I just noticed I have not written in over a year. Nor read a full book. Nor do any of the things I’ve used to. And that is strange because I did not realize it had been so long. It feels like the past year has been a blur in the sense that I’ve been becoming someone else. A better else. While I do want to write about those events in details, I do know one thing for sure: I am happy.
The main one is enjoying of a very healthy and fit pregnancy of a baby boy due next…
They were twins.
Marie and Rosie.
They wore the same dresses and travelled the same sea.
Abandoned at birth.
Their creators believed them a curse in a world where people could barely be fed. They relied on each other. Each one the same as the other. Their beauty translucent in the eyes of the beholder.
They stole from the same bread crumbs. Their cheeks sinking with equal dept. But there was a difference in the sisters. A difference only visible to those who could see their hearts.
Marie was brave and persistent. She kept them alive.
Rosie was a dreamer…
They are hidden there in the shadows of existence. Amelia knows where to find them. Her family never understood. Amelia knew no one could, or would. She was different. She saw them lurking behind each hidden shadow. She hid from them, just as they hid from everyone else.
There was one on the bench that day. It did not hide. So Amelia, with the same courtesy, did not as well. She stood across the muddy path. They stared at each other. This has never happened before. Amelia did not know what to do next. …
My father introduced us to coffee at the tender age of 2. We do not have tea, mind you, so in a similar manner, we used coffee. A splash of it in a bottle filled with milk and honey. To which my mother always attributed my good health. (Honey, not coffee.)
In Puerto Rico, coffee used to be one of the main exports in the past. We bragged because people would even drink it at the Vatican back in the old days. This contributed greatly to the island’s economy. …
Isn’t it ironic? We, as writers, often struggle to find our unique voice. A voice which the world is willing to listen to (or read). A voice which is capable of conquering barriers and in a way leave the world slightly better. Yet, here in Medium, more often than not, I find my feed flooding with the same sort of posts.
He was not an echo of lost love. Though that is how he would describe it.
They met one summer morning. She was new in town. He was the treat all around. It did not stop her. She saw his shadow, the hunching back, the words unspoken, hidden behind fragile glass. Though more than often, he was seen talking to another girl. Always another. Seductive. Tempting. Dangerous.
So she loved him. She loved him from afar. She loved him though she did not know she did. She loved him so, that he never noticed. She loved him so, that neither…
What happens when you believe? What if you choose to believe in a happy ending? The kind that sneaks in quietly in the night when you least expect it?
Sitting on the couch, eating your popcorn.
A thundering world outside.
A child asleep on the carpet next to the dog.
He, smiling at you and your silly thoughts.
And suddenly, like an epiphany, a revelation, you realize that happiness is that. At that precise moment.
You grasp onto it knowing that just like with other memories, it, will too, soon fade. Not making it any less precious. You gave up…
The moment I decided to come to the Netherland once and for all, my first question simply was, “what do I do with all my stuff?” And I had a lot of stuff. Hoarded, granted. But it was a lot of stuff and it was all my stuff.
I had countless of boxes filled with magazines waiting to be teared apart and to be used in the next big art project. There were always big art projects. Then, there were the big art projects behind my clothing rack. Canvases filled with color and patterns from a time when I used…
Celebrate the moment. Life in its instance. A miniscule particle in the fabric of time. Listen to it’s rhythm. It is always there, ever present in the senses. Look for the magic on every instant. The miracle of water molecules align in the perfect way to allow light to color the Sky. The symmetry of each petal painting a flower and in turn a landscape. The serendipity of those perfect moments which bring alight happiness. When you finally realize the perfect way to trust someone, it’s in their eyes. And love. Those moments of love. Imagine life without such miracles.
We gathered under the stars and spoke about each other's tales during our nights. My brothers and I were active dreamers. They were more apt at it than I was, in the sense that they could fly. I could not. They could manipulate their dreams and watch themselves sleep. I always wanted that. Instead, I dreamed of dark waters, upside down houses and armies of ghosts in the attics. I did have nice dreams, very colorful dreams, and as I grew up, the nightmares ceased. But more on that later. I was jealous of their ability over the dream realm…
dreaming happy dreams.