I run, I sleep. 

Sleep too much, to be honest.

Or sleep nothing at all... 

Where do you see yourself in your eighties? someone asked me a couple hours ago. 

To be honest. My mind is still blank. But my heart is full. I cannot foresee where my future is going. I really don't give a fuck, to be honest (explicit language truly intended). My life has never been planned. Every single meaningful decision was a reaction to something that did not go as I expected, or to a last-minute opportunity, or to a leap of hope. 

Hope. That's it. 

My eighties feel like hope. Hope that I will understand why everything happened. Hope to be able to leave this dimension soon. -Sorry, world, you are great, but I don't mind exploring the afterlife. 

Why are humans so fixated on leaving a legacy anyway? Does it matter? Why am I so worried about everything all the time? It is exhausting, really. 

Hope. It should be that. 

Love? Maybe that's something I should let go. It feels like a wise thing to do. 

And there it is, again: tears. 

I think I would make a great actress; I can cry at cue. Effortless. It is like breathing. Is it weird that sometimes I think it is my hobby? I even cry when I feel happy lately. It's as if crying helped me release all the love that I have to be containing all the time. 

Love. I wonder if I will ever fall in love. I guess yes, I will. I will fall in love many more times. As I have had all these years... And I will fall in love alone, or with impossible people, or with anything but the correct person. 

The right person. Does that exist? Stupid. (No offense to the 8.3% of the global population that found such a person. 8.3% seems accurate to me). It is never the right person or time for me, ever.

Time. Keeps passing.

I guess I will stay here, in this moment that I am still alive, that I am able to work in a beautiful place. That I don't have terrible back pain and still can pass for a 25-year-old. I wish I could say that this is it, that I am giving up. 

I'm not going anywhere. 

I will cherish my time, contain my love, and nurture the hope I have for the future. The hope for growth, for connection, for purpose, for change. The hope to keep having fun with myself and the stupid little things I write, think, and do. I think I am a good person. A kid sometimes, to be honest.  

Change. The only constant. Even a stubborn creature like me changes. Really, I swear! 

Alright. Those papers are not going to get marked alone. Enough of my little writing moment to release my anxiety. 

Thanks for reading, whoever you are. And... if you know who I am, I hope you know that beneath all the layers of complexity and ego, I am only human. A fragile, insecure little person (I'm truly short, it's not figurative). A little human with a baby dinosaur inside (if you really know me, you will get this). 

I'm just hope, love, time...change. 

Don't give up on me. Not yet. 

Little Lu