- 1 I suck, therefore I write
- 2 3 seconds of fear
- 3 Thirty bucks bike
- 4 Kissing freedom
- 5 Boiled eggs
- 6 Another rat race
- 7 I’m not Jack Kerouac
- 8 200 crappy words a day
- 9 Single socks
- 10 Coffee with myself
- 11 Spring date
- 12 Normally average
- 13 Type, Type, Type
- 14 Jazz sex
- 15 Tic, Tac and Toe
- 16 Goosebumps without butterflies
- 17 Pineapple cap
- 18 Why don’t you kill me?
- 19 Tell to the writer
- 20 Clementine peel
- 21 Brain fences
- 22 Lemon water
- 23 In the name of a simple life
- 24 Unseen
- 25 I read Murakami, I glimpse Thoreau
I suck, therefore I write
16 August, 2016
Remembering when I have that writing need. I don’t even know what I want to talk about. I just put my thoughts and paper and start rambling on. I am in a flow. Unstoppable. What I actually write is not that good, but I love that feeling. It’s like talking non-stop with somebody I am so comfortable with. That happens not only with pen and paper, but at night on a computer. Excuse me if I’m not too trendy for owning a typewriter or wanting to be somebody else like Hank fucking Moddy.
The first writer who actually pops to my mind every time I have this little sessions is actually Jack Kerouac. Spontaneous prose. Just dots but no spaces. I don’t like to idolize but I do love to admire. Inspiration of actions and thoughts are always a good way to keep me moving. It can actually make me move miles and miles, and I don’t even know why I talk about miles when I was born in Barcelona.
Sometimes I feel that what I am going to leave behind is not good enough. Not enough quantity not enough quality. I don’t understand why I have to have the need of leaving something. How can I actually be expressive enough? Make a mirror of my thoughts when they constantly change? It’s kinda like those people recording videos for their future selfs. I do leave words now. I like to look at myself, but can you imagine somebody 100 years from now reading these lines? Will they find this too boring to actually reach this point? I would probably think so. But sometimes I like to evade myself from all the business stuff I used to love, and how has become a burden of satisfaction.
At one point is when you have to say that is enough, that you don’t need to stress over things which have no end. Fortunately this divagation has.
3 seconds of fear
January 1st, 2017
I hadn’t dare to make a move on there during the 30 hours we had spend together. She was saying goodbye and I didn’t even know when I would see her again. I embraced her hug and I knew I had to take action. Once we separated I noticed something I had felt in past dates. The infinite three second when we looked at each others eyes. At that moment I knew inside me that I had to place my hand in her red hair and go for the kiss, but my fearful subconscious stopped me, not letting me even to raise my hand.
“Well…” began Tena, probably noticing how much of a pussy I was, “if you ever come to Croatia let me know. Thanks for the days here, and I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to stay longer” and inside the bus she went. I put my feet on the bike’s pedal, and I began cycling back home. The moment I started to leave the bus behind, I immediately said out-loud “Have I just shitted myself?”. No answer was needed because I felt how much I was shaking. The 2 am rain had nothing to do with it, it was the regret punishing me and shuttering my senses. Why the hell didn’t I do anything about what I was feeling at the moment? Did I really thought that not having tried would have been better than whatever reaction she was to give me if I tried to kiss her? What would happen when I had a date with the woman of my dreams? Would I let her go away just like that? Because I didn’t have enough balls?
The way I felt that evening was enough prove that I needed to man up. While laying on bed I started to strike the walls in despair with my angry fist. No being able to sleep, I promised myself that the situation would never repeat itself. But I wasn’t able to stick to my word because a year later I met up with Sara.
We had been hanging out as friends for a long time, but that time I felt how she saw me as more as just a friend. We went to the mountain in her town, talked about life, projects, traveling… And again, I didn’t know when I would see her again, because even though she was from next town, I was taking a plane in a couple of days to travel the world for a while.
After the mountain she invited me to her house, and there I was. In the hall looking at her in the eyes while she licked her lips staring at me. “Ok I have to go”. As you can imagine, lovely reader, the one who said such line was me. The most scared of all 25 years old Catalan guys you can imagine. I got inside my mum’s car, and while I saw her leaving with hers, something got into me. “PAU! WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT! YOU ARE SUCH A PUSSY! WHY DIDN’T YOU DARE?! WHAT IS YOUR EXCUSE THIS TIME?! THAT YOU DIDN’T LIKE HER AS MUCH? YOU STILL FAILED BECAUSE YOU HAVEN’T TRIED!”, and I started to drive away. I arrived at my parents house. I stared myself into the mirror and slapped myself as hard as I could. “What are you feeling right now? You see it, right? You are hating yourself. You never hated yourself like that and you deserved. You know why? Because you haven’t had the balls to face your fears. You travel, you have your own online company, you are not too bad to look at neither, and here you are. Telling to the world how cool you are, but it seems all facade. You are not true to your instincts, you are not true to your promises, and you are not true to the kind of person you want to be and become”. I placed both of my hands to my cheeks and I stared into my own watery eyes, looking at me in disapproval. “Remember what you are feeling right now, and use this hideous feeling as motivation when you encounter yourself in the same situation. If you don’t dare again, this will be your punishment.” That was my ultimatum.
From that day I received all kinds of reactions. Kisses, bad comments, turning faces, lips replaced by cheeks… But they were never able to hurt me as much as not daring to take action. I knew better than anybody that the pain of regret was the greatest of them all, and I wasn’t willing to let it come to the surface again.
Thirty bucks bike
January 14th, 2017
I’ve never tested myself for an Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, but I need to be out of the bed precisely at seven o’clock. In the last few months this self-imposed task has been impossible. I need to temporary divorce from the sheets in advance because what comes next is guaranteed. Five minutes of her silly complaining. She mumbles something in Polish while biting a pillow corner. I understands because I studied her mother tongue as a fifth language, but I’m too sleepy to find the file in my brain with the appropriate sarcastic answer. She swirls inside the sheets, turns around showing her back, and intentionally rises a bit the right knee to a belly level. Now I just stand there contemplating her buns for a few seconds. “With this bod I could be with anybody who likes to sleep in” says Klara in English, pretending to be pissed and with her eyes still shut. While I grab a brandless gray hoodie, I reply with a witty joke in Catalan. She understands but says nothing because she is focusing on a new sleeping cycle.
I can’t avoid giving a broad smile, then I leave the tiny room with a little twist on the door knob, head to the meditation chair situated on the corner and I keep my mind shut for a few minutes. Is never possible to do more time than I want to, because the three-legged dog strikes for some cuddles. A bit of petting and slobbering and I stand up, take a couple of steps and arrange the Italian coffeepot. The goat is already waiting in front of the outside door, waiting to be stroked on her big tit. After pouring some fresh milk into the mug, she leave moving her ass. I cannot avoid comparing it to Klara’s, but it’s only the morning confusing my senses. The laptop awaits me for a couple of working hours.
Having an online business hasn’t always been easy, but I love normal simple days like this. I make more than five thousand euros a month, but nobody besides mum and Klara know. In fact, nobody asks how much my income is, because we both live pretty simple and people think we struggle at the end of the month. We use the same clothes every week, that way we don’t need to bother selecting what to bring if we decide to leave for a spontaneous trip.
While I write around 700 hundred words for my new short story and create a bit of content for one of the several blogs I own, I enjoy that coffee and play some music without vocals on the Bluetooth headphones. Sometimes I gets a bit crazy with the dances. Thankfully only Sara peeks from the windows moving her horns in disappointment. “What the hell are you doing, human?” might be thinking while she scratches on the window.
The house we live in, made out of wood and only 50 square meters, has been made by ourselves. Or at least that what I would like to think. The reality is that we just helped, because dad built most of it. The place is cozy, with cool structures and tricks to take advantage of the space. Sometimes it reminds of a Lego to the few guests we have. In front we have the ocean, and a bit of a mountain behind for unplanned hikes. To be completely honest I don’t even remember the name of the country. But I love it, and after all the traveling I’m glad to have a place I call home. Those are the thoughts making me smile in the morning. Okay, besides her ass.
After a couple of hours of work, Klara tries to scare the crap out of me from behind. I bite every damn day, or so I pretend. I stand up from the chair in a haze but no complain comes out from my mouth because she walks around with those shorts that I love… So I decide it’s a good moment to take a little pause. Klara is led backwards by my forehead strength, in a very slowly and mellow way. The sunrise makes Sara’s horns silhouette big on the wall, but we are thinking about other pointy things.
