The other day I went so low I looked for safety in that Chelsea apartment. I wanted a bunker. Ended in the basement. Made a tent with the bed sheets.
The other day I got so angry I wanted to break everything, just like my mom destroyed my 10-year-old birthday cake. That must have felt good. To attack it and make it crumble. She sent me across the street to get another cake — to the panaderia.
The other day I realized that, at the panaderia, when I asked for the new cake, everything seemed normal. But my world had just crumbled.
The other day I had the audacity to think of a world where peace is all there is, like I imagined when I was 7 and thought it possible and told the nuns about it. They didn’t listen.
The other day I recalled how three years ago my dad woke up to have his mate and bread, and didn’t know it was the last time.
The other day I planned my death about three times. But I’m a coward.
The other day I read a book from a guy who teaches how to write quickly, fast, and good, and I laughed at how he both: promoted his services and had spelling mistakes. In the third paragraph. Of the first page. I felt better.
The other day I wrote things for no reason. And to you, MS Word (your condescending wiggly-green underline), you don’t know my grammar.
The other day I thought that as much as I hate me, I’m a writer.
The other day I didn’t believe what I just said. I never do.
The other day I felt the writing come easy. Guess I was grateful, because, what I appreciate… expands.
I’m not grateful at all, I am just relieved that the poison can flow out, and be splashed dead on the page. Today.