The Fates seemed to turn against me when I hit sixty—or sixty hit me.
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My muses wept. They no longer needed joyful poems, but poetry of tearful chasms into which the corpses of men, including those of the clergy, fell.
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Bitches who can’t be told no. Bitches who are always right. Bitches who need to have the last word. Bitches who wish you’d try them. Bitches who bite motherfuckers’ heads off. Bitches who won’t let anyone touch you. Bitches who’ve given me everything they have.
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However lost or uncertain I get, however washed out by lengthy periods of fitting in, I’ve
been reminded that I am at heart okay—my weirdness is right there in whatever notebook I carry
with me, always tucked away in that blue canvas bag or another.
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This is half to process for myself what I saw today in my newsfeed
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A year ago, I was sitting in a room in San Marcos (TX), on what I remember was a somewhat comfortable bed, writing aphorisms for an ex-partner. Had 1 a barely recognizable me from 2018 knocked on the door of somewhat comfortable me from 2017, he would’ve shared an odd vision of the future:
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Six months ago, I graduated with a philosophy degree from Texas State University in San Marcos, TX. What was promised to be a day of jubilation for my family, as I am a first-generation Colombian and the first in my family to ever attend an American institute of higher education, was instead welcomed with a reluctant sigh of relief.
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