A bit of action makes me breathless, but after I recover and make a bit of fun of each other, we start to cook in the little kitchen designed in a very rustic way. The process doesn’t begin until Klara complains about my lack of tidiness when she sees I haven’t washed the coffee pot. What comes next is a competition that combines who is better chopping onions and who can resist more wet hands on the neck. The end results is pretty good. A meal high dense in fats and vegetal protein but low carbs. We spend more money in quality foods than most of people, but we think it’s totally worth it. After eating, the “siesta” habit kicks in. Klara cannot avoid taking a Spanish nap neither. “I was a normal active person before I met you” affirms while heading to bed. “Shut up. You have always been a Millennial koala”. She shows me the tongue while she lying next to me on bed, placing her hand touching my leg for the next thirty minutes. We wake up with a face looking like we have slept six hours. It’s around 1:30pm so we both head to our working spaces.
She edits a video while listening some music without vocals on her noise cancelling headphones. I decide to read a bit in Polish and Swedish using the electronic book to translate the words I don’t understand or I want to refresh. Of course while drinking the second and last coffee of the day. And leaving the coffee pot clean right away. We are totally in silence and focused for a couple of hours before my eyes and mind start to get tired. I stand up, change my pants and hoodie in a split second and head to her chair. I place my left arm around her neck like it was a scarf. She puts her hand on my forearm and rises her sight up to the right to look me in the eye. Without a word I show my intentions to leave the house with a peck on the lips, but she grabs the neck of my shirt and gently pulls me. My whole torso leans unintentional and we are about to French-kiss movie style. Instead I disgustingly lick her lips, nose and checks while she tries to cover up “noooooo!”. We giggle, I head to the entrance and grab the wrecked bike I bought for thirty bucks. I don’t need more than this, it’s so simple and normal, yet works perfectly. I grab my backpack from the handle where a petite Catalunya flag cloth hangs. I leave and head to the nearest town.
I honestly don’t remember what I do after that. Probably because the variety of things I keep myself busy with in the afternoon, combine perfectly with the structured routine in the morning. Alone or with social circles, I can recall to scramble mountains, going mad at the sound of Jazz expressing it with a few kick steps, lifting heavy stuff, pull-ups on wooden rings hanging on a tree, joining whatever activity is in town, learning a language in a café, even working in a bar a few hours a week for the fun of it… If somebody asks me what was the last time I did something for the first time and I cannot remember when, then I force myself to try something new. Even the stupidest thing helps sometimes to keep my mind focused. Lately pottery has been on my mind. Maybe because I want to see if the mud is as challenging to mold as my life had been. At least before I ended up loving every single day of my existence.
Those are the reflections I keep for myself while I bike back to the wooden house I call home. Hours of entertainment and I’m back sitting with her next to the fireplace. After eating and talking about our day each sits in one of the sofa’s edges. I read while enjoying a black Chinese tea in a mug I place on my left leg, covered with warm sweat pants. Klara checks her phone with both legs folded to take advantage of those flexible pijama bottoms which look like a table cloth. She giggles a bit and bothers me showing a funny internet meme. “Shut up!” I say poking her ribs with my toes to show her a lesson. Klara laughs and in a mellow way slaps my leg. After a couple of minutes of quietness she strikes again and tries to show me another image, so in just a few seconds I decide to take off my right sock and direct my feet to her face. “Stoooop!” says she, trying to defend herself and kicking my leg. We get a bit more physical and I end up on the top of her, trying to dominate her limbs. “I hate you!” cries out Klara, although we both know she means the opposite because her smile gives it away.
We head to bed and after loving each other I have a little proposal for her. “I saw cheap flights to Asia in a couple of days, do you want to go for a few weeks?”. She says she will think about it and rolls, giving me the back. This reminds me when I tried to kiss her for the first time and got rejected. Thinking about her reply and us traveling together again, I start to enter a REM sleep cycle. All kinds of replies come to my mind. But that reply never arrives.
January 14th, 2017
This text is a sample from my book “I’m not Charles Bukowski“.
“You sound like an Italian speaking Polish!” said she, wallowing in spasms of laughter on the red sofa. She had been cool enough to come and see the apartment I was renting for a night in Warsaw. We had just arrived and I was already standing in front of her, making a fool of myself. Polish wasn’t easy, but I was having a great time, so my brain decided that picking up a random book in that language and trying to read sounds stupid enough to do. “Wait, how do you pronounce this L with a crossed off line?”, I asked while squatting down a bit and getting closer to her to show her the page. “Oh, you mean the No-L letter?” she giggled making fun of me. As a I leaned to show her the page, I suddenly felt it. The butterflies in my belly button were rushing towards my throat and I couldn’t swallow anymore. I looked at her reading the words I was pointing. She was saying something. I saw her lips spelling but there was no sound coming from them. I could only hear the blood making a rushing sound in my ears. “Yes. You have to kiss her” stated my conscious. “Don’t even try it, asshole. You don’t want to be the clown again. You know what is going to happen” interrupted my subconscious.
Yes. I knew what was going to happen. I would chicken out, keep pretending I didn’t feel the urge and the cold sweats running down my armpits. After an hour we would both say goodbye. I would hug her wishing she made a move on me because I didn’t have enough courage. I would be leaving Poland by air, heading to Bulgaria flying over Hungarian land, and the plane would not even scare me anymore. It could fall and I would actually prefer that, because I wouldn’t want to cope with that hideous feeling. I would think for the rest of my fucking life about what a pussy I was not kissing her lips pronouncing the “No-L” letter.
Boom. Suddenly my brain was in another place. It was me again, but my skin was wrinkled due my age, my skinny cold body was covered with a blanket and my breathing felt like having a rock weighting down my chest. I was in a cozy 50 square meters wooden house. I looked at the walls and the shadows holding my hands and I smiled. But I was about to die. Then my sight was directed straight to the imperfect ceiling while I gathered air for the last time, because I blacked out and… I didn’t die. Instead my body was teleported to the Warsaw apartment I was a moment ago. It was my 26 years old self again and I had the chance to live that experience one more time.
I had to go for the kiss. These thoughts took barely two seconds to shut down my brain, so I decided to spend the brief moment for taking action to mentally slap my senses and grow a pair of balls. Balls I never had before. My whole body temperature raised to a level that probably confused the crap out of my cells, making them to think that we were at war. And we were. My limbs were trembling and my eyes got unnoticeably watery. While I kept holding the Polish book with my shaky left hand, I placed the surprisingly stiffed right one on her neck. She barely had time to look at me. I had leant to go for the kiss but I didn’t have time to feel her lips. She turned her head to the left in a way that I couldn’t even feel her cheek. “No, Pau. Stop” said looking at me in a weird way, trying to figure me out. My subconscious was right and I had just realized. I’ve had made a clown out of myself.
I was so embarrassed but I tried to play it cool. I showed her a weak smile and while I was standing, the first thing that came from her mouth was “Do you try to sleep with girls in every country you travel to?” with questionable eyes staring me from the red sofa. Her sight confused the crap out of me because nobody gave me such look before. I stopped smiling and I decided to sit on the floor right in front of her. I didn’t really understand what was happening. I was in a lower position, maybe because I wished my brain would hit the ground running and did something worth mentioning for once. “Are you serious?” I said staring at her with a trembling voice. What came next were a couple of seconds of silence which felt like two hours.
I had been denied a kiss before, but this one was different. Getting rejected by Klara reminded me not only how much I like her, but also that I didn’t want to be on top of the mountain on my own anymore. My brain was still numb trying to figure out why this was the third time that a girl says something alike. A quote found in the notebook from Christopher McCandless before he died alone resonated in my head. “Happiness is only real when shared”. Memories of the times in Croatia when I was dating Nikola came to me in a fraction of second and mix with the buzz of my shame. “To be awesome with someone, completely understanding each other, no dramas, growing and becoming better individually and also together”. This wasn’t love but I needed to tell Klara how I felt, otherwise it would explode inside my left pectoral. I was about to, but my ego choked my voice.
I had to be direct and open with her right now. Sitting in that cold Polish apartment, with these blue eyes staring at me, I decided to hold on to my knees and press them as hard as I could. “I am so sorry” she said probably noticing my inner self falling apart, “I am really really sorry, but we can’t”. A little pause that I filled with heavy breathing. “Imagine that we kiss” she began. My sarcasm has always been on top of whatever happens “oh, it never crossed my mind but I will try”. She giggled and continued with the hypothesis “it’s just a kiss, right? I mean, you would have gone back to your life in Sweden, Bulgaria or whatever place. Everything will go back to normal”. I suddenly knew what was happening.
What she meant was “no, because tomorrow you will be in another country and I will never see you again”. I had left my home a few years ago with just a 10 kilos backpack and a laptop to work remotely. My little company was already making a bit of money and I wanted to see all the places at hand, meet all the people I could talk to, sleep in forests belonging to countries with laws allowing me to do so, learn unpopular languages and yes. I also met a bunch of girls who were worth staying with. And I left them all. I was always in the pursuit of more. More experiences, more rush, more hustle. I could only think about the next adventure and how awesome I was for a long time but now, reality slapped me in the face. Here I was, not even able to hold eye contact with her to pretend it didn’t hurt me. I didn’t want it to hurt, but it did.
