My Life

Just figuring it out

Luis E. Bacalov



Poem: “Poetry” by Pablo Neruda
Read by Miranda Richardson


And it was at that age … Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don’t know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
and open,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
likeness, image of
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.

Translation: Alastair Reid

Anonymous asked: Why is life worth living? I ask myself this everyday, but can never even come up with one reason.


Waking up next to your best friend in her tiny bed.
Waking up alone in a tent.
The taste of green tea on a hot day.
Shaving your head and laughing.
The comfortable silence between yourself and another being. 
A field full of wildflowers hidden behind crappy buildings.
Notes from middle school.
Climbing sand dunes, even if you were falling on the way up.
Walking away from the people who hurt you. 
The way the earth looks after it rains.
Hot sand under your bare feet. 
When a cat sits on your lap instead of the laps of the other 8 people in the room.
Buying a dress in a vintage shop you saw 4 years ago but couldn’t get then.
Getting naked in places you aren’t allowed to be naked in.
The feeling you get when you beat an anxiety attack.
Making love.
Moving into your own apartment for the first time. 
Finishing a piece of art.
When someone says, “this reminded me of you.”
Meeting a person who feels the same way you do about the world, knowing you’re not as alone as you thought you were.
Eye contact with a beautiful stranger.
Changing your mind about something you thought you knew your whole life.
2 am walks in the city.
The rush you feel driving through an intense thunderstorm. 
Laughing so hard you pretty much pee your pants.
Family events you don’t want to go to that make you feel surprisingly thankful.
Letters in the mail. 
Getting so full you have to unbutton your pants. 
A good night’s sleep after 14 nights of depression keeping you up. 
Not failing a test.
Forgiving others. 
Forgiving yourself.
When someone says, “I’m proud of you.”
Telling someone how much you love them. 
Laying in bed with a friend drinking wine and reading poetry.
Getting lost in cornfields with your favorite music blasting through the speakers.
When you finally get the courage to say how you feel.
Drunken nights full of people you don’t know spilling their entire lives to you.
Buying a used book that has underlined sentences. 
The boxes you find full of pictures of people who passed away.
3 hour phone calls with someone you used to love.
The feeling of cool sheets against your bare feet.

I hope you can start seeing the small things and understand that those are what make you feel. Those are the reasons you’re alive. 


Lo que no nos debe de hacer falta para leer.


Lo que no nos debe de hacer falta para leer.

Si supiera que hoy es última vez que te voy a ver dormir, te abrazaría fuertemente y rezaría al Señor para poder ser el guardián de tu alma. Si supiera que esta fuera la última vez que te vea salir por la puerta, te daría un abrazo, un beso y te llamaría de nuevo para darte más. Si supiera que ésta fuera la última vez que voy a oír tu voz, grabaría cada una de tus palabras para poder oírlas una y otra vez indefinidamente. Si supiera que estos son los últimos momentos que te veo, diría TE QUIERO y no asumiría tontamente que ya lo sabes.

—Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Carta de despedida (via deliriosausentes)

(…) Escarbó tan profundamente en los sentimientos de ella, que buscando el interés encontró el amor, porque tratando de que ella lo quisiera terminó por quererla.

Cien años de soledad, Gabriel García Márquez (via esnifandosentimientos)

(via esnifandosentimientos)


Gabriel García Márquez - Cien años de soledad


Gabriel García Márquez - Cien años de soledad

He dug so deeply into her sentiments that in search of interest he found love, because by trying to make her love him he ended up falling in love with her. [She]…loved him more and more as she felt his love increasing.

—Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude  (via wordsnquotes)

(via wordsnquotes)

The rain reminds me of my last love, and baseball reminds me of my first. I am careful now because I am not sure what the next one will taint. Lavender, perhaps. I can imagine making lavender ice cream as summer ends, and realizing he did not come over for dessert. This time next year, I will hate lavender and the jasmine that bloomed in my neighbor’s garden and fireflies that lit the air on warm nights. No, I am not the patient kind, and I will never give you more than I give myself. I have made that mistake before, and the road back to myself was too long to make it again.

—Carmen Ye l lavender (via wordsileftbehind)