So, I know this is a super typical blogger post. It may seem ridiculous to some but it really isn’t at all to me. I’ve been on this site for almost a year, so yeah, it took me long enough. But beyond that, it means a lot to me for people to read and be interested in my writing. I’ve been writing since I was ten, on and off. I do it for myself, yes. However, it would be a lie to ourselves (the writers, the poets, the story tellers) if we said that we didn’t do it for the audience, the readers, those who have similar experiences as ourselves. We express an art form that doesn’t need color.
So, I wanted to say thank you to all of you. Even if I get an unfollow and go back to 99 followers tomorrow (LMFAO). It makes me feel good that one of my pieces or all of my pieces resonated with some of you. It makes me feel good that one of my pieces or all of my pieces interested you enough to hit the follow button. I’m extremely grateful. So here’s 10 personalized facts about me:

  1. I’m not picky with food but I don’t like liver or olives.
  2. My second toe is longer than my big toe. Some of the shoes I try on don’t fit me merely cause of my long second toe (not scary long though).
  3. I love writing but I’m studying Business Management and Finance.
  4. I have freckles on the right side of my hip. Nowhere else.
  5. I want to travel.
  6. I absolutely have to publish a book one day. I just do.
  7. I love museums but I don’t go to them enough.
  8. I color code my clothes and hangers.
  9. I am the oldest of my siblings.
  10. I used to sit by the Hudson River and stare at the water.

February 27, 2017

It seemed like I had spent an eternity barricaded at the corner of a cliff between who I forced myself to be and who I’m meant to be.

Who I forced myself to be: I conspired against myself to limit my unlimited mind. I created false boundaries, drew imaginary lines in my capabilities, and surrounded myself with people who encouraged this. I brought to life a dull gray version of myself. Frankenstein’s monster was more embellished than the one I had created. Even worse, I was forced to stare at mine in the mirror everyday. I repeated the mantra “This is normal.” until I began to believe it.

I’ve always been a metaphorical fighter (okay, physical too, sue me). There’s something about proving myself wrong that I’m addicted to.

Who I’m meant to be: I trained myself to build a resilient attitude toward the voice that nagged me for years on end. Told me that I couldn’t or shouldn’t or wouldn’t. The voice that silenced me, lowered my worth, and reprimanded me for having hopes and dreams. Slowly but surely, I silenced it and those around me. Today, after years of fighting, I finally learned that what I’m meant to do is to give love beautifully and abundantly. With the inner knowledge that treating others the way I feel I deserve will allow the universe to give me the same kind of abundance in return.

Bucket List|2017

So, I’ve realized recently that I have been careless with this blog. I intended for this to solely be a writing blog. As a way to document my thoughts, write about my life, and have others relate to my stories. However, I’m stubborn. Very very stubborn. I don’t write unless I can characterize the situation perfectly. I’m not going to stray away from what I initially planned but I just want to let myself have fun with it. I figured that if I just let myself have fun with it the creative juices will eventually flow naturally.

Now, that’s where I got the idea to post my bucket list. A few years ago, I scribbled a list of about 150 things I would like to do in my life. I found that list a couple days ago. I’m going to post them every few days or so. Hopefully this gives people a few ideas as well 🙂

Here are three:

  1. Camping with someone I care about: I went camping with my school when I was 14 and it was such an amazing experience! We’d been surrounded by solitary darkness, the only thing that lit our faces was the crackling campfire that seeped into the night. Students and teachers alike were transformed into silhouettes. We were just people…being. No one was different than the other. We all felt peace, calm, and general acceptance. There was a general simplicity in the emotions and the scenery. It was amazing. I’d love to relive the experience with someone whose presence I enjoy.
  2. Join a yoga class: I used to have really low self esteem which led to me developing terrible posture. So that’s pretty self explanatory. Plus, yoga looks awesome and, from what I’ve learned, helps develop strength and resistance.
  3. Fill up an entire journal: I don’t know if it’s just me but I could never fill up an entire journal. I always lose it or end up buying one that looks “cooler.” I have tons of half empty books from when I was younger. For once, I’d like to fill commit to filling one up entirely.


