‘Forbidden Thoughts’ is a rule I never had a choice about. I grew up with Catholic guilt, minus the being a Catholic. Black Thoughts were obviously sinful, but the grey misplaced ones were questionable. Until I decided they all get dumped in the Black category. The requisites for White Thoughts were so selective and sparing, I didn’t have permission to wander in mind. That’s how other the shit became obsessive. I had to ruminate about avoiding taboo, because that’s they only way I could acknowledge their existence without outright denying it. And so I raised myself that way.

Until now.

Personality disorders are contextual, deeming official diagnoses potentially unreal. Take this fiery storm of a girl from society’s constricted structure. Place her in open spaces and let her run free to explore. When the sun goes down, ask her if she’s happy. Ask her if she’s fulfilled. Go ahead, ask her. She’s shines, but she requires a personalized setting. Nobody can conclude that there is anything wrong with her. There’s something wrong with the way people accept self expression and the ones who try to control the suppressed souls.

This girl isn’t feral. She’s a character in the wrong story.

It is FACT that good looking salesmen have higher success rates. In all their relations they are sub and consciously aware they’ve got everything going on to make the sell. This fuels their ability to play the charisma card. This pumps their ego. This becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy, validated when they rub the hype upon their victim customers; henceforth, the deal closing signature. That is how I came to acquire a new gym membership I can hardly fund (even though I already had a perfectly suitable contract elsewhere). I’m paying for my trainer’s implanted pecs and puffed esteem. He’s dreamy.

Don’t call them moods. They’re nothing other than emotions. It’s true; they come at you different and fast, he reassures her. They rush your existence, beliefs and feeling of general composure. But they’re yours and you’re lucky to have them. Stop fighting them, start feeling them. It doesn’t matter if no one understands. Do you really want any fool to share the same unique traits you’ve been gifted? Enjoy them, even the excruciating feelings. Before you know it, you’ll stop trembling and tensing your brow so hard. For someone who’s never experienced her brain, he said all the right things.

Before I die

18. Join a band – There are lyrics dating back from my teenage angst until today waiting for their copyright. Yellowed loose leaf scribbles. Spiral notebooks with silvery inks. Pretty round black notes. Chords to be broken up. Beats absorbed and released through potent lungs. Duo accompaniment is sufficient soul, as long as another story is incorporated to our music embodied. And if it so happens my technique is desperately lacking, I’ll just pound lightly on a tambourine, keeping time for my band mates and providing presentational ambience. My voice doesn’t have to be spoken to feel heard.

Doc, you know, this is the one place I can talk about anything. I’m paying to receive an objective point of view, which could very well be too singular for my taste, but my income is limited for second opinions. It’s textbook behavior to fall for your damn electric eyes. I’m fighting to stay detached. It must be automatic for you to see me as your third appointment. How should I express I like and dislike your gettin so comfortable around me? It’s unprofessional. What I mean, being here already makes me feel whored. Let’s keep this business, not personal.

The Girl Who Walked Through People:

She always perceived special powers brewing internally. She thought everyone experienced the same transitions, until she started noticing she spoke and behaved differently than the majority. Like any normal adolescent in bloom, she started going through physical changes. Unlike her mates, her skin was becoming of very delicate texture. Soon it developed into a strange translucence. Nobody else seemed to notice. Her whole being matured into a ghostly ectoplasm. She could walk straight through doors and objects. Until finally she understood:
They were walking right through her.

Revised title: The Girl Who Was Invisible

Americans are obsessed with lists. I know. When I had my first mania episode, I wrote and almost published The Book of Lists (Typical symptom). Some maniac on the other side of this country was already running the presses. The bullet points follow us everywhere: planners, shopping pads, tasking, teaching devices. Everything shrunk down to a simple reduction of an otherwise thorough lifestyle. We’re in a frenzied rush, because we’re aware of our short-spanned mortality. The fear we’ll die unaccomplished make us want to condense the knowledge of the world and cram as much living possible before we kick it.

Instrument Word Association

Piano – Magical
Electric Piano Synthesized – Ghostly
Harmonica - Ghastly
Guitar – Universal
Electric guitar – Eclectic
Distorted electric guitar – Mind-Bending
Electric Bass - Leader
Upright Bass – Depth
Slap Bass – Contusion
Wah wah Pedal - Mushroom
Banjo – Individuality
Sitar – Om
Koto - Stream
Drums – Omnipotent
Cymbals – Intrusive
Cowbell - Walken
Tambourine - Freedom
Bongos – Rhythmic
Rain Sticks - Healing
Xylophone – Echoes
Triangle – Dinner!!!
Tubular Bells - Bones
Trumpet – Precision
Flute – Haunting
Violin – Religious
Cello – Experience
Harp – Angelic (of course)
Accordion – Lobotomy
Tuba – Obesity
Trombone - Silly
French Horn – Huh?
Saxophone – Harsh
Harpsichord – Seizures
Organ - Foreboding
Voice – Touch

The time I heard blue-eyed blondes were endangered species, I panicked. What a relief to learn it was rumor. True fair heads - from the root - truly seem less burdened. I once changed my shade some. I loved every second of it, but it wasn’t inborn. I believe being born light in colors, may lead an easier road to a lighter heart. Please don’t misread; all tones are of wonder-worthy design, but I personally indulge in beatific blondies. I remember waking up to one. All that morning sunshine and brightness in your own bed. I never tired of it.