“Listen…” I said while I began to leave my manhood behind. For a moment I realized I could speak Danish, because I was swallowing what seemed like an imaginary potato, “You are right. This lifestyle I am having… I don’t believe I want it anymore, because if I have to leave you behind, it doesn’t make any sense to be free”. She looked at me and I instantly knew what kind of ideas went through her mind. She thought I was a digital sailor, that I played mellow, that I was a Casanova and my only plan was to bring her to my apartment to try to fuck her, when in reality sex hadn’t even cross my mind… Surprisingly. Maybe was because after not masturbating for that long time my desire was gone. I didn’t know and I didn’t care. I just wanted the butterflies to eat me alive once and for all.
My mind was in a parallel space thinking about all kinds of crazy stuff. In the blink of an eye I gathered myself together and this time I decided to show all my cards. “I lite-lite-lite-lite like you”, I said genuinely smiling weakly with the English level of a five years old. She decided to strike back with questions about our situation, I answered as accurately as I could and after twenty minutes of the best and realest conversation of my life, I ended up stating “if you want to try where this could go, I will move to Warsaw”. She gasped, looked at me and I saw a blushing smile that she tried to hide turning her head to the right. “Yes” I thought to myself “I would do it. It’s time to put this freedom to work for something better than updating my Facebook timeline”.
A couple of days later I was coming back to Warsaw from Krakow with some friends. I really wanted to arrive at our destination, and not only because the communist-looking train was leaving my ass like a paper folder, also because Klara was waiting for me on my arrival. In the meantime I was sitting in a dark wagon with Alberto, Sergio and Xan. I loved those guys but talking with them about freedom and life for three hours, just made me wonder if I was really a wanderer. They told me how they wanted my situation, my freedom, the online revenue, but I didn’t want to give them my despair.
Yes, I was in Poland but I didn’t know where the fuck to go, or the fuck to do. After building the successful business I had lost my purpose, passion and drive. I wanted to visit lost mountains, discover ancient secrets with my future-wife and then just retire again to the cottage for writing and reading. Like a fucking young-grandpa, if that’s a thing.
We arrived at the Warsaw train station, saw her, hugged her and introduced Klara to my friends. Then we retired to a cheerful but empty café and we started talking about us again. “I want to come with you to the airport tomorrow morning”. I stopped drinking my green tea and just looked at her, wondering why a beautiful woman who loves to sleep like a koala would want to get ready that early and see me go. “Are you serious?”, then she looked surprised that I asked her that, so I had to rephrase myself, “you are so damn cute”. She gave me a shy smile and her polish skin turned a bit pink, so I had to tease her about that.
The next day at the airport we were again thinking about us and that weird situation. I think I had convinced her that I wasn’t the typical Spanish stereotype and that I really wanted to commit to her, and to our situation. I really wanted.
“Do you want me to move here or not?”. She said she would think about it. I told her that it would be awesome. She said that she needed time. I told her that whatever happened this was worth a shot. She said that she was extremely busy with her programing courses. I told her I’d wait for her thoughts and answer in Bulgaria. She said that she had trust issues. I told her that with me all that would fade away. She said she was scared. I told her that me too, and that was the point. She said she felt bad me moving countries away just to see if this would work. I told her that I had the independence to do so.
She made me question why I would do something like this for her. I had already been fucked over in Macedonia and I was willing to do the same mistake again. Why? Well, I realized that both Nikola and Klara represented freedom.
No. Freedom wasn’t a woman. But neither several glimpses of happiness, things or experiences waiting for me in every city. Yes. I had understood freedom like Harry Potter had understood Voldemort’s horcruxes.
Freedom wasn’t waking up in the morning and have all the overwhelmed destinations, women and money in the world.
Freedom was waking up in the morning and realize that I was the dictator of my choices. No matter if I didn’t need to work or if I was in my old job, lifting boxes in a humid warehouse from 9 to 5.
What I wanted was all around me, all the time. Not matter where I was. And I wanted her, right there and in that very moment, but it was time to say goodbye.
I hugged her and leaned to her meaty lips while those ocean colored eyes looked at me, making my heart pound at the speed at the plane engines heading to Sofia. This time I managed to get a little peck from her, making me feel like kissing freedom and all the choices I could grab on to.
It was probably the first flight ever were I could actually fall asleep. Happiness surrounded my fear of heights, and my eyes fell down like I thought all the planes would do. Slowly and without me noticing. I would arrive in Bulgaria to register my company and I would wait a few weeks there. When she said “yes” to my moving proposal, I would then grab another flight and just rent an apartment in Warsaw, join all kinds of activities to meet people. Sometimes I would wake up next to her, some others days next to an empty apartment where I would work, write and create. The years would pass and something stronger than love would grow between us. Stronger than the sun over Hungarian land, shinning like my eagerness for all that future I was imagining. I rolled down the plane window and then it was my eyes turn.
January 15th, 2017
This text is a sample from my book “I’m not Charles Bukowski“.
The initial jazz part from Start A Fire destroyed my ears at full blast when it woke me up at ten minutes before six. She mumbled something in Bulgarian, gathered all the sheets and turned her naked body to the other side of the bed, in order to avoid all the lights I was turning on. I gathered my clothes from the floor, disconnected the laptop, opened the fridge to pick five eggs I had boiled for the trip and started to pack it all. I finished as fast as I tried to finish with her last night. I was traveling only with a ten kilo backpack and I knew all the life hacks possible to take advantage of the space. Unfortunately I had no idea to manage the space I needed in my relationships and that’s why it was the first and last time I ever saw Maya. I had told her what my intentions were a couple of hours before I ripped off her short black dress, and she might have taken it as a challenge. She grabbed my arm when I picked up the used but empty condom from the table next to her. Yes. I hadn’t been able to finish inside her but our encounter was definitely done. She didn’t seem to care and didn’t want me to leave, so she surrounded my sloppy shaven chest with her arms and whispered how much she would miss me. After meeting up with her for the first time, I doubted her words but I told her the same I said to Ioanna the night before, “I might come back soon” I said, “probably not” I thought. My dick thanked me and my heart shrunk choky of shame.
My brutal honesty of intent was clearly highly appreciate with the women I ended up sleeping with. It was what got me into the sheets with these two Bulgarians, who confirmed once again that what I was looking for, was not under a woman’s skirt. Ioanna’s pussy was as wide as my unplanned list of sexual partners, increasing to the European countries I was traveling to since I visited Poland. It was easy to access as well, a feature that Maya’s lacked. Probably the tightest thing I ever had to deal with. Even tenser than my desire for more, pressing my lungs and strangling my breath at night. She went down on me to compensate but I wanted to go down on history on my own. I had a pile of cash in my bank account and I didn’t need to work thanks the passive income I had created. I could have been anywhere and I happened to be in a cozy buy lonely room in Sofia, right when January’s radical temperatures begun to melt the snow as well as my desire to be there. I was leaving the country that morning or so was my plan.
I couldn’t make women scream loud enough to transfer to the world the void and breakdown I was having. Klara hadn’t replied, so after weeks I opened her up on the chat. Nether less to say that what she told me didn’t please me, so I tried to please myself in other ways.
I made Maya wake up, dress and take a cab while I head to the bus station. There I waited for seventeen minutes watching the minus three degrees thermometer and thinking how stupid I felt having five boiled eggs in my jacket’s right pocket. My summer shoes had white stains from the snow and my three pairs of summer socks weren’t enough to keep me warm. I got to the bus without even asking to the driver if it was the appropriate one, because I knew nobody would talk English, Spanish, Swedish or whatever language I could speak at that time. A very much needed sleep took over me and when I opened my eyes again, the doors were about to close. I saw trains and railways and I got off the bus as I could, hoping that my doomed face would remain on my sit. The driver shouted something in Bulgarian but I didn’t have enough strength to display him my middle finger. I was tired of showing straight limbs for the last two days.
