Sometimes I Write Stuff.

Home is often imagined as a fixed point, a place on a map, a doorway you return to, a set of coordinates that promise familiarity, peace, and personal freedom. Yet, the longer one moves through life, the more unstable that definition becomes. Places change, people leave, languages shift around you, and what once felt certain begins to loosen. In that quiet unraveling, a different understanding begins to take shape. Home is not only something external, but something deeply internal. Something carried rather than simply reached.

The idea of “the home within you” suggests precisely that. This notion challenges the instinct to search for belonging solely in physical spaces. It proposes instead that when we feel at home somewhere, it is not because that place has transformed us, but because it has aligned with something already present inside us. There is a recognition rather than a construction, a quiet resonance between inner and outer worlds.

This helps explain why certain places, despite meeting every expectation, never fully settle within us. They may be beautiful, functional, even objectively ideal, yet they lack that intangible sense of ease. One can exist there, even thrive on the surface, but a subtle distance remains. It is the feeling of being slightly out of sync. In contrast, there are moments and environments that require no adjustment at all. They do not ask for performance or translation. In their presence, one simply is.

Home, then, cannot be reduced to geography. It may manifest in a place, but it is not confined to one. It can be found in a person, not in the sense of dependency, but in the rare experience of being fully seen and accepted and loved without the need for explanation. Around such individuals, identity feels less like something to defend and more like something that can simply exist. There is a quiet permission in that, a sense of rest and tranquility.

Equally, home can exist in fleeting moments, in a shared silence that feels complete, a familiar laugh in an unfamiliar city, the sudden awareness that, just for a second, nothing feels out of place. These instances are often temporary, yet they carry a permanence in how they imprint themselves. They reveal that home is not always a constant state, but sometimes a recurring recognition.

This perspective also reframes the search for belonging. If home is something internal, then the process of finding it is not solely about external discovery, but about internal alignment. The more one becomes attuned to oneself, to one’s values, rhythms, and emotional truths, the easier it becomes to recognize environments and connections that reflect that authenticity. In this sense, finding home is less about searching endlessly outward and more about returning inward.

There is also a certain comfort in this understanding. If home were only a place, it could be lost entirely. But if it exists within, it remains accessible, even in unfamiliar or transient circumstances. It travels with you, quietly shaping how you experience the world and how the world, in turn, meets you.

Ultimately, home resists a single definition because it is not a singular thing. It is a convergence of place, person, moment, and self. It is where tension softens, where identity feels unforced, where presence replaces performance. It is not always where you begin or where you end up, but where something within you recognizes itself.

When everything in the universe

Spoke against us

When timing limped

And distance sharpened its knives

When logic folded its arms

And shook its head at our names

Perhaps because gravity lies

Because stars collide not out of agreement

But insistence

Because some forces don’t ask permission

They arrive.

We were never meant to be easy

We were meant to be true

In a way that startled the rules

In a way that bent coincidence

Until it learned our shape

The universe didn’t speak against us

It tested

And we answered by staying

Together

Love Doesn’t Exist. It‘s An Optical Illusion.

El Amor No Existe. Es Una Ilusíon Óptica.

La afirmación no niega que las personas se toquen, se vinculen o se duelan unas por otras, sino que cuestiona que aquello que llamamos amor sea una cosa en sí misma. No lo es. Es un ángulo. Un truco de la percepción.

La biología ofrece su confesión primero. Si despojamos al amor de sus metáforas, encontramos química: dopamina iluminando el cerebro como una fiesta, oxitocina uniendo cuerpos con un hilo invisible, serotonina sosteniendo la ilusión el tiempo justo para que parezca significativa. La adrenalina afila los bordes. El cuerpo responde al estímulo y llamamos destino a esa respuesta. El cerebro premia el reconocimiento y lo bautizamos como destino o fatalidad. Parece mágico solo porque no nos gusta imaginarnos como complejos recipientes de reacciones.