The softer side of me.
Its whole, its pure
You’re over the top
When you’re under the sun
Incubating in my hold
I’ve got you covered
Light can’t escape from the grip I’ve got you
That’s the softer side, you see

The harder part of me.
It’s dark, its cold
A cave of rock hard corpses
If you get dragged
In my descent of frigid skin
But it’s apart from my love for you
It’s not a place I reside in long
I glimpse your presence from below
So if you see the harder part of me, don’t flee

Never had I worked so hard to look so effortlessly beautiful for gym. Wearing all kinds of colorless makeup with brightening enhancers. Sporting hair sprayed ponytails. Wearing shorts tight and skimp enough to squat without exposing roast beef, but enough to display contracting hamstrings. I unlocked the key of staying within the presence of oxygen to prevent purple-toned asphyxiation and torrential sweats. I aim to achieve a rosy, glistening flush. Finally, he got a break to talk me up, flashing that dimple blessed, panty-dropping smile. I tossed up from the water fountain… only to choke and pop a vein.

Graceful.

I never had the chance to Just Say No. Stoners, junkies, pookieheads (1990’s term for Miami X kids) probably assumed I wasn’t the kind of girl they wanted to trip out with. True at the time. I’m living different times though. Times that require altered conscienceness in order to survive and experience. I’m not high on life and despite my ambition I’m continuously disappointed. I could use a lil something to hold me over. But in the clean path I chose, I wouldn’t know anyone to righteously hook it up. Buying off the glum corner stops is not an option.

As a teenager, I preferred adoption. I lack(ed) maternal yearning. I’ve never cared to elongate my lineage. There’s already an abundance of children thrown into this worldly madness with ignorant, idiot and limited parental attention. At first, I just wanted a cute, hungry Cambodian. I invented Brangelina before they became headlines. That desire evolved into adopting an abandoned infant with Down syndrome, mental disabilities, cerebral palsy or autism. Not only would I dedicate every ounce of my energies to being their loving and knowledgeable support system, but I would discover a communication on their level, in their mind of pictures.

I could read overly arched eyebrows or stern pauses that last too long.

But high-fives? For me, it isn’t the normal human gesture you might’ve experienced.

Soon as the five figured limb rises high in the air my sensory input goes into overdrive. You can see my eyeballs shifting, computing frantically for an immediate reflex. Paralyzed in the body, the mind begins to turn gears.

Are high-fives still in?
Was he gonna reach back to scratch?
Make sure you use enough force when palms meet.
Put your back into it!
Aim center!

All this and more before I awkwardly miss.

She speaks about the universe, universally speaking. She variably discusses topics in general, though she is the least generic person you could talk about nothing with. She’ll talk about everyone, and include this one and add some more into this ambiguous conversation leading nowhere. This characteristic crept up to her secretly. She didn’t realize how great it served to weed out those who weren’t willing to wait for the result. If he lingers, he’ll see she does this because it’s too small of a world to be only about her, too vast an expansion not too regard everyone as grand.

Never had I worked so hard to look so effortlessly beautiful for gym. Wearing all kinds of colorless makeup with brightening enhancers. Sporting hair sprayed ponytails. Wearing shorts tight and skimp enough to squat without exposing roast beef, but enough to display contracting hamstrings. I unlocked the key of staying within the presence of oxygen to prevent purple-toned asphyxiation and torrential sweats. I aim to achieve a rosy, glistening flush. Finally, he got a break to talk me up, flashing that dimple blessed, panty-dropping smile. I tossed up from the water fountain… only to choke and pop a vein. Graceful.

She shivers up and down the length of her body, coarsening the shell of skin to better retain the warmth generated within. Her clothes seem to shrink in coverage from the invisible drafts flowing by. Her bones are heard crunching static as they tighten inwardly. Everyone else isn’t terribly affected. This feeling of coldness was the last remaining quality she held close in her embrace to remind her she is similarly made. But she’s slowly freezing over to the other side. Soon she will not be able to move, to feel at all. She’ll no longer have anything in common.

Another mishap repeat posting. Sorry. Not paying attention. I’ve been thinking nonstop. When I’m not grinding neuron, I’m zoning out completely. I have become an expert at fluctuating in and out of disassociative states. From being alive to being dead. To being a fly on the wall, to being the wall, to swatting the fly. There is no secure place where I can reside. This is how I shall remain: Mobile. I grow weary, ultimately paranoid of any persona that lingers. I’m floating through worlds and must work hard to remember what I’ve already accomplished or have yet to manage.

What’s your biggest fear?
Some say heights, spiders, live burials.
The last response I heard was fear of death.
It brought back suppressed memories tucked away for deliberate avoidance.
I owned that fear too. I would deny it. Never talk about it.
Couldn’t donate my organs, wouldn’t fall sleep so I wouldn’t wake up dead.
Now… I’m ready for it. I’m not scared anymore.
It’s the opposite of my biggest fear.
And although I don’t have what it takes to carry through with the experience, I will be sure to provoke the next person with a gun or some cyanide.