I entered the building which didn’t look from Sofia, but I guess I was expecting a few slave monkeys riding static bikes to provide energy for the trains, so anything that was more than that was a surprise. The fifty years old men and women were gathered at seven o’clock eating breakfast and cheap coffee. The gypsy-looking faces made me believe that my laptop and writing sketches could have been stolen at any given moment, just like my stereotypes ideas should have been. I head to the windows to buy a ticket. “Ne, ne” and a finger pointing to somewhere else was the only answer I got from five different middle aged women, who couldn’t speak a word of English while resting their heads on a glass full of fingerprints. I guess this country didn’t care much if all the international destinations and rails were in Cyrillic and the public employees couldn’t speak a single foreign language. Who cared if a bald 26 year old, with a Catalan flag hanging on his plain black backpack was losing as much patience as hair. But apparently a fifty-something man seemed to care, because he came to me right when I was about to buy a thirty cents coffee on the expendable machine. With sloppiness and struggle he told me a nice and totally not made up story that I didn’t need to pay attention to, to understand that he wanted money. I would have said I only had debit card but I was showing around the 1 Leva coin I was about to use to buy my drink. I gave him the change hiding a few coins in the pocket where the five boiled eggs were starting to crack and we both went on our ways.
I didn’t know where or how to buy a ticket, so I decided to walk to align my senses or die from the weight of my stuff pulling down my back. Right when my thoughts were making me even hungrier I made eye contact with a cutie. Her branded black hat, a couple of ear expansions to the side of a 20 cents coin, the smoother skin I ever saw in my entire life and a perfect sketched eyeliner made me open my mouth “sorry, do you speak English?” I said before I could even stop in front of her. She smiled and stood with perfect legs in front of me while holding two backpacks. “Yes” said looking at me with suspicious eyes. After I told her I needed a Bulgarian to translate for me she started to show an interested which grew bigger at the pace of my boner. “We need to check one window or the other depending on where you are heading”. I placed my hand on my head trying to wake up my memories and thoughts. “Belgrade” I said after a brief but awkward enough silence. “Oh, are you from there?” asked me while we started walking. “No, I’m from Barcelona, Spain”. Her Cleopatra’s eyes turned into Bambi’s. We talked, joked, and she helped me to purchase the ticket. She asked for my Facebook and a hug. I gave it to her hoping she would notice my boner and therefor my intentions.
I was starving and there was still twenty minutes for the train to arrive, so I decided to eat a couple of the boiled eggs. I still had some times and I realized that for a ten hours of a ride I had only three eggs left. I decided to look for proper food but I couldn’t find a shop with vegetarian options (hello Balkans). “Fuck it” stated my subconscious who didn’t listen to morals. I found two big-ass slices of peperoni pizza and a few donuts. Great, now not only I felt like a failure but also like an American policeman.
After months of not eating animals I took a bite of that meaty product coming from Hell. Or maybe it was only Tena’s red head appearing in my mind confusing me. More than two years ago I had gone vegetarian when she visited me in my shady apartment. The thing is that I ate meat products a week before she came, but I wanted to impress her so bad that I pretended to know all kind of green dishes when in reality it was all my mum who cooked it all (thanks mum). After Tena left, I realized that all those meat substitutes were actually really tasty, making me not miss animal products at all. That kind of diet made a lot of sense for many reasons. But trapped inside my body in a -10 degree Bulgarian station I didn’t care much more than my bellybutton, so I kept biting and biting.
After eating it all in just a few minutes I realized that two little wagons were in the horizon of the railway. “No, no, no” I said to myself. The little train began to move and I lost sight of it in the blink of a eye. I asked and well, even though I didn’t understand Bulgarian I understood that I had lost it. How can a train traveling that long being only two wagons? Even the Warsaw-Krakow one was bigger than this. I allowed myself only five seconds to course to Zeus and then it was time to blame myself. I took a few deep breaths just like the app Headspace had taught me during a few nights of meditation. Then I found a nice Café near by and asked for food and drinks.
I purchased a private room near the Station for 20 euros in a matter of seconds, opened my Tinder account and I began to swipe right on girls who were fairly attractive. I send the same message I had sent Ioanna and Maya the last two nights to at least ten different matches. Something along the line like Ok. This is going to be kind of straight, honest and awkward but I’m leaving the country tomorrow and I figured, why not. So you seem cute and I was wondering if you would like to cut to the chase and spend a short but wild romantic night. I promise I will pick you up with a magic carpet ride and sing Disney songs. A few seemed interested and triggered by my boldness. After answering a few times with stuff like you don’t need to promise me you will do anything. I just want you to know my intentions. Or no scripts, just full disclosure which they loved, one bartender from the center invited me to her bar to get a drink while she worked and leave together after the shit. I answered I’m coming, ate the last three boiled eggs I had in my pocket and settled my phone maps.
Another rat race
January 18th, 2017
I wanted the constant movement of public transportation stopping to places I couldn’t pronounce. The mouths of foreigner women going down on me. The same ones who spelled tongue twisters in languages I hadn’t yet learned. The breeze of faraway lands slapping my neck on bike getaways. My ass getting a cubic form after hours of train rides.
I didn’t believe that to suck in life and wanting to write about it, I needed to be an ugly broke bastard looking for tender spots on my arm, so I could stab it with a used needle with a substance as toxic as my digital nomad despair. But I needed to write anyway. Why? Because I was a wreck. I had financial freedom, location independence and a pair of balls to the size of my shame.
I thought living was a number game, that I had to fill lists with as many things and experiences as I could show off. I needed more and more. As many women as I could sleep with, as many experiences as I could remember, as many Bukowski books as I could read, as many rooms as I could rent, as many countries as I could afford to go to, as many remote business as I could manage, as many lakes as I could put my feet into, as many cities as I could end up getting bored with, as many entrepreneurship podcasts as I could listen to, as many friends as I could miss when I left, as many long distance trains as I could write in, as many sunny days as I could long for when I was in the North, as many women as I could see and not dare to talk to, and regret it.
But after years of moving around all the time something was missing. I didn’t know exactly what it was but I knew it had something to do with the fact that, even though I didn’t need to work I still had some kind of job. Yes. I had a lifestyle that many envied or admired where I didn’t need to work, but I felt like I had a duty that soon became a burden. I was still seeking being liked by those who followed my journey. That was my job. I had to live under others expectations and I was forcing myself to travel to make my days count to tell others how well I was spending my youth years and my savings.
After all the work put into build this off-the-grid and out-of-the-rat-race lifestyle, I didn’t want to look in the mirror and say that I wanted to stay put in one place for longer periods or even forever due the right circumstances. I didn’t want to admit that I missed the friends who objectively criticized me, the routines that made me wake up top in the morning, or the healthy relationships with women who made me better. Instead I was talking to sporadic strangers with who I didn’t keep any contact with, fucking women I never saw again and spending my time looking for housing and unusual paths.
It’s true that I did some stuff I enjoyed like reading in Swedish for example. I told everybody that I did that because I was different (said in a humble way of course). It’s true that I liked studying the language and it sounded so sweet, but the reality was that what I wanted even more was to marry a hot blonde, have beautiful daughters and tell her to watch out for Spanish guys studying Swedish. I also joined activities I always wanted to try like Crossfit, yoga, sculpture or dance classes like Salsa, Bugg or Swing. Of course moving so much I couldn’t take more than a few classes. But hey, at least I had tried and I had another cool experience on my list so I could subtlety brag about on dates, with hopes that one of those hobbies would be the magic pill that would make the women’s funny parts, suddenly fall on my adventurous arms. As a side note right before I had these realizations I had a date with a Danish girl in Sweden and she just talked about herself and how much she had traveled being only 22. “Good for you” I thought and right away wondered how many times people have thought this about me too.
The pain of not wanting to accept that I wanted quietness, a three-legged dog, a wooden cottage with solar panels and live a simple life but still with daily challenges was greater than the money an expectations I had. Somewhere along the line somebody had sold me that “hustle, hustle, hustle!” mentality, the same way somebody sold to my parents how they needed to buy a house and a couple of cars. I didn’t want black or white. I wanted to create my grey. After several years of moving around I started to realized that the problem with both trends was that we all gave too many fucks about others and about getting more things. Trying to be different paradoxically we ended up being one more of the bunch. We just had different jobs, names, faces and lists to cross off.
If we would have met a few years ago, I had told you why I was unique and different compared to the other people. It’s a shame I didn’t know anybody brave enough to tell me to go fuck myself. Maybe it would have been the only way to make me realize, that instead of seeking external validation, I should have kept all the intensity inside and do something to prove to myself what I was claiming. I could have ended up changing the world. Instead I was only changing my destination.
I started to realized about my lack of purpose and passion in a doomed Balkan city. I was in Skopje volunteering in a hostel because I was so damn cheap. Even though I had made 8.000€ that month without working, I didn’t want to spend money on a private room if I could sleep there for free, even though I hated helping out there. The staff were really nice but I had a night shift that didn’t let me sleep properly and I was sick of being around people all the time. Or maybe the reason to be in Macedonia felt pathetic enough to look for human contact even if it was too much for me. Oh sorry, you are wondering about the reason… Yes, about that.