Desde esta perspectiva, el amor no se descubre: se produce. Se fabrica dentro y se proyecta hacia fuera. Es una experiencia, no una entidad. Real en la sensación, irreal en la sustancia. Como el dolor de un miembro fantasma, arde incluso cuando ya no queda nada que sostener.

La mente, sin embargo, no se conforma con la química. Exige relato. La cultura interviene para enseñarnos a mirar. Desde muy temprano aprendemos —a través de historias, películas, anhelos heredados, expectativas poco realistas, a reconocer el amor solo cuando adopta ciertas formas: la mirada correcta, el sufrimiento adecuado, el momento preciso. Aprendemos que el amor debe ser abrumador, exclusivo, inevitable. Todo lo que es más silencioso se descarta como conformismo. Todo lo estable se acusa de no ser suficientemente real. Y así confundimos intensidad con verdad.

Aquí la ilusión óptica se agudiza. El amor deforma la percepción. Convierte defectos en encanto, el azar en significado, la compatibilidad en mito. No vemos al otro con claridad: lo vemos refractado a través del deseo, del miedo y de la arquitectura privada de nuestras necesidades. Lo que sentimos como devoción puede no ser más que proyección: el yo encontrándose consigo mismo, brevemente, en otro encuadre.

Por eso el amor tan a menudo se derrumba con el tiempo. La química se reajusta. El relato se adelgaza. Lo que una vez pareció destino se revela como circunstancia. En retrospectiva, aquella versión anterior del mundo se ve distorsionada, casi incómoda. Decimos que fuimos engañados. Decimos que estábamos ciegos. Pero quizá no se rompió nada. Quizá solo cambió el ángulo.

Comprender esto puede resultar liberador y cruel a la vez. Liberador, porque el amor deja de ser una obligación cósmica o una prueba moral. Nadie estaba “destinado” a nadie. No hay defecto en que termine. Aterrador, porque si el amor es percepción, puede disolverse sin previo aviso, y nada fuera de uno mismo garantiza su regreso.

Y aun así, la ilusión no lo vuelve insignificante.

Un espejismo no calma la sed, pero sigue marcando el camino del viajero. Mientras dura, modifica la conducta, reorganiza prioridades, deja huellas en la psique. El amor, ilusorio o no, reorganiza vidas. Nos enseña de qué somos capaces de dar y qué tememos perder. Hiende. Expande. Reescribe la memoria.

El amor no existe como algo que podamos sostener.
No es una piedra, ni un río, ni una estrella. Es un destello en el límite de la percepción, un patrón que la mente traza entre el anhelo y la presencia. Hablamos de él como si fuera sólido porque no soportamos llamarlo nada.

Quizá ahí resida su silenciosa misericordia: que algo no tenga que ser permanente para ser profundo. Que una ilusión, bellamente sostenida, pueda seguir siendo esencial. En el breve universo que crea, somos lo bastante reales. Y recuerda detenerte a notar cuándo eres feliz.

********************

The claim is not that people do not touch, or bond, or ache for one another, but that what we call love is not a thing in itself. It is an angle. A trick of perception.

Biology offers its confession first. Strip love of its metaphors and you find chemistry: dopamine lighting the brain like a festival, oxytocin fastening bodies together with an invisible thread, serotonin steadying the illusion just long enough to make it feel meaningful. Adrenaline sharpens the edges. The body responds to stimulus, and we call the response destiny. The brain rewards recognition, and we name it fate. It feels magical only because we do not like to imagine ourselves as elaborate reaction vessels.

From this perspective, love is not discovered but produced. It is manufactured internally, projected outward. An experience rather than an entity. Real in sensation, unreal in substance. Like pain in a phantom limb, it burns even when there is nothing left to hold.