This world needs another neo-romantic comeback. Survival and competition have made this a nasty place to thrive. It is stagnate with nationalism and useless intent. What we need is dreamers, and I don’t mean barren desires to escape from dead-end towns, but to make alive the dying landscapes we have to work with. We need children who hear fireworks in music, see fantasy in backyard creatures, and beauty in numbers. It is paramount to keep our heads on straight and not fall over the edge in daydreams, but instead let’s be lofty in plausible possibilities and less in personal gains.

If one is to trip in the privacy of one’s home - say on a straggling t-shirt propped on the carpeting- free of any snickering audiences - should one try to maneuver a graceful recovery and immediately steady oneself?

Or would it be more liberating to continue a downward fumble and wholly surrender merit to the fall?

We’re defying gravity, hoisting burdens, picking up after ourselves and others. It can become tiresome.

Wouldn’t it be nice to, once in a while, truly dedicate yourself to a well deserved slip and steamroll across the floor without embarrassment?

You’ve earned it.

Maps. Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Oh say say say.

I’d heard this song before XBOX. They strummed fake guitars and banged on drum simulators. Never had it streamed so loud into my ears. Never had I hit the notes she does with my voice box like she did. Now, this song is inside of me. It’s on mixed cd’s that I’ve mailed. It’s on my favorite playlist. When the highway’s empty I do sing along, cranked up. Now it’s intertwined with a multitude of memories. I go on overload at first crying string.

They don’t love you like I love you.

Qué triste se oye la lluvia
en los techos de cartón;
qué triste vive mi gente
en las casas de cartón.

Viene bajando el obrero
casi arrastrando los pasos
por el peso del sufrir;
mira que mucho es sufrir,
mira que pesa el sufrir.

Cae la lluvia
viene, viene el sufrimiento,
pero si la lluvia pasa,
¿cuando pasa el sufrimiento?
¿Cuándo viene la esperanza?

Niños color de mi tierra
con sus mismas cicatrices,
millonarios de lombrices.
Por eso qué triste viven los niños
en las casas de cartón.

Guerra Civil de El Salvador 1980-1992.
Our roofs were tin, not cardboard.

Phenomenorange.

I feel orange. I’m not purposely trying to go gonzo. It’s not like saying I feel blue: translation sad. I don’t feel orange: translation sunny. There’s just a strong presence of color. Its not yellowish or golden solids. I can’t taste it. I don’t hear it. If you yank words and descriptions and shades: it still remains announced. The extravaganza of it all is that my versing is a little more offbeat than usual. Word zappage is occuring spontaneously. Has it returned? Synesthesia hasn’t happened since I was a kiddo. What would happen if I ate an orange skittle?

The piano is centered perfectly in its space. What’s wrong is the position of the house. The door and windows are ergonomically stupid. Had I architectural say, the walls would’ve been erected elsewhere. The paint scheme transmits a sense of confusion. The lighting lacks focal point. Untrimmed trees hog the radiance that would otherwise improve the mad house. Chaos reigns in the circumference of the instrument; slamming doors, pressure cookers whistling, sirens, highway, traffic. Beethoven’s spirit might be disturbed by it. Schubert would resurrect to kick my ass if I dishonored the essence of a serenade in this discomfit setting.

New favorite word: Fuckwit. The sad part is I don’t know have enough sarcastic savvy friends to call them fuckwit, defaulting me the fuckwit. I’m only as smart as the people around me. They’re pretty dense. I don’t know under what category that befalls me: moderately learned? I really should surround myself around challenging people, at least people who challenge me. Where to find them, I’m not quite sure. But I stay surrounded by those bothered by my fascination with dirty words. Need to keep a source of humility around if I’m gonna march on haughtily about my supposed intellect.

Amazing beach night. The wrong person, but still a gorgeous night with all the resorts lighting up the coast, the diamond littered blackness, the crystal gleaming sand. In the darkness it looked like tiny monsters were running up and down the shore. We found it to be swift running birds, not crabs. I didn’t look at his face much. It’s not the one for me. Something is oddly proportioned about it although he isn’t hideous. I did stand downwind because his cologne was accentuated by the salts. However, I didn’t stay long. Otherwise, he might have tried laying down moves.

Sounds that irritate: ambulance sirens, microwave beeps, cell phone ring tunes, coughing, any and all types of squirting, saliva, vacuum cleaners, silverware in motion, food chewing, heavy sighs, anything that beeps or dings, wailing babies, electrical whirring, starting engines, humming electronics, coins falling into can, scratching, highway cars zooms, helicopters, fists pounding

Favorable Sounds: background thunder, highway passing, meadow rains, dream-like sighs, fairies playing, pygmy-size sneezes, finely-tuned piano, harps, absolute silence, cosmic static, cooing babies, hummingbird zooms, bubbles popping, pillow voices, armonicas, pleasure moans, orgasmic clamoring, purring tigers, tropical birds, wind chimes, crystals colliding, long caresses, ocean sailing, light typing