Antonio was my wingman that night in the Croatian club, and he introduced me to this cute Macedonian girl. Nikola was wearing all white. I teased telling her how she pretended to be an angel but inside she was an evil. I told her how cute those blue bracers were, matching her eyes. How funny her accent was when she tried to say Spanish words from Latin-American soap opera like descarada or estupida. She told me she liked me and of course, I had to go for the kiss. The music was loud, the lights colorful and her lips amazing. I was missing a bit more meat on the lower one so I could bite on it with the same strength that my subconscious was playing games on me. The fucker was creating all kind of possible scenarios in my head. I just wanted more of her.
A few years ago I wouldn’t have moved to any country just to be with a girl. But she was so attractive with that Balkan face, so hot with those ripped jeans, so smart with what she wanted to talk about, so interesting with her volunteering, so funny with her teasing, so cute when her eyes became watery mentioning her fathers death… And we connected to so many levels. But once I arrived in that circus-looking city, she was different that she had been in our Zagreb dates. All my imagination trying to recreate a daughter combining both of our genetic faded away, faster than then night I slept with her and lasted three strokes.
After our dates in Zagreb and a month talking online, she didn’t want much with me anymore once I landed there. It was so obvious. She didn’t want to kiss me more than one peek on the lips, and I felt like she was meeting up with me out of moral obligation. It felt as fake as Skopje city center. After ten days she told me with nicer words that she wanted to try things out with a better looking guy. Our personalities matched so good and we had so much fun together that I couldn’t believe it. But then I understood. She gave too many fucks about others too. I was a six and she was a damn eight. And I didn’t blame her because after the second date, I was already thinking how my family, friends and grandpas sitting on benches would yell how the hell a man like me could get a hottie like her. I would have been the king of Christmas eve on family dinners, and on the streets I would have been known as that too-ugly guy with a stunning girlfriend. Of course all vanished away when she told me how sorry she was that I moved to Macedonia for her.
I was almost going home with such a loser story, but again I needed to make something cool enough happen to make the trip worth. So I did what every 25 year old would do. Create a Tinder account, match a few girls, eventually meeting up with a couple and land an spontaneous kiss. All before I had to catch the plane that would leave me again where I started to plan all this amazing future, that now I saw in front of me as a pig sliding on a oily floor. Smashing everything in front and smelling pretty bad. What the hell was that.
I flew back to Barcelona to rest my mind and after three weeks I felt that I needed to move again. Those 21 days didn’t really feel like enough, but I had to do it because I had the so beloved freedom of time and money that every nine to five worker wanted. I had to because I really could but… I was also really faking it. I just wanted to stay put for a longer time but now it was time to get a plane to Poland in a despair mood. I felt myself trapped in another kind of rat race.
I’m not Jack Kerouac
January 21st, 2017
This text is a sample from my book “I’m not Charles Bukowski“.
I wasn’t a hobo needing to scratch pennies for wandering around. I had made more than five digits that month, all remotely and without working more than five minutes a day.
I didn’t wear a reddish lumberjack shirt and I didn’t own cheap clothes inside a wrecked rucksack. I had spent two hundred euros for my backpack and twenty for a cap I wore backwards like a douche, to cover my bald head.
I didn’t need or want to hitchhike when I could go to the train station or the airport and buy a ticket to any destination, at any price, at any moment.
I wasn’t sleeping in the forest, park benches or next to crack addicts to have a mattress to rest my head on. I rented private rooms in hostels, houses or apartments booking them in a split of second from my smartphone.
I didn’t spend my youth years as a construction worker sweating my ass off for a few bucks. I had my degree hanging on the wall next to a vision board too small for my expectations.
I didn’t drink dry whiskey at doomed bars asking for refills to get drunk and pass out on the gutter. I prepared instant coffee or black tea to get my mind going in the morning.
I didn’t play the harmonica on crowded streets with a hat on the floor asking for tips. I enjoyed tunes on my wireless headphones, moving my head at the sound of rock and electro swing sitting on a comfortable café.
I didn’t volunteer on crops hoping to get a hot meal at the end of the working hours. I carried bags of vegan food replacement in powder form, to avoid spending time cooking or shopping groceries.
So why the hell should you keep reading? I’m not Jack fucking Kerouac and I know what you are thinking. I should have written this on a roll of toilet paper to make this more appealing. Instead I typed it all from my expensive laptop so you couldn’t shit on it.
200 crappy words a day
January 21st, 2017
Two hundred words to warm up my hands, heart and head. Two hundred words that are crappy, outrageous and unreliable. Were I can be totally free of being wrong, sounding good or basically just… Putting words out there. Because that’s what it’s all about, or what I want it to be all about. I have a piano next to me and the keyboard I type doesn’t sound as good. I have a glass of water on my hand and a beautiful women in front. Desire of greatness I don’t want to have anymore. I just want to get rid of the despair and the doom heard that my hand bear. I secretly wish that people cheered for my words, that I didn’t need to use them only for pouring senses, but for rising fences. I stood there for five seconds and looked for a word, then I realized it was only two hundred crappy letter put together that I had to type. And then I felt the hype of typing again, when the Wifi didn’t work and when Hemingway that I never read before cheered for more. It sounded funny at first, but crappy the most.
January 21st, 2017
One day I found a sock. It was the darkest and smelliest sock I could remember. It was next to my dirty clothes. I didn’t know where the other pair was, so I left it there. I looked for that missing sock many times. I couldn’t find that sock. Never. I looked at it, searched around my dirty clothes and moved on to better things.
One day I found a sock. It was the darkest and smelliest sock I could remember. It was next to my shoes. I didn’t know where the other pair was, so I left it there. I looked for that missing sock many times. I couldn’t find that sock. Never. I looked at it, searched around my shoes and moved on to better things.
One day I didn’t have socks. It was a dark day and my clothes smelled. The dirty pairs were with my dirty clothes. I didn’t know where to find a clean pair, so I looked for a pair of socks many times. I couldn’t move on to better things if I didn’t find a pair. I found a sock next to my shoes. I also found a sock next to my dirty clothes. I never missed a singles sock again.
Coffee with myself
January 25th, 2017
Here I sit, in my old hometown café. Months of traveling, years. Many friends behind, much freedom to spend. Trying to figure out the riddle of what it means to be here. The digital products still passionate me, but as I sip more coffee I feel the need to create something with my hands. It might be the caffeine, maybe my carpenter father genetics, or just a rush to try something new. Money and time I have, passion I lack. I talk with myself inside while I grab the cup. I give myself answers while I steer the spoon. Secretly an artist I want to be, and in secret I want to live. Because in mystery my ego is hidden. Showing to the world might mean grow an interest for the external, not the internal. In the pursuit of the expressiveness I continue, while trying to getting rid of my robot lifestyle. Routines and planning is what destroyed my magic, I want to get it back the same way I want another cup. A few crappy words, a few shitty bowls, a few bad shaped forms on wood or rock. I don’t need much more. Just a few more tries.
January 28th, 2017
Grey hoodie, ripped black jeans, a bit of lipstick, a bit of eyeliner and a smile that makes the winter days turn into Iranian summers. A bit of coffee, bad painted nails, reading under a tree, all are the components of a spring date. A bit of walking with normal shoes, the path is a bit steep, the rocks a bit pointy. We sit, we eat, we drink, we talk, we kiss a bit. We head back, we read, we touch, we dance. The sound of jazz strums through the turntable. There’s no place I rather be. Sitting in my computer typing those lines, then daydreaming, then throwing them out. I play classic instead of jazz. I go to the city center instead of the rocky path. I write crappy words instead of poetry. I wake up at 5am with pain in the back of my head and the top of my heart. Doomed nights I had but not this one. I will sleep again for four more hours or till eternity. Italian coffee pot, mother and a bunch of winter clothes. There’s no place like home, except your own.
January 29th, 2017
The childhood I lived was average, the parents who raised me were average, the few friends I was playing video games with were average, the money my family had was average, the school I didn’t care about was average and the Catalan hometown I lived all my life was average. I was average as well, but I thought that (besides being uglier than Bukowski) I was the shit. I thought that life was all about me, that the people in my surroundings were actors that the Spaghetti Monster or some kind of divine force had put in Earth. I had to overcome the challenge of life all on my own and I didn’t know where to start. I never thought that only after a few years I would end up creating a seven digits company or not needing to work. I wish that somebody would have told me that the financial and location independence weren’t enough to make me happy. Well, maybe that would not have been a good idea because I would have laughed my ass off.
You see, I was trapped in an endless job lifting boxes since I was 18 and that would go on for several years. I was studying from Monday to Friday in an online university because I was too lazy and scared to get a 1 hour train to Barcelona and meet real people. Of course, as a good and productive teenager, I was drowning in alcohol on the weekends in order to forget the person I was becoming. A no-one. I hated that with all my gut. I wanted girls, I wanted money, I wanted the fame and I also wanted to play it humble when all those things arrived. I totally thought it was my destiny, that I was different, special and all those Hollywood movie ideas.