January 28, 2017

I remember back in high school I reached a point where I believed that in order for me to feel emotions I had to be miserable. It was a period in my life where I was on a slow sinking ship. Except, I wasn’t sinking into a vast ocean of water, inhabited by things that represented life and other things. I was sinking into an abyss of death and darkness. As much as I attempted to convince myself that I was better off not feeling, that same ideology led me to the misconception that the more miserable I made myself, the less numb I was. So, that just HAD to mean I was still alive and capable, right? It was an odd way of reviving the suppressed hope that I kept webbed up inside for so long. For me, the strategy in that was that even though I was incapable of making myself feel happy, that somehow if I felt anything that I could live another day. Numbness to the world equates to no longer caring. No longer caring about life or death. No longer caring about the past, the present, or the future. Not complete disregard toward others but a controlled state a mind wherein you no longer anticipate how others will react to how you act, feel, do, say. It’s similar to a bruise. The first time you poke a bruise it might hurt, however, if you continued incessantly, it no longer affects you. The bruise may get bigger, it may even change from blue to purple, purple to blue. In a sense, though, you’ve become immune to the feeling.

It took me a long time to overcome the numbness. Thankfully, the power of will, writing, and the strength to revive hope grew strong within me. I no longer see life as a my own personal never-ending bruise. Instead, I see it as a distinct array of vivid colors, opportunities, and love. I allow myself to feel emotions whether they are good or bad. Bad emotions help us open our eyes to certain situations that no longer serve us, therefore, serve a lessons. Good emotions allow us to appreciate what we have while we have them. That’s why, now, I feel every feeling in its entirety; anger, fear, love, happiness etc without regret.

A Daily Reminder

It’s dangerous to live your days immersed in daydreams. Next thing you know, a week passes by, then a month, then a year. Sooner or later, you’re sixty years old and your daydreams will have ceased to be. You will find yourself reflecting on what could have been if you had burst that secluded bubble and manifested them instead. Hours aren’t hours anymore and the minutes won’t matter. All that would matter is the stories you could have told. The wisdom and knowledge you could have attained beyond your constrictions are no longer attainable. These abilities will fade away and so will you. Time does not age but you do. It will show in your crumbling bones, your weak knees, and drooping face. It will show in your inability to recall yesterday. What name do you want to leave behind when all of this is over? “The Dreamer”? or “The Creator”? The innovator. The motivator. The inspirational. You do not have to change lives. It only takes one.

I Promise, This Isn’t About Politics.

I’ve felt like my world had ended countless times before. I get flashbacks of my mom fighting my alcoholic father. Her crying, his yelling, my cries and then darkness. Me, looking up as a toddler, at two dark silhouettes towering over me. Crying, screaming, arguing, arguing, fighting. One threatening to leave; the other, the other knowing damn well it’s all talk, after all, it was because of him that she’s here. Living in America, free and able. “It’s because of him, that she got her papers. It’s because of him and she damn sure has to be grateful for it.” So she stays and tolerates him a bit more, a two year old on her hips and fear on her lips.

One day, she finally decided to leave. I spent months in a country I wasn’t born in. Our country. While my mother lived homeless. I still remember going to school there. My first language was Spanish but my ability to articulate four syllable words fools the typical American man. I’ll never forget the first day I landed. I still remember running to her the first time I saw her. I was golden brown and she, pale and tired. It was a nice day, I think, or maybe it wasn’t, I don’t know. It didn’t matter. How old was I? Four? Maybe a little more.

I was five when we lived in Brooklyn in a one bedroom apartment with my aunt, her husband, and my cousin. My mom was pregnant with my sister. She came home from twelve hour shifts in a six day work week. We went to the beach one day while we lived there. Perhaps my memory deceives me but that’s the only day off, that I recall, that my mom ever had while we lived there.

I can go on and dwell and tell stories for days, weeks, months on end about the things I’ve seen and experienced in my 22 years of life. But there is nothing that I can ever do to show how proud I am to have come from a first generation immigrant parent. She came to the United States with only two pairs of shoes and not a dime to her name. Built herself up from the shitty jobs that bigots claim were stolen. And got me to the mentality that I am today. I would not have prospered if it were not for her sacrifices. I’m not where I want to be yet but because of her I know if I work hard, I can be.