lunes, 4 de abril de 2011


Seriously, W-T-F.

No puedo dejar de repetirme eso después de revisitar este espacio y reflexionar sobre el abandono en el que lo he tenido. Al contrario de lo que había advertido cuando empecé este blog, no lo terminé borrando; sin embargo, lo dejé en un completo abandono acompañado de no pocos remordimientos. Sí, remordimientos, porque siento que cada vez que dejo de escribir me abandono a mí misma, y si sigo ese tren de pensamiento llego muy rápido a la conclusión de que me he abandonado a mí misma en por lo menos los últimos dos años.

-self-dialogue in English starts here-

No sólo abandoné mis actividades creativas; lo abandoné todo. Todo menos las actividades académicas. Ser "la buena estudiante" me define, algo de lo que estaba orgullosa hasta hace poco. Not only did I give up my creative endeavors, I also gave up anything that wasn't related to academics; this made happy enough and proud until recently. Don't get me wrong, I'm still proud of it. But, is it really all I want to be? Is being happy enough actually enough? Do I want to be that girl whose classmates know because she answers all the questions but that has never had a conversation with them? What else can I be? What else should I be?

I know many people -I want to note that I almost wrote "I have many friends", but I do not like using the term carelessly, and the truth is that I have only a few friends- who would tell me I shouldn't be anything, that I just have to be. Others would tell me that I, in fact, could be anything. What does it all mean?

On a daily basis some people try to be something and fail at it; these people may feel fulfilled just by the fact they are trying or frustrated by their failure at being who they wish they were. Others just are; from my point of view, people who are happy by just being are the rarest and most fortunate in this world; those who are and are not fulfilled by their being, can be some of the most miserable individuals. Where do I fit in all this? The scary thing is that I feel like I don't. I think I stopped being and I stopped trying to be. I feel as though I just exist; no soy, no intento ser.

I am ambitious; there are so many things I want to be, learn, and have. But there are so many other things, baggage, holding me back, keeping me in an unconscious existence filled of banal days. How many years have I wasted? Will I waste any more?

I need to get back to writing, but not all this self-pitying crap. I need to get back to writing what's really inside, in those places I don't want to see or reach; those things don't come out well in writings like this one. Perhaps after I revisit those dark and dusty places I'll be able to start being again, I'll get back my motivation to try to be, I'll stop letting life pass me by.

Maldita sea, cómo llegué a la nada?