Hollywood itself brought to my eyes the film Into The Wild and I started reading Thoreau and Emerson. My brain decided then, that I just wanted to be a humble wanderer who thought about life and didn’t want to be famous. After that I started to read Kerouac and Bukowski, and then I thought I just wanted to backpack around with no destination trying to fuck girls all the time and drink alcohol. Even though I ended up being a combination of all the above, whatever phase I was at, there was always one common denominator. “I’m different, I’m the shit, others know nothing about life”.
I was only on my twenties at that time, and after not doing anything with my life I discovered my first passion. English. Yes, the language. Maybe the language itself reminded me that my destiny (girls, money and life) was waiting for me in another country, or that an international language being spoken around the globe would make me do bigger things, but I just went all in. I studied on my own with the How I Met Your Mother show. I stopped the player, take notes, repeat it a few times like a parrot on my doomed room, rinse and repeat.
At 21 years old I had saved 15.000€ working on the warehouse and I decided to spend 10.000€ of those to study an intensive course of English in Vancouver. Yes, Canada. Land of wonder and magic. That’s what I had on my mind after seeing all that incredible nature on the inter-websssszz. Plus, the band Sum 41 had helped me go over my first break up with a serious girlfriend when I was 17, so I really thought I owned Canada a mid-term visit. I told my bosses that I wanted an unpaid leave for 6 months for doing exactly that, and as a big international company they didn’t give a flying fuck, so there I went.
Needless to say that the trip changed me. I met tons of people, my English improved hell of a lot, I visited the Rocky Mountains, I met Jan who is now one of my best friends in the world, we rented a van and went for a road trip, I maxed out on my Squat lift… Oh. And after four years without sleeping with other girls (yes, four), I had sex with a cute Chinese and a horny French. Let’s say that traveling and living abroad made me grow some kind of spark that I didn’t have back in Barcelona, and to this day, with the girls I slept with, none of them have been Catalan or Spanish. In fact, I don’t have any need of changing that.
After I came from Canada I promised myself that I had to find a way to live like that forever. I was still in the warehouse, lifting boxes, studying, promising myself I’d do something worth remembering in the weekend, but at the end I was only getting wasted. But this time there was something different inside me. A vision. I knew what I wanted so bad, but I didn’t know how to do it. My taste in books slowly shifted to the ones related to entrepreneurship, goals, success and hustle. I found podcasts and people on internet worth being inspired by. There was a volcano inside me and I was a damn chimney that was about to collapse.
One day browsing the internet I found one of those so called gurus explaining how they made money online ranking websites on Google. It was all I needed. I used to publish sites since I was a teenager, but no one ever visited them, so I said to myself “wait. I already know the 50%, the only thing I need to know now is how to make people visit them!”. To my own surprise, I was so successful after only a few months, so I kept creating sites. With my second blog I made enough money to quit the job in the warehouse and close myself in an old house to create more and more websites. I ended up having more than 60 blogs because the genius inside me said “If one site makes X then I will just create 10!”. The 10X boys. Simple yet so effective.
I didn’t want anybody to know how I did it because I was fearing the competition, but I ended up writing a short book-guide on how I did it. My peek was in 2016 where in December I ended up making more than 20.000€ working less than 1 hour a day. The funny part? I wasn’t even exited for that. I saw the bank account with that new amount and I was like “okay, cool”. How the hell wasn’t I enjoying that? I clearly remember the first time I saw I had made 1.000€ online in 2014. It was the month that I decided to quit my shitty job and pursuit an online career in these sphere. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw the four digits. I went to work smiling for 8 hours. Anything could bring me down. Even before that, I remember exactly what happened the first time I did my first amount of money online, ever. It was only 2€ silly euros, it was 7am and I was checking my income which was expected to be the same as yesterday and the day before that, zero. But I saw those 2€ and I dropped a little tear after I double checked. Everybody was still sleeping but I was rising my arms and jumping around the room. I knew that I was after something that would change my life forever. I could finally de-attach myself from the normal, the usual, the routine. I would see the world and do anything I wanted.
Type, Type, Type
January 29th, 2017
I cannot make it happen, so I type, type and type 200 words like a mad man. She told me to go down to Barcelona, to enjoy the sun and the sand getting stuck in her bike wheels. I told her I’m far, that we can meet on Tuesday. She said sure, but I missed already. We will see each other but today was a chance, my chance to try to kiss her. My phone on the right, a cup of coffee with oat milk and the pain in the back of my head is still there. A nervous tick on the right eye has emerged and so is my stress. Now I want to write more, but there’s always the fear of not being good enough. Typing is free. Thinking is free. Deleting is free. Rearranging is free. Even publish is free. But time is expensive. I’m in the constant pursuit of a simple life that still provides me with daily challenges. I still think about languages, girls and specially what will happen of me if I go bankrupt. My company is fine but I cannot foresee the future, and part of me is like waiting me to fail. I will just type, type, type till I die from a stroke.
February 3rd, 2017
This text is a sample from my book “I’m not Charles Bukowski“.
I turned right to face a dangerously iced downhill street. Struggling with my wet summer shoes, I spotted the bar a few meters away. Looking at that lonely facade from the distance I could already tell that it was my jam. The dark red pillows in front of the place, the low light, weird artwork on the walls, only a couple of people having a chat, and once inside, the wrecked but functional piano made me secretly in despair for Reneta’s attention in a narcissistic way. I wished that without even saying hello to that sweet brunette bartender, I could have played something on the spot. Sit there, rise my right hand with an erect finger pointing down, look at her for a moment, then the keys, take a deep breath and start playing a tune, making the place dead silent and Reneta go wet imaging my hands on her nineteen year old body. But my fingers were only wired to type on a different kind of keyboard. Maybe someday I would be able to play a melody with a similar effect but without needing to use music.
While my head was going mad at the sound of a tune nobody but me listened, I decide to leave the piano and my imagination behind. I kept walking to the entrails of bar the same way I wanted to go inside her that night. Not too fast, not too slow. It was probably the place making me feel like I was in a shabby sixties pub, but I was aware of every slight action I was taking. I untangled my scarf, I looked upfront and saw her. She was behind the bar preparing an Old Fashion drink, or so I was hoping for this night to be written somewhere. I placed my backpack on the stool, folded my hands on the wooden bar and used a standard greeting on her. I took out the laptop, ordered a coffee made out of Arabic grind, tap water and a few cookies too salty for my taste. We were going outside often, so she could unwrap a pack of cigarettes and stain one of them with red lipstick. That fucking rolled paper was the luckiest thing I could think of. I also wanted being sucked and drained by those meaty lips.
Where my torso ends and my legs begin I could feel the tingle. I had talked with her for less than ten minutes and we both knew where we would end up when she finished that double shift. It was obvious enough to make her coworker feel uncomfortable since he was staying in the staff room most of the time. And I appreciated it and so did Reneta. The looks she gave me using those brown eyes with a bit too much eyeliner. The dances she made after borrowing my headphones, playing Waltz No.2 from Dmitri Shostakovich on her phone. The faces she made while sucking on the straw of her free bartender drink, making her beaver cheeks even more rounded. The pokes pressing my ribs with her tiny hands when she sneaked from behind after serving a client. The intentional side-boob touches on my leg when she got closer to look what I was writing and hiding from her. The intense silences when we didn’t feel like saying anything. The W form with our legs when she sat on the stool in front of me. Her lip being bitten by her superior teeth, when I put my hand in her knee through those intentionally ripped jeans I adored… Although the clearest sign was probably when she asked me to go inside her that night.
Reneta wanted to show me that she was in control of the situation, even if we both knew what were our intentions. After getting inside my private room, I started to kiss her trying to trigger her biological system. I didn’t work when I pushed her to bed, touching her over the ripped pants and moving the kisses to lower positions. She wanted more comfort to not feel like a slut, so she asked for a movie. After all the references we made that night I played La La Land and laid next to her. Twenty minutes had passed and my eyes started to give up. I wanted to penetrate that petite body so bad but I was being denied access every time I tried. Not caring, or well, pretending not to care was my move, which was something she couldn’t stand due the lack of attention she must have missed having four siblings. She suddenly kissed me the French way and we both begun to breath heavily. She folded the laptop, I placed it on the floor and a few minutes later neither of us had any clothes on. Noticing the perfect rounded and tight ass she was pressing my leg with, I knew I wouldn’t last more than a few strokes when my supposedly time to shine came. In order to mitigate her trash talk about me when she messaged her friends later, I decided to play the nice guy as good as I played with her clit. I found the perfect spot and motion that was contradicting itself constantly. She thanked me with stifled screams. “Da, da, da…!” and other Bulgarian statements were coming from a mouth I was constantly trying to suffocate with my jobless hand. Another hostel client was also fingering next door. I could hear somebody in the kitchen cleaning pots and pans, which made me a bit more relaxed for not being heard and kicked out since I had paid the room only for one person.
