brain dump

I wander a lot. I draw, write bad poetry, learn Japanese, and drink overpriced coffee. I’m on a working holiday in Japan, figuring things out as I go.

I’ve written things I may never return to. Some poems survived. Some ideas are still waiting. I’m interested in the beauty of the mundane, in small victories, in staying alive when nothing grand is happening.

I don’t have a clear direction right now. I’m tired, I daydream too much, and I’m learning how to stay with what’s in front of me.

Tumblr is an archive for me. A place to collect, remember, and occasionally connect. That’s enough.

THE END IS NEAR

As the summer comes and goes,

I can see it coming.

One flower a shade more jewel-toned.

One light way too warm,

placing the trees in a time machine.

Walking through lush forests,

one single leaf too tan,

burned at the edges,

burning through my doubts.

I see it when I squint

at the scorching sun.

A prophecy I mumble

on every summer terrace.

Watery eyes.

I blink,

and it is green again.

Fireworks in the heat.

Past sunset, beneath the fairy lights.

Inside the bubbles of beer,

I see it.

I see it.

I see it.

The end is near.

Far behind lie the pastels:

the pinks,

the baby blues.

No more butter yellows,

no greys,

no opalite in sight.

Soon it will be time

for scarves and tights.

No allergies.

No rain.

Just the wind.

The forest will set itself on fire.

The relief.

Soon I'll have to live

with every decision I've made.

Soon, the books.

The routine.

I know I'm far

from my school days,

but I see it coming,

and I can't wait.

Through the windows

of closed coffee shops

in ski towns,

I can see my home.

A world where I am brave,

and wise,

and there.

A world where I fight

and win.

A world where I get to build things.

A world where I get to stay.

To live.

Through it all,

anyone else online

in twenty twenty six

The Japanese Alpes we hike

Never so close to Sisyphus.

Never so far away from Camus

At dawn, I roll from bed to tatami floor.

I spend my body until there is pain

in my joints, between the dishes and the garden.

Fear: the first day I find myself decapitating with rage.

Guilt : worm corpses

Disgust: Organs spilled on dirt

Red: pushing down on the green

Apathy; I corrected myself

Behavior immaculate

No coworker like me, they all gossip in Japanese.

No one is fun to speak , no that I’m fun either way.

I haven't reached out to anyone from my past.

Not even the ones that meant to last .

My body aches, nap after nap.

Not since my first adult days have I

found myself so annoyed by human

interruption.

Replace self-deprecating victimization

With delusions of grandeur. Maladaptive daydream,

my dear old friend. Fantasies of the one,

the one, but this time in a cravat.

Interviews for my last film, book, novel.

Prize

For the first time; redos, isekai, leading nowhere.

Time machines to nowhere I’ve been.

I eat what the chef leaves, and snacks.

I train five days a week. Weights.

I, for once, climb hills until I’m numb.

I take yoga. I sweat until I fall asleep.

Then shower, head to work. Do dishes till I fall asleep.

I do not know what I do.

I just lay, rest, and wish my life away.

I’m not happy joy is a fleeting thing

Perfect room perfect forest view

Perfect life, books and movies

and a cute coffee shop

where to write and draw

All the essentials provided

My sister by my side

I sight like a pampered dog

Perfect groomed hair

And no where to go

Oh, the summer.

The heat.

Blooming flowers, school carnivals,

and Ferris wheels.

They mean nothing to me.

Scorpio season begins.

twin, ruled by Mars.Red

Andy. Sofía. My mom.

Shooting stars. Staved in the back.

When the white trees stand bare,

the soil silky and wet,

the seeds split apart,

the green cracks the asphalt.

Violence

turns what could be

into what is.

The violence that breaks bodies

to make new ones.

The sordid pain of new life.

Where revolutions begin and end.

Post-hibernation hunger

in workers' eyes.

Promises screamed into the wind.

Lava reaching the sea.

Red pushing against navy ships.

Chrome school-desk legs

blocking the doors, chanting for more.

Grinding teeth.

Teenage defiance.

by The absolute certainty

not of what should be,

but of what will.

Tango beneath streetlights.

Rottweiler.Pit bull.Doberman.

Milk and. Puppy smell.

Litter-warm

Blankets.

Tea.

The morning after.

A good beer.

A bar fight.

Reorganizing tarot cards,

because everything you are

is already in your hands.

There's nothing more beautiful

than someone who goes to war

you never knew you needed,

because they saw through

your hazy eyes.

A chance.

Day One.

Everything we see

when light

I love attending funerals.

Whether I knew the dead or not.

It's the dirt I'm into.

Stroller steps

lead to black rooms behind my back.

Whenever I turn around,

the lights turn back on.

isometric Habbo Hotel viewpoint

watching old rooms unload.

So I left behind

school lunch bags and pencil cases,

my brain, if it wasn't attached to my neck,

and that ruby ring I made with my dad

buried in the backyard.

To never come back.

To

Friends I lost.

Friends I still recall.

Friends I lied to.

Friends I rewrote.

Every new room I enter,

the render of it all

gets harder.

Blurry.

Tear-stained.

Smudged pencil.

Static.

Muted.

Foreign.

The present lag

Debug

Must

I do

I'm sorry.

I can't help being blind.

It is the yearning

for things to stay the same.

It is the yearning

for things to change

when it is already too late.

Then I remember:

As blind as I am,

so is everyone else.

