Saturday, May 14, 2016

I'm not sure why I'm telling you this



If you have been reading my blog since the olden age of 2013, you might know that I went to a literary workshop. Rather, I go to a literary workshop. Yes, I've been wasting my time writing silliness for two years now, going on three.

Ricardo (fake name), the only dude in our very feminine sessions, is gay. He's also hilarious, very warm, and a great writer. I generally don't feel a need to specify someone's sexual interests, but I did it for two reasons: One, it's a big part of his identity, in the sense that he's always talking about it. Two, it's relevant to the story.

Our homework this week was writing letters. I wrote a letter from the subway to the subway users. As in "Dear Subways Users" "Yours truly, the Subway." Ricardo's letter started with "Dear friend."

The letter described how close they had been. All the hobbies they shared. How Ricardo loved him.

I thought the letter was directed to his ex boyfriend. They had been a couple for seven years and only broken up a few months earlier.

When he finished reading the letter, he broke into tears. Ina, our teacher, explained to whom and why the letter was written.

To his best friend, who died from an AIDS-related sickness a few days ago at the hospital. He was going to marry (the saccharine and legal Chilean version of gay marriage, though) his couple in the hospital on Tuesday. He died on Monday.

He told us his couple was the HIV carrier. They had been strictly monogamous.

I can't remember the last time I'd been so moved. Not only because the story was heartbreaking, though. Also because I couldn't let go off the feeling of unfairness. After all, heterosexuals are less likely to go through shit like this, are less likely to get stigmatized for shit like this. How unfair can a life be where love can hurt us, in ways one never expected it should.

And because the story was wrought with impotence and heartbreak.

I don't know why I'm telling you this, but I had to tell it to someone. Because HIV, although no longer a deadly disease, is expensive as fuck to treat, and expensive as fuck to carry around with your social baggage. Imagine knowing you have HIV and searching for a partner, a real partner whom to love and care for. Even if great people do live out there, who will be willing to sacrifice some aspects of sexual life for other emotional ones, the person who has to hunt for said person is put surely through calvary.

I'm sorry but I'm being particularly inarticulate today; this isn't an easy topic to be articulate with.

Love you guys,
Ana

Wednesday, May 11, 2016

A list in search of happyness


I hate depressive blog entries. That is why I'm going to write a huge post about ALL THE DE ZINGS THAT I'M GONNA START DOING TO BE HAPPIER.

I'm gonna get my nails done and I'm gonna spend quality time with my best friends. I'm gonna stop looking at my phone for hours on end. I'm gonna go to all my classes. I'm gonna force that smile.
I want to be happy.

But winter months make it so *insertfilthyadverbs* hard.

Monday, May 9, 2016

Cold Temperatures, Dearest

The icy skies of winterland
I was working up some coffee to write a paper that is due in like, five minutes. The smell of homey coffee, the gurgling sound of the boiling water, the calmness with which said boiling water descended unto the mug. I needed to write a small ode to winter.

Do not get me wrong, dear reader. I am of the ardent spring 'n' summer lovers. But since I have no option and must live through the grey and boring winter months, might as well make the best of it.

I like the love that bed covers are wont to give you during the best eight hours of the day.
I like the singular richness of toast during winter, and the romance of its smell wafting through your sleepy senses.
I like hugs especially during these months.
And the pleasure of lazyness.
I like huge and lovingly knit scarves, coats with dainty buttons, smart boots, and sweaters with arms long enought to cover your knuckles upon insistence.
I like holding hands. But then I can like that through the sweaty summer months too.
I like the dancing rain on my rooftop, and the orchestrating wind on the trees.

Winter doesn't have to be too bad.
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