She clearly showed me how climax was reached and I knew soon would be my turn. I wished she went down on me but when I was about to ask her, Reneta made a proposition I couldn’t deny. “Do you want to enter me?” which I thought it was a very elegant way to put it. I put the condom in a split of second, grabbed her brown scarecrow hair, which reminded me the one Hermione Granger had and penetrated her from the top. I placed my forehead where hers was and with a wall clock timing the seconds, I stabbed her with my wand.
I came too fast but I went on for a bit more, thinking that would make me look less lame. I rolled to her left side and we spooned for a while, but after a few minutes she was moving my dick and myself with the tightest and sweetest ass there was. Blood was abandoning my limbs to serve other greater purpose. “Shit, don’t do that. I don’t have more condoms”, I said with doomed voice that soon changed when I heard “well, I do”. If I thought that her posterior was tight it was nothing compared with that prophylactic. Or maybe it was all the concentrated blood, but after a minute I was ready to get lost inside her again. “Turn around” said a horny version of myself with heavy breathing voice. I placed my trembling body on top again, but this time she was facing the pillow. My head was on her hair which smelled like smoking tobacco and booze but I was more focused on the smoking ass.
Tic, Tac and Toe
February 3rd, 2017
When I woke up next morning I remembered that the last three days I had been with those three different girls, life had been so crazy that I hadn’t had time to even take a shower. It disgusted me a bit. I took a peek to the bed. Her messy hair monopolized the pillow, and her ass was monopolizing my libido. I went to the bathroom to throw some cold water over my sloppy shaven head hoping to calm my sexual hunger, it had to be over. I started packing. Again. She kissed me good morning and thirty minutes later she kissed me goodbye. “Are you going to text me when you come back?” after hearing my answer a smile was the last thing I saw from Reneta.
This time I managed to take the train to Serbia. Belgrade and a little small house I had rented for a week were waiting for me. I couldn’t get there fast enough to rest my mind for a few days. That January I had been to my hometown in Spain, Poland, Bulgaria, Serbia and honestly, my head was about to explode. The constant movement didn’t let me stick properly with routines I liked. Yes, like an old man I liked to have some things I did every day, and that made me a bit better. The study of languages, working out even if it was thirty minutes in my garage, meditation, walking, socializing… How the hell could I keep all that, changing city every few days and country every week?
I gathered my things and all those thoughts in the 10 hour train ride to Serbia, that never seemed to finish. After being asked for my passport two times, in a wagon where the heating system was broken (hello Balkans), I opened my laptop and typed everything like a mad man looking for purpose. Oh wait, that was what I actually was.
I read, walked, listened an audiobook called Models about men and women, and after 6 hours I was tired of being focused in only a few tasks. I was standing and walking through the wagon. Only five people were in the whole train and they started to look at me in a weird way, but I was already in an immersion state trying to have a honest conversation with my conscious and subconscious. The first was talking to me slowly and unsure, the other spoke fast and in a decided tone. I was questioning my entire life in that train as wrecked as my existence.
I had had sex like it was a Tic-Tac-Toe, and even though the 16 years old version of me would have been proud, I felt like this brought me absolutely nothing to my current inner-self. Like a Tic-Tac-Toe game this could be done again and again. I could begin as many games as I wanted to, but I would end up forgetting most of them unless it was written somewhere. I remembered all the features I once read online about having a happy life. Community, love, passion, purpose, no stress, good diet… Hell. It was the same list that the Blue Zones had. Those places in Italy, Greece and Japan where a lot of people lived over 100 years old. I guess that lacking all that I had cut down my life span 50 years, but at least I would bring to my tomb a few nice experiences and stories. Would I?
A few years back I had only thought about traveling, having sex with woman with all kinds of nationalities, and even though my list wasn’t that extend I blamed it on the list itself. I also had written down on my blog awesome things I wanted to accomplish and that I already did. But on a ten hour train trip I realized that this was just facade. Curtains of smoke to share the cool lifestyle and what I wanted in life. Did I even wanted those things? Maybe it was another damn lie for the sake of fashion. And I thought I was doing good not even owning accounts on most of the social networks that my friends used. I guess it was also to differentiate myself from the rest, not because I didn’t want to use them.
I even had lists of bands I’ve had seen live. And I never went over it to remember them, the same way I never went over to pictures from my trips. I also had written down the countries I had been but… Did I visit Bulgaria if I was only in Sofia? I don’t fucking think so. I should have shoved my lists up my ass a long ago. I should have cared how much I lied to myself with statements and affirmations, instead I was publishing all that shit on internet so people thought I was cool, which only served me for accentuate the feeling that probably a shitty salesman felt after selling a crappy house to a pour family. What the hell was I doing?
I had placed my identity on traveling. If I didn’t move often, if I spend more time in my hometown than in other countries I considered myself a failure. I had build that lifestyle on my own, thinking that it would bring me what I always wanted. I thought that what I always wanted was in fact traveling, but it was not. I liked it once in a while, but what I was looking for seemed to be way more inside me. The irony was, that the constant movement and experiences made everything come to the surface. My backpack and a few destinations or places to be weren’t even close of what I wanted in life, although I thought it was. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t a big house and a couple of cars neither. What was it then?
In that devastated train I started to realized that I missed something expressive to pour my soul into. My digital marketing company, money, languages, studies… All that could be replicable by anybody who applied themselves, but if I could find something a little bit more artistic that I could leave behind when I died –certainly not at over 100 years old- I might feel better. I might. It was worth a shot because well, I guess the difficult part about finances was already solved. It was time to worry about the last bit of the Maslow pyramid, and about those problems that a lot of people I knew would have died to have. My only concern now was only how to pay less taxes, and how to get my hands dirty and busy with something that fulfilled my life. I know, I sound like an asshole too narcissistic to value what I had. And it’s true, I didn’t value it. The extraordinary of location and finance independence had turned into something normal. After a few months like this I took it all for granted. Part of me wanted to go bankrupt and just be like every 26 year old, looking to fill a resume to send to companies. But the other part of me knew that I was in the possession of a diamond that I still had to polish.
Like a Tic-Tac-Toe game I decided that my life had three tokens to align, and I had already two of them. Something that I knew I still wanted to preserve. Location and finance independence. I was missing the purpose which duty was to wake me up in the morning exited. It had to be something like Ikigai (生き甲斐). A Japanese concept meaning “a reason for being”. Everyone, according to the them, has an ikigai. It’s basically composed by something you love to do (passion and mission), something which you are good at (passion and profession), something that which you can be paid for (profession and vocations), and that which the world needs (mission and vocation). The other stuffed seemed pure tribalism to me. What was my ikigai? I had no idea yet.
What made me actually wander around without purpose? How did travel turn into my life purpose? Who had decided that? How the hell did this happen? How did all begin?
Goosebumps without butterflies
February 11th, 2017
In the middle of the crowd. Used chairs, empty glasses, dirty spoons, stained teeth. Eyes looking up, bodies paralyzed, first raised when they score. Brains sucked in the media, energy and time overturned in their team, their colors, their players. I type a bit more, take a sip, sit back. I won’t write a book today, I won’t put my thoughts in a poem, but I won’t let myself suck on that. Someday I will let myself go, I will touch, I will scream, I will feel it, but it will be for something I do myself, not for something others do. I put my dick inside the coffee glass and nobody would notice. I could play it like a snake, or a worm, because the situation makes my desires pure flaccid. The only passion poured is borrowed from others. It doesn’t come from within. They get the goosebumps without butterflies. Fan graves, pictures of their teams and nothing else to be remembered for. Hours of procrastination, talks, opinions going to empty baskets and we have just turned a few more circles. Next week will be another and a lot more would have been talked on. It still won’t matter.
March 3rd, 2017
My blue sweater captures the attention of the people around me. The strings for pulling the hood are not even lined up. He calls me asking me where I am. “I’m standing on one of those public flowerpots, next to the red car”. He pauses for a second and continues, “are you wearing a pineapple cap?” asks me laughing. I answer with the same mood, look around and I see he coming. He is wearing a very big jacket, and a suit beneath. He is going through the plaza like he owns it. The plaza and the people drinking coffee and looking at him. His shinny shoes approach me with a moderate speed, I jump from the flowerpot, we do a hand bump and we hug in a much manly way. He gives me a clap on the back like he owns me as well. I smile because I haven’t seen him for more than a month. We sit for Lebanese tee, he rambles on about the money he is making, about all the hours he is spending in the office, about relationship problems, and how shark he is… And when he ask me about me, he is already thinking about an interesting quote to say next. One of those lines that would look very good on an interview. That’s funny. I was interviewed last month and I had made four times more than him this month. But I keep it for myself. I’m just a guy with a pineapple cap.
