But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.



Maybe I miss you.
Maybe a little bit too much.

It's been a while. It's been a really, really long while. Where some people have moved on and gained wisdom and have died and lived, I'm back to square one. I thought I did though, I thought I lived. I thought I laughed and I cried and I loved and I lived. But who was I kidding? It was all for show, everything was a facade. I'm back to square one.

Have you ever felt so lost, that everywhere seems home? Or everywhere seems one step closer to home? Or everywhere isn't home at all? That all seems right for a moment, and then it doesn't, and then it is again? That your reach is a mile short of everything you wished for but all the rivers are flooded and you're stuck where you are with nowhere to go? That you can no longer differentiate between your heart and your mind and they both seem so quiet they both seem so dead? That you get so delusional and you're not sure where you are or how to feel or what to think or when to listen or when to speak or when to look or when to not? Maybe you haven't. Maybe it's not even that at all. Maybe that's not what lost feels like. But that's how I feel, and I fear I'm back to square one.

I don't know what to do. I don't know who to talk to. I don't know what I should be doing. I don't know what I'm even doing. Nobody I can think of would understand, or say the things I want them to say. You know how some people have friends who know exactly what to say at exactly the right time? I wasn't fortunate enough to meet such people. It's like I'm back to square one. There's nobody I can weep on, nobody to pat me on the head and tell me it's all right, even though it's not, even though I won't believe it. There's nobody to distract me from this craziness, nobody who's wise and young and wild at the same time. There's nobody for me to dream about. I'm back to square one.

I don't know what I want. Maybe I want somebody. Just somebody. Somebody to guide me, to hug me and hold me tight, to kiss me on the head and tell me all the things I want to hear. And when I deny it and call him a liar, he'll say it again, not because it's his duty, but because it's true. Somebody I can cry to and he'll have a wad of tissues and a mug of hot chocolate to offer. Somebody who'll listen. Somebody who'll listen to every word of the tale, and gently pry the storybook away from my fingers once it's finished. Somebody who smells of meadows, skies and laughter. Somebody who can give me certainty. Somebody I once dreamt about. But alas, I'm not worthy of somebody like that. Somebody as sweet as him deserve better than me. I suppose I'm back to square one.

Time is coming and time is gone, and I'm back to square one, back to where I started. Was everything I ever lived for a lie? Was everything I ever believed in fiction? I took a wrong turning somewhere, and I'm back to square one. Am I expected to take the same road again, in hopes I'll remember to avoid the corner to nowhere? Or to take a different path this time, in hopes that the corner to nowhere doesn't exist at all? I'm not convinced, though. I think I'll end up here again and I'll be back to square one.

Just close your eyes and breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Let your mind take a rest for a moment.
Goddamnit. I'm back to square one.

Je vous aime, mon chéri. Je le veux dire. ♥
"You're going to discover that conversations are best at 4am. The heavier the eyelids, the sincerer the words. Those are the talks you'll remember."
Jeff Stuckel

We should play a round of 'Truth or Dare?' at 4 in the morning then. 
No dares this time.


Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow. 

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book. 

Buy her another cup of coffee. 

Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by God, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.

Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype. 

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes.

 said Rosemary Urquico.

Mad girl's love song.

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men;
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)