“Algunos dicen que sus últimas palabras confesaban su desdicha, pero nadie nunca estaría cien por ciento seguro de estos hechos ya que nadie estuvo allí. La encontró La Vecina cuando fue a entregarle un libro que le había prestado algunas semanas antes. Había querido entregarlos más temprano, pero se distrajo con una novela mexicana de muchos suspiros que pasaban al medio día por Univisión Puerto Rico. Lo que si sabían los vecinos del Edificio con ciencia cierta era que, al lecho de su muerte, la pobre Teresa buscaba de un papel que nunca encontró para anotar los números que terminó por escribir con un marcador sobre su vientre.”
—El misterioso caso de Teresa la del Edificio (Fragmento), Alexandra-Marie Miranda
March 2011
77 posts
Some call it pseudoscience, others call it destiny.
I don’t honestly care what it’s called. I just need you to stop being anywhere and everywhere when it comes to me. It makes it that much harder for me to forget it ever happened, and that I felt or feel something for you.
I’m being rude, I know I am, but it’s a matter of self-preservation, of taking care of myself. If I allow myself to open up once more, it will be just as easy to follow back into those steps.
You know what you’re doing, and it has been done to you before. Why must you make me suffer like you did? Does it hurt or mend your past?
Pseudoscience, destiny, karma, statistics… I really do not care. Just learn to be the one who helps by saying goodbye.
February 2011
26 posts
Hey, you're a tumblrican like me! I just wanted to tell you that I was following your other blog for a long time now and didn't know you had this one. I really enjoy your blogging and hope you keep going at it. I have to admit to you that I'm not into all PR's matters as you are but I do enjoy some things this island has to offer and support many other causes which our country's young men and women are fighting for. I just like that you're really passionate about the things you like and that's always better than some other random photoblog. :)
Thank you so much, honestly. It means a lot to me that you take from your time and read my random ramblings.
One kiss. Just one kiss as the ribbon unravels between you and I. Slowly, steadily, firmly. Colors fly, sparks play and dance along. Everything spins as your hands clasp together in the small of my back. Your lips play along the line of mine, little pecks flow up to my eyes.
I smile.
Your smell takes me within.
Repeat.
Most of the times I feel like an outsider, like if I'm not good enough.
But then I remember to screw it, because I live this life for me, not for anybody else.
“Una sola cosa perturbaba la felicidad del médico. Notaba que mientras él se iba poniendo viejo, la menor guardaba la misma piel aporcelanada y dura que tenía cuando la iba a visitar a la casa del cañaveral. Una noche decidió entrar a la habitación para observarla durmiendo. Notó que su pecho no se movía. Colocó delicadamente el estetoscopio sobre su corazón y oyó un lejano rumor de agua. Entonces la muñeca levantó los párpados y por las cuencas vacías de los ojos comenzaron a salir las antenas furibundas de las chágaras.”
—La Muñeca Menor, Rosario Ferré
“No esperes que te olvide, no olvides que te espero.”
—
Me hiperbola y me gasta, pero es verdad. Me tienes como quieres, aunque debería de ser lo opuesto.
Pero hay químicos que no se ignoran y juegan dentro de mi.
“When I was 22 weeks pregnant with my very much wanted second son whom we had already named David, he was diagnosed with a fatal form of Potters’ Syndrome. His kidneys had stopped working and atrophied. As a result, his lungs could not develop. We prayed that we could hold him, regardless of disability, but our options were unspeakable.
We could terminate the pregnancy, if we could find doctors and nurses willing to provide care, and if we could pay for it out of pocket, since my husband’s insurance was restricted from covering abortion care. Or we could wait. We could allow our son to suffer without comfort, to feel his bones being crushed and broken in the absence of amniotic fluid, until he died in utero, or at delivery, suffocating to death in the absence of developed lungs. Two specialists confirmed that he had no chance at life.
We struggled with the moral questions, the ethical questions, the religious questions, the practical questions, and how to explain to our living child that his brother would not be coming home. We questioned the meaning and value of mercy.
We “chose” to end the pregnancy – not for us, but because choosing mercy was the only thing we could do for our unborn son. I would have liked to have held him. Yet, I know our decision was the right one for our child. I know because of this experience that many times the choice to terminate a pregnancy is made because a woman value’s life: because she or her unborn child, or both is dying, or because they are suffering towards no purpose.
