Who is that other part of my soul and where is it? Where to find it? Every time I see my "friends" I see them more and more different to me.  I know they are supposed to be different from me, It doesn’t make sense to have someone just like me as a best friend...  if it did then it would suffice to be alone. I know he or she must be different… but I crave for someone to agree with me on things that I find essential… I yearnfor someone sincere, friendly, somewhat forward with things, someone to push me to do things and someone I can push to do others, we must share pleasures, be a bit crazy, support me and not criticize me, both defend me and need my help ... it’s more difficult for me to see the difference between friendship and love than it is for other. Is it perhaps the same thing except it includes is a sick dependence on closer physical contact? I could never expect anyone to touch me. I’m too ugly for that.
I thought your best friend has always been there for you... But it’s been lifetime for me and mine does not show up. People I meet do not understand friendships as I do. They simply end up hating me, ignoring me or disappearing...
I know I am the problem. I am certainly mad, a person who is supposedly in search of better things, but that at any hardship finds refuge in an invented world, where everything is perfect, and you can forget about everything else. How much I’d like for that world to be real, and how much more I would like to forget it so I could concentrate in this life and make it better.
But I can’t it’s so nice to be there, my desmænok, my personal paradise for when I die. This idea gave birth to Xag. The person I am and the person I am not at the same time. An ideal me, as I want to be and what I am right now. Living the life I wish to live most, one full of adventures and friends. In the desmaenok, He has three very special friends, whom I now call Joshua , his best friend, Nikolas (his girlfriend) and another one. One I have not yet imagined
There, as cliched and childish as it sounds the world is where all things I've dreamed of are true. I'm a witch, a famous artist and performer, a fugitive from justice, an adventurer, a boy of 10 one day, 14 the day after and 12 the next, beautiful.
Why Xag? Who is Xag?
When I think about my happiness, my joy, my true sorrows, my ideals, my fantasies, my ultimate self, my power, my weakness, my love, my fears, my evolution… Xag is 'it'. Xag is who I really am, Xag I who I want to achieve. Xag is my reality, my past and my goal. Xag is my true name. Xag is the word that calls upon my true self. People use nicknames to protect their identities, they wish to be someone they are not… and that’s sad, but credible. Xag It’s a nickname for all to see that shows who I really am but nobody knows. Only people that know me call me Xag. Only people that have seen more that the awkward little fag that barely speaks and sits alone to read and write… know of Xag.
Xag is happy as he is sad. He is in balance; he is as satisfied as eager to learn, an adventurer and a great host. He smiles only when he feels like smiling, he cries only when he feels like crying. He is transparent, honest… a liar only when it benefits others. He is in love with life, with death, nothing is strange to him, and everything is jfun. He is so unlike me really, Xag is willing to make the ultimate sacrifice, stop being himself for others… give up his will for others to find who they really are, Xag is willing to make mistakes to show others who they really are. That’s why Xag… that’s why I, keep posting my most intimate thoughts and secrets online. I’m trying to give... When you call up on my name, my true name, you are calling this creature I so desperately want to be, I so insanely think I am, that so painfully I’ve been. Yes… I made a character out of myself. I had never put into words quiet like that… I made a movie out of my life an existence… but that’s not how the world I live on works… I know that. It hurts. God it hurts, in every level. Physically… it hurts, aesthetically, ethically, morally, scientifically, socially, humanly, spiritually, magically… its hurts in every way. I open my eyes and see, hear and feel that all my words, actions and emotions… just don’t fit, in this place, in this world… I was just never meant for this world…
Perhaps I have created him/me to get rid of all those things that mortify me, He does everything that I can't do, I can't run away from home… it would be very complicated...
I’ll never finish my course of witchcraft, I cannot reveal myself to anyone, and I can't rebel myself against anything…

(2 days late)

I have wanted to run away from home...

I have wanted to run away from home...  since in some ill-fated English class we had to read: “From the Mixed up files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler”

I want to leave home and get to know who I am, solve a puzzle that bothers me so much…

Am I magical or not?

I spend a lot of my free time planning my escape. Thinking about how I am going to survive, how I’m going to pay for my adventure, what I should take and other stuff. Sometimes I choose Alnitak to go with me; she has always been in my head when I think in brother-sister adventure.

I plan on getting a compass and a tunic besides other stuff. I dream of taking my Book of shadows and go windows shopping for all this stuff as I try and make up my mind as of where I am going.

(5 days late)

Digital Suicide

Por qué suicidiodigital
(Por: Pamies)

Porque todos nosotros somos suicidas en potencia
Porque la vida nos pone al borde del abismo
y es necesario tener valor para lanzarse
como un auténtico suicida
Porque el dolor existe
y hay que tener la osadía
de soltar el lastre
Porque no es fácil encontrar
la palabra exacta
que nos libere de nuestro yo moribundo
Porque es posible cambiar de piel
Porque queremos expresarnos
como la primera vez y estamos
capacitados para ello
Porque no dudamos ante la posibilidad
de pegarnos un tajo y empezar de nuevo

 http://www.suicidiodigital.com

Getting him to willingly kiss my shoes

Sorry, I have not written in so long, but I just could not find the time or the desire to do so, I had so  much to write about and now I only want to say that lately I've been getting my way with a lot of things, wedgies, melvins, ripping his shirt, get