Amalia Andrade

We are not to blame
For seeing love is pain
We are not ashamed
To say that love is pain

Love is Pain – Joan Jett and The Blackhearts

I spend too much time avoiding falling asleep. That´s my problem. See, I feel sleepy around 11pm but I don´t ease into the sleepiness, instead I resist it till its 2am and there´s no leftovers of sleep anywhere to be found.

Its sabotage, its auto-sabotage or so says Henry who is really into self-help books. All day long the dude keeps talking about the importance of self-esteem and awareness. I say the poor man is crazy like a monkey like a fox. People who are addicted to self-help books and pseudo spirituality are doomed; they are just another kind of addicts, but addicts anyway. I say: Henry, listen to me man, you have to stop reading those books because that crap isn´t what saved you. You did, and those books haven´t made the world a better place anyway. I say: Henry, go read some of the good stuff, some of the Russians or the French, or maybe some Mark Twain. But Henry says No thanks.

So when I’m wide awake and its 3am and sleep is nowhere to be found, I like to think of Henry and the way he says reading those formula-we-promise-you-happiness-and-salvation-from-yourself books changed his life. And I think: Henry is one stupid man, its not self-help books that changed his life. Books change lives. Good books. Books like Where The Red Fern Grows when you are 12.

There are different kinds of insomnia; mine consist in difficulty for falling asleep rather than sleeplessness. Insomnia is no joke or easy ride, even if mine is sometimes auto-inflicted. Its something that makes you go crazy without you even noticing. It’s like having someone soft-whisper madness right into your head, so soft you can´t hear it, but loud enough to make it’s way into your brain. Your brain, your memories, your subconscious mind, your deep deep inner being, your SELF. And BANG! In lees than you know it you are hopeless.

Insomnia is like a curse, one of the really bad kind, like some really powerful conjuro, like the worst of the worst.

Sometimes I fantasize about my girl Lucy. Lucy in the sky with diamonds. Sweet little shy little Lucy of mine. I miss her. I miss my Lucy and the way her curly hair shined when the sun was bright. I miss the way she ate breakfast in bed: 

1 orange

1 toast

1 egg

black coffee.

All days. Every month. Every year. Those four years next to Lucy were the best of my life. We danced naked in the shower and I knew I was happy. I knew it wasn´t getting better than that. That was it.

And then, almost out of nowhere, Lucy started coming home late, Lucy started skipping breakfast, and breakfast was her favorite thing in the world. In less than one month something had gotten into her so bad, she started skipping all meals and sleeping all day. I tried to save Lucy but you can´t save someone from themselves. I hated the way our love wasn´t enough, but love is never enough for anyone because nobody who doesn´t wants to see it can see true love. Something got a hold of Lucy and she let herself go, and off she went right into death. Doctor said it was depression.

Sometimes when the night is cold and its rainy outside I like to jump into Henry´s bed and feel his warm skin next to mine. Henry sleeps with a worried look in his face and when I see it I understand there is no such thing as sleep or rest. Poor Henry is wide-awake in his sleep and who knows what kind of mess he´s always dreaming. Dreaming is only one fancy trick of the mind to fool us. It makes me feel better though, because I understand there is no difference between sleep and “real” life. I like laying next to Henry anyway.

Most days I finally fall asleep around 7 a.m, when the sun is already out and shiny, and the noise of the neighbors’ hoses watering their gardens is the soundtrack to my dreams. Nothing makes me feel as bad as that sparkling noise. I hate morning persons and their unbearable happiness, their walks, their shiny-little-faces at 6:45am.

The room changes colors, it becomes a sort of baby light blue, Lucy used to like it quite a lot. I don’t mind it, feeling the temperature rise and having the poignant morning light hit my face through the window its what I truly hate. During the long hours I spend trying to catch up with sleep again, I often wonder what would be of me if Lucy were still alive. I would definitely not be suffering from insomnia, I´ll tell you that. I rather not sleep as a precaution method, when I wake up and the realness of dreaming her fades, its like a million bees stinging all over my face. Dreaming about her would only make me hate mornings even more. I hate mornings enough already.

Henry says I´m just sad, but it’s O.K to be sad or so he says.

I say maybe, maybe its infinite sadness.

Today I woke up late.

I woke up with a headache and morning headaches never go away, they are here to stay (we are not).

Today I felt the house was was too big.

Yes, I feel belittled, unimportant.

The rooms feel empty and I realize you have a special way of affecting spaces.

No one called, I haven´t used my voice, no one knows Im still alive.

As I walk around with an excessive amount of time in my hands that makes me feel uncomfortable (specially uncomfortable on my own skin), I realize the walls seem to remember the way you move in these rooms better than I do.

WE ARE NO LONGER MESMERIZED BY YOUR PRESENCE AND WE MISS IT. (The living room seems useless, your side of the bed is still yours).

This space, the bed, the kitchen, the melting malfunctioning coffee maker, the white mugs in the white cabinets, our space is modified when you are not here.

Is almost as if the coffee maker were aching for your touch.

So am I.

Ella es ella más todas las veces que leí

la palabra ella escrita en cualquier texto

más las veces que soñé ella

más sus evocaciones,

diferentes a las mías.

PERI ROSSI, Cristina

Gay porn makes its way into our houses,

Gay porn makes its way into our fridges,

I see the future and its full of lesbians

and Nintendo 64.

Hoy conté las rayitas blancas que tengo en las uñas. Siete en total, cuatro en la mano izquierda y tres en la derecha. Hoy me bañe en desorden, el jabón vino primero que el shampoo. Hoy no sonaron Diana Ross and The Supremes. No me gustó estar todo el día en pijama. Hoy lloré muchas veces, sobretodo en la cocina (no sé por qué). Evite mirar rincones de esta casa que son solo tuyos y anduve por ahí, del cuarto a la cocina, de la cocina al estudio, del estudio al baño, a la cocina y a mi cuarto otra vez, todo el tiempo con miedo de encontrarme contigo, depronto en una taza de café o en un libro. He determinado que esta casa no es un lugar apto para mi seguridad emocional. No tengo a donde ir. (Así es la vida). Hoy desayuné lo mismo de siempre, a la misma hora. Hoy el desayuno fue cruel y triste y lo odié.