It wasn’t a choice I would wish on my worst enemy, but I’m grateful the choice was mine.” —Mary Vargas, “The Meaning and Value of Mercy” (via Feministe)
We could terminate the pregnancy, if we could find doctors and nurses willing to provide care, and if we could pay for it out of pocket, since my husband’s insurance was restricted from covering abortion care. Or we could wait. We could allow our son to suffer without comfort, to feel his bones being crushed and broken in the absence of amniotic fluid, until he died in utero, or at delivery, suffocating to death in the absence of developed lungs. Two specialists confirmed that he had no chance at life.
We struggled with the moral questions, the ethical questions, the religious questions, the practical questions, and how to explain to our living child that his brother would not be coming home. We questioned the meaning and value of mercy.
We “chose” to end the pregnancy – not for us, but because choosing mercy was the only thing we could do for our unborn son. I would have liked to have held him. Yet, I know our decision was the right one for our child. I know because of this experience that many times the choice to terminate a pregnancy is made because a woman value’s life: because she or her unborn child, or both is dying, or because they are suffering towards no purpose.
It wasn’t a choice I would wish on my worst enemy, but I’m grateful the choice was mine.” —Mary Vargas, “The Meaning and Value of Mercy” (via Feministe)
I often question if I'm pretty enough, or if I'm worth it enough.
If someone nonchalantly takes a look at me and thinks about how great I am, or how fun I could be.
It’s not that I need someone to be happy or anything like it, but I see this happen so much, and I hear how friends comment on it about other friends, and it just gets to me. Does this happen about me? Or am I just the generic one?
Claridad 2011 Checklist:
I post this because I know I’ll check Tumblr again before I leave.
- bag and wallet
- phone
- hair ties
- small umbrella
- camera w/ camera bag
- AA batteries
- APPU pin that actually grabs on because it always ends up falling
- spare change
jueves, 24 de febrero de 2011
Day 1 of Festival Claridad
I couldn’t go today, because I was to tired and the group of friends wasn’t too convinced about going right after class. Tomorrow we don’t have school, though, so we’re meeting up. I am excited, like a lot. Since that last day of Claridad last year, yep. This is one of those events that one can truly enjoy by celebrating our culture and being with friends. All so amazing.
Today was great. I didn’t have my first class, so even though I still woke up early, I had a chance to properly wake up. Spanish Literature wasn’t half bad, and English went by rather quickly due to the fact that he let us out early because the professor had a trip with the CLIT Class. I was out by 12PM, and I just stayed with friends laughing around and joking.
We laughed a lot and everything was great… Everything is stepping back to normal, finally.
I have tons of homework, but I’m taking it easy. Everything’s working out.
miercoles, 23 de febrero de 2011.
I wanted to blog again, like I used to. My old Tumblr has over a thousand pages, and I’m not happy with 98% of them. I got lost in the jokes, in the spam, in the fun, but I forgot why I joined Tumblr in the first place. As time passed, it was more and more difficult to blog about what I wanted, to post what I liked and to think, because, although I was not set out to please anybody, I felt responsible and would get people trying to pick fights for some of my posts.
It’s not happening again.
I guess this is born from the fact that yesterday started off and ended as a beautiful day. Today at 1AM, I had to call an ambulance for my mother, and was almost convinced of the fact that I wouldn’t see her alive again. She was convinced as well of this, too. I didn’t sleep, and in school, although I tried to not think about it, if I allowed myself a moment of silence, I would jump back to thinking of her and worrying. She’s back home now, she’s doing good. When I got back from school, she was on her feet and smiling, and we shared a lovely moment. I hadn’t been so scared before in my life. I don’t ever want to go through that feeling ever again.
I fight with my mother a lot. We don’t have the regular relationship. But she’s all that I have. I take that for granted most of times, but I can’t allow myself to do so anymore. She has her character, but she loves me, and I love her.
I just needed a place to share this, and other thoughts that may jump, where I know that it won’t get ignored. If it does, at least I’m blogging for myself, as therapy, but I’m not putting it out there where people will scroll past, waiting for the next funny remark.
So, to my mother, and to new blog-beginnings.