The mind, however, is not content with chemistry alone. It insists on narrative. Culture steps in to teach us how to see. We are trained early through stories, films, inherited longings, unrealistic expectations, if you will, to recognize love when it appears in certain forms. The correct glance. The correct suffering. The correct timing. We learn that love must feel overwhelming, exclusive, inevitable. Anything quieter is dismissed as compromise. Anything stable is accused of being not as real. And so we mistake intensity for truth.

Here the optical illusion sharpens. Love bends perception. It smooths flaws into charm, recasts coincidence as meaning, exaggerates compatibility into myth. We do not see the other clearly, but we see them refracted through desire and fear and the private architecture of our needs. What feels like devotion may simply be projection. The self-encountering itself, briefly, in another frame.

This is why love so often collapses under time. The chemicals recalibrate. The story grows thin. What once felt like destiny reveals itself as circumstance. In retrospect, the earlier version of the world looks distorted, almost embarrassing. We say we were fooled. We say we were blind. But perhaps nothing broke. Perhaps the angle merely shifted.

To realize this can feel both liberating and cruel. Liberating, because love is no longer a cosmic obligation or moral proof. No one was “meant” for anyone else. You are not defective if it ends. Terrifying, because if love is perception, then it can dissolve without warning, and nothing outside yourself can guarantee its return.

And yet, the illusion does not render it meaningless.

A mirage does not quench thirst, but it still shapes the traveler’s path. While it lasts, it alters behavior, rearranges priorities, leaves marks on the psyche. Love, illusory or not, reorganizes lives. It teaches us what we are capable of giving, and what we are afraid to lose. It wounds. It expands. It rewrites memory.

Love does not exist as a thing we can hold. It is not a stone or a river or a star. It is a shimmer at the edge of perception, a pattern the mind traces between longing and presence. We speak of it as solid because we cannot bear to call it nothing.

When I’m bolder

When

You lay your head

Down

but here I am

stuck in time

trying to rewind

what once was mine

recognition and death

lies to par

to see the greatness

Between

What I have known

And the unreal

I feel

It’s here— it’s now

But I am not

And I don’t know how

It’s up here

Or there

Or anywhere

To lay next to— thee

It’s not to explore

Sexuality

It’s energy

Back to back— like

The first time ever

For us to attract— each other

That’s that

Maybe we sleep— better than ever

But maybe I’ll leave

Roaming the space of the universe

Just to see, if you and me

Could stand the infinity

Of time

She’s passive

Aggressive

Her ego

Is massive

She doesn’t care

About anyone’s

Feelings

She does what

She wants

Makes choices

For everyone

Around her

Her mother

Her father

Her brother

Her lover

She only cares

About her

And no one else’s

Feeling matter

With fresh new snow

Awakens a different situation

Not to know

What the day will

Happen upon

In the sudden changes

Of habit of a woman

Kind is near

When in need— so dear

To meet necessity

So foggy

I hope soon I can see clearer

I don’t really think

Anyone can save me

And honestly

I’m not sure

I really want saving

I tend to be

My worst enemy

There’s no risk

If you don’t try everything

I will get by

I’ll see you in my next

Life

Hope to be a better me

My head’s definitely

Not in straight

Got to try and flip it

Maybe get an x-ray

What’s wrong with me

What’s all this weight

Pushing on my chest

I suffocate

Better change my mindset

Maybe it’s time to

Meditate— again

I know I’m alive

There will be better days

I can walk down the street

Feel free

They turn into

Longer days

Still away from you

Be here with me

Already

And then stay

At least in some way

You already did

Your spirit

I feel

Is always with me

Than I want

To say

That I am happy

When I am with

You

But without

You

You

Don’t say the same

About me

Always trying to outdo me

But soon

She will understand

You took it

Away from me

I cannot sleep

I cannot dream

Because of your vanity

But still

I hope you’re happy

And in peace

And at ease

For you

And here— I am

Without you

But so close

Almost there— I wish

For you

Yet— the moments

They pass

All the gifts

My love— I have

For you— are hidden