The casket closes.

The speeches.

The beers.

The tears.

what it was before.

I enjoy it. I endure it.

All because of the sweet,

brilliant promise of something else.

It is the only thing I've ever been good at.

Lies.

It is all the trees that went to waste

because my mom, in an effort of normalcy,

handed me a notebook and a pen

and wished for the best.

So I sat there.

And here, and wherever I've been:

classrooms, bars, airports, the grass.

Waiting is all I seem to be.

All my skills.

Hours and hours

of finger-picking Fmaj7,

all the not-so-straight lines.

All my favorite days:

mild weather,

a patch of shade,

a stubborn deadline.

The bus station in Porto,

where I started and finished Tokyo Blues.

I picked it up from the floor

and left it on a bench.

Sadly,

it is where I feel most at home.

The week I nursed Klaus:

fur like a dove,

drool like a troll.

We sat on the floor,

watched Frieren,

and ate boiled chicken.

And Then Felipe arrived.

And then We got in the car.

And The vet gave the shot.

And The nurse left us alone.

And I went to my café

And and booked the bus home

All the Coffee and cake

between one thing and another.

It seems to be

Either sun-struck or sun-deprived,

either too drunk or way too sober

for this crap.

The dread starts at Christmas,

and is already here by the New Year.

Fireworks. Scared dogs. Public drinking.

Traffic accidents. A dozen people dead

before the first day ends.

Visitors have no time to mourn.

Customer service smiles are norm

The money we watch arrive,

and the money we watch leave.

All in hopes to be.

Ever since I remember, my parents

came home at dawn, showered, and headed back.

So did I.

Ever since I stopped measuring myself

against the kitchen wall.

Sleep-deprived, over-compromised.

The AC cold, the cough, the tired shoulders.

The anger boiling when someone asks for just one more thing.

"I love my job. I love the money."

Just another mantra to make it sunny

Purple fingerprints bloom on my arm

where someone grabbed me

for another beer

While I pass by

To leave.

Valentines.

My parents hired Carmen every summer.

She had nowhere to leave her children.

By January, we were six.

Palm trees, surfboards, bikini pageants,

teenage drunks, golf courses, polo matches.

We roamed free.

Carmen never had time for summer either.

One house after another.

Nobody told us where to be.

The vendors, the surf instructors,

the waiters, and all the mrs Rosa’s

they all knew our names and where we been

By my dad's birthday, the sun shifts its way.

The sky turns golden, and suddenly it is over.

Acid reflux. Instagram stories.

Nights that were never that much fun.

Memories of words I never got to say.

Diary entries I never got to fake.

Goodbyes. Empty promises of faith.

When the leaves turn yellow,

The sun sets mellow

Making TikToks in the car,

Dipping in onsens in the night,

Singing opera in the waterfalls,

Taking a shit on Seico walls

Meeting Cooper in the stairs.

Sleeping four people in a bed

Counting stars in cloudy skies

Eating sushi for goodbyes

In Hokkaido just strangers

just vibing, just existing,

Though my mind was always drifting,

And the weather was always shifting.

Roaming around the forests

With the deers and bears

A lifetime we spend

Becoming friends

lighting sparkles under the rain

eating ramen everyday

thanking to every shooting star

Balcony. Summer heat.

Lemonade and peach.

A good read.

I was always one for winter,

when I go back to myself,

but of all my hundred summers,

only with you did I not break.

Reasonable, sensible.

Dance real slow, candles glow.

You leave a trace on me every season

cooking out with our moms,

knowing everyone here is our home.

Go explore, see the world,

write on my own in a hut;

you are always in my peripheral vision.

I always look too young or too old,

but this summer, I look like my own.

whole

Read out loud, silly songs,

kayak rides, never sleeping alone.

Everything I ever wanted

publishing deals and jobs

came and went with the sun.

We took the van, the flight, and the home.

We burn slowly, laughed from joy,

walked everywhere, saw the lights.

In the Night, beach paradise,

skyscrapers and racing cars.

uniforms, Paperwork

Puppy hair fills the air,

tangled sheets are all I need,

I think you are cute.

But if you hug me,

I might break.

So I’ll watch you from afar.

Don’t get me wrong.

I’m not made of porcelain.

you seem so nice

broad and tall.

I would love to be your friend,

roam through the forest

with the deer, catching bees,

fireflies and warm onsen nights.

But truth to be told,

I’ll break.

So please, don’t come near.

Let me love you from afar.

The dandelion, clovers, and weeds

came and went.

Pluto, Mercury, and Mars

dance the entropy and enthalpy dance.

Revolutions, carnivals, and lovers

they all die buried in snow.

But the summers are long,

and I lived through a hundred of them.

A hundred beaches with a hundred crowds:

black sand, white, and golden sand.

And as many times as I have been young

and many, that’s how it is

plaid skirt and copper-red young,

mohawk young,

thrift store and cheap kimchi young,

task-manager crashing salaryman young,

writer, poet, and Sisyphus young,

friend and lone wolf young.

As many times, I have been old.

For all the times we spend wishing upon stars,

for all the pilgrimages we spend on our knees,

for all the flights, gyms, perforations, and sake

we take so the temperature won’t drop down:

I had a whole to-do list today (drawing, emails, working out), but the universe handed me discarded beads from the resort, so obviously, I had to go on a jewelry-making side quest instead.