9th March '26

getting dirty in the highlands and fog hugs my whole body and solitude is not scary

Monday

8:52am

Your limbs stretch out to me, I remember that line from The Microphones. My eyes are wide awake. Work again. Work again until you make that money that will save you. I dreamed of him getting lost in a big crowd. Again. Love won’t save you, it almost destroyed you. But you want it of course, you want it. Who else is going to pay for my little red dress? When your hands touch my thighs, will you notice the difference if I stopped putting cream? Is it all still a performance? I wonder. I wonder if work is yet another performance about showing the world how big I am. How ready I am. But I’m not. I want to live in a cocoon that never existed. A place called home. A place where I can make songs during the day and write during the night. Have a kid or two. I wonder…

No, working is not killing me. It is setting me free. Love was killing me, and I set free. Until I heard your voice again yesterday and you told me you will wait for me. You will even look for flights. A young boy that loves me, how adequate. I love you, I’ll love you forever, boy.

10:20am

Wrapped a thirty minute session on Ableton before work starts. I guess I can confess I am making an EP. Finishing song 2 demo. I wonder if psychology is something I really desire. I finished third year. I don’t have money to go back. I want to work with kids, but I could be doing something else entirely. “You have your whole life ahead, kid.” —I heard a character in a movie tell someone my age yesterday. Psychotherapist. Yoga instructor. Los Andes calling me. I can start over at a small university over there. I can…

I think of my home country, of the little villages, the soft spoken people, the mist over the mountain range, the cows splattered all over. Abundance. The cheapest and best coffee. The mountains. Here I feel my own lack. The city is killing me. Last time I went outside a woman was beating a man in the face. Yelling, yelling all the time. I need to make a decision in the next month. Will I stay for two more years or will I go? Could I ever forgive myself for not finishing in one of the world’s best universities? Could I understand that maybe the diploma is just an ego play where I prove myself I can get through the “best”? My ego knocks again and tells me: You can be even better at that other university. The best, in fact. And if you aren’t you prove you have failed. If you were good here, imagine yourself in a public low-rated university over the Andes.

The best. I always dreamt of being the best at something.

1:26pm

I think I might leave this city and return to the country I call home. With my income, I can rent an apartment and live comfortably for half of what I make in one of my favourite villages. I roam and roam the fantasy and picture myself, messy braids, happily getting dirty in the highlands and fog hugs my whole body and solitude is not scary and I can smell the wet grass and now my hair is wet, a compressed cloud passed by. It makes me smile. I dream and dream. I could finish my E.P. My book about the mountains written over the mountains. I dream, I dream.

7:21pm

The working day is coming to an end. The sun settles in the distance. My last student said goodbye twenty minutes ago but I keep thinking of the call we had earlier and I haven’t moved an inch of my body and I remember how you said that if I ever wanted to go back you would come with me to the mountains and I never felt a love so pure.

Yes, you said you will start therapy now. That this love has never felt so sure and so real and I feel it too. Yes, sometimes love is not enough but what does two people who keep falling in love in different moments of their lives over and over again say to you? Falling in love over the course of eight years. Separated by distance. Separated by lust. Would you call it nothing? No, you wouldn’t. Because it is impossible to call simplistic to one of the universe’s greatest mysteries for the human race. Love.

7:32pm

Lentils are slowly cooking and my stomach growls. The glass of wine I had is not happy with the morning oatmeal and screams for more. Soon, avocado and lentil soup will enter my stomach and fulfill me. My ex boyfriend from highschool will call soon. His divorced parents are apparently coming back together. Jesus is grand, I guess.

7:42pm

He is not answering. I guess he must be busy. I just made an apple pipe and grind the Critical indica weed strain that makes my body feel like fucking floating in heaven and suddenly I don’t care about anything anymore and yeah, it is true. It is true that weed may make you care less but who fucking cares. The irony. I have 5 subs less since my last post and it makes me think about the poor quality of my writing. Maybe you are right, five people, maybe I lack originality and it’s poorly written. Maybe I just float from sentence to sentence and what I say may not serve as a mirror to you. Maybe it is not that deep and people just want to read a redemption arc which has yet to come and you are all disillusioned. This is my temple of words, I remember. This is the temple that saved me last year from my own self. I don’t care. My own self infliction that I masochistically enjoy.

9:34pm

Showered, moisturized, finally ate the lentils with avocado and two bread slices with butter and a glass of chocolate milk. It all feels very soft. Except for a friend I’m seeing soon for a concert, who suddenly, has turned cold to me for reasons I don’t understand. She has always swung around depression and joy. Between extremes. I say I don’t understand, but I do. I guess your indifference hurts. I repeat it is not personal and open the last episode of the series I’m binge eating like a dog.

Night falls over me not as a romantic love tale, but as another dawn spend on recovery and reflection. I could be flying soon to my home country. I could dream it will never bore me. That the mountains will be enough. But deep inside I’m scared I’ll become attracted to the madness again. One thing I know for sure: I romanticized the idea of coming back, I got a taste of it, and suddenly I don’t want to go out of the house anymore. This city may serve no purpose to me for now. My circadian rhythm is un tune with the sun. This city never forgives that. You sell yourself to the night. You must or they will eat you alive.