Why don’t you kill me?
March 27th, 2017
“Welcome to our new apartment. You must use two ice cubes in your glass. Using three is playing the easy mode” states our board. The people starts coming. The drinks start rolling, and after a few hours so are the guests and the neighbor’s anger. Smoking walls as opaque as my mind is turning. The music is loud, but the crowd takes over. I don’t care because she pokes my ribs. I step on her bare food. She makes me spin. I get tangled in between. I grab her and turn her Uptown. The party is Funky, and she makes it better at every beat. I speak with the guest. So-called gentleman give her the same number of compliments as fucks she does not give about them. After several drinks her hair is messy but not her mind. Uralic-sounding rap begins. She faces me while rocking the lyrics and a bit of my world too. Suddenly a huge desire for sleeping takes over me. I wonder if the pillow can wait. I want to surround her before I feel sorrow. But I feel strong. And so did the people who now passed out or start to leave. I should get breakfast. And a pair of balls as well. I lean to her. Whispering nonsense I roughly poke her ribs. She stares at me with two eyes as big as my doubts. I can tell I will see her tomorrow for sure. But I cannot tell which color they are. Maybe blue? Clean as my intentions? Green? As the peace I feel with her? Grey? As the lack of confidence I feel in that very moment? Maybe they are mixed the same way my the doubts and insecurities currently combine. She keeps looking at me. “Why don’t you kill me?”. I gather some air through my dry mouth to feed my tired brain some oxygen. Before I realize that she hasn’t used two L’s but two S’s on that sentence, on her right cheek my hand is already resting. My lips follow, but instead they go to a mouth as tiny as my heart, shrinking in adrenalin.
Tell to the writer
March 28th, 2017
What I’m doing sometimes would work as a punishment in Hell and eternity ruled by demons, but for me it would taste like freaking haven. Have it that way! They would care about the finish line. But tell to the painter that he can stop painting after 20 artworks and he will be rich, and he will start another one. Tell to the composer that after thousands of people have sung his song he will not need to worry about money again, and he will close himself up in a dark room, putting his soul again and again into another melody. Tell to the writer that after he has achieved fame and his books and poems have been brought to the big screen, he won’t have to worry again about having a common job, and he will keep pouring ink into an empty page every time he feels sorrow.
March 30th, 2017
She stirs the spoon while I sip the juice. She takes a tiny bit of croissant while I swallow a little portion of coffee. Nine in the morning after a nine out of ten party, but I couldn’t be more awake. My senses are focused on her hair because tangled in there, crumbs of bakery can be found suspended on the air. Thirty seconds have passed since we began eating and she has already made a mess. A mess of her food and my inner self, also crunching in tiny pieces that can’t be noticed neither. With her sight straight at me, she wonders. With my silly smile, I reply. She grabs another bite. And my attention. She sips on the juice. And my senses. She piles up the cups. And my intentions. I was expecting clumsiness and I’m pleased. Her tiny hands with messed up nail polish drop one of the mugs. The noise captures the waitress sight and I gather some of the crumbs under her rounded eyes. We leave under orange sun, reflecting on a clementine peel she steps on, making her fall. Adorable harmless laugh of her, and me, wondering if I will fall too, but not because food pieces. The peel will be long rotten and my mood about her will prevail untouched. I give her an empty hand and a full desire. For her sloppiness and her companionship, when more falls approach us under clementine peel.
March 31st, 2017
What if I don’t fuck like Bukowski. What if I don’t travel like Kerouac. What if I don’t live as intensively as Hemingway. What if I don’t transmit like Tolstoy. What if I don’t conclude like Emerson. This time questions I elude, and statements salute. I could write again about the lip stain on my coffee cup. I could talk one more time about existentiality. Or I could even wonder about how it would be too trendy to mention these trends. Instead I’m doubling words and typing nonsense because my brain doesn’t make any. Two cents of what I’m typing is a full extension of what is happening. And yet what is exiting doesn’t interests others. I could shit again on current ways. Like Captain Fantastic I would rise walls between my mind and others eyes. But there are already thin borders made to be respected. Tell it to me, riming in a way as shallow as my words. It’s my prime self going backwards. To a time where I didn’t need to type dots between sentences, or comas after reflections. But it’s already too late, because besides me, some day somebody else will read what I’ve written. And will wonder why I’ve mixed present thoughts and past sentences. It’s nonsense but also intention, all blended in a spontaneous concoction, raised to destroy brain fences.
April 8th, 2017
Out of the bed he was at five fifty five. He rolled inside the sheets and masturbated for two minutes before whipping out the jizz-jazz with yesterdays shirt. He liked to call his juices these names because he played some trumpet and piano while he was waking himself with blank eyes. He didn’t feel pleasure of that anymore, he didn’t blackout like he used to, but he did it anyway because it was what he always did. He liked to be on his feet at six in the morning because he knew that most of the fuck ups of the world wouldn’t be awake at that time. The first thing he did while standing, was gulping more than a liter of water with lemon, as his mum said it was good for his health. Then he lighted a cig on the terrace while he stroke the dark hair of a cat, ignoring him as much as the world did. Without eating breakfast he sat on the wrecked desk stained with coffee circles marks, and began to type nonsense. When he didn’t know what to write he would stand up and lit another roll. More water with more lemon, then more typing. When he was in the flow he would black out and his fingers would move along without pause, imaging he was fingering a woman. When he fingered a women he would imagine he was typing. To tell you the truth, most of the time words wouldn’t come easily so he played some music, mess with the dog and forget about the world that he wouldn’t see anyway, because he was all day coughed up in solitude inside that 20 square meter studio he adored. He knew he would die alone and he didn’t care. He only cared about the present and in that very moment he just wanted more words in his head and more lemon water in his mouth.
In the name of a simple life
April 9th, 2017
In the name of a simple life I wake up, roll under the sheets with my arms widely open and my legs narrowly closed. Expecting some kind of companionship I find a pillow with dry jizz from the night before. I hug it repeatedly in regret wanting my fluids back and more drive in life.
In the name of a simple life I get naked, pose in the mirror and with the initial intention of taking a cold shower I get in there. I don’t dare to go under the freezing stream, so I set a water so hot that physically hurts me. Hot showers are the new cold showers.
In the name of a simple life I miss breakfast on purpose. I will eat an early lunch instead. I put my fake leather jacket on, gather my stuff in my bag and I go to the same old café. I don’t say hello, nor I keep any eye contact with any of the people inside. I sit in the same old chair and after around thirty seven seconds they bring me my coffee. Soy milk, no sugar bags.
In the name of a simple life I set my headphones, play some jazz beats and I pick up a poems book from an author I don’t even know. I read one or two and start typing a bit. I get stuck, I cannot type and I feel desperate. I pick up the poem book again, read a couple more and look around. Everything is the same as a few minutes ago and also a year ago. Then I write two hundred words of the simplest fact there is and I like it. The words, not the fact.
In the name of a simple life I wonder if simple means boring, routine, repetitive and if life is dead. I could get a train and experience more, but today I’ve decided to type a bit more instead.
April 9th, 2017
He peeks through the window where only darkness can be seen, or rather unseen. The lamppost beams, the cat looks at him. He turns around to pet the right ear of his gray hound. Then he sits on the bed, where his thoughts always met, folds the pillow and place it on the left edge. To rest his back in a way that holds, in a position rather low. He gets hooked with words, types about pages, failures, and what will happen in a few ages. But then he goes on and kills the magic by looking at his phone. Pictures of her look at him, and he smiles back feeling he is not alone. He is hyped because the romance fuels his drive, but also his despair. There’s no need to strive. As long as I have hands willing to type, and lungs full of air.
I read Murakami, I glimpse Thoreau
August 15th, 2017
I should be doing something else. I got drained in the media, the money, the time. I read back what I wrote, I like it, I love it and I forget why I stopped. I look at the date and I miss despair and sadness. What I wanted to be gone for good from my life now I want it back so bad and be able to create something. If I’m not in a crisis I just write about writing, and how much it means. But how can it means something if I only write about how much it means? I read Murakami, I glimpse Thoreau and some great others. Then I go to the same computer, I browse through and endless feed and then I ask myself why I cannot start writing anymore. I get inspired slowly and I lose the desire at once. My heart raises when I started to drop two lines, but that is only because I want to grab my device. Maybe somebody has written me, and for sure no one has read me. I force myself to make sense, to find a meaning on what I write but I feel I need more life on my veins. I’m not able to make them up, I can only read and suck at it hoping it will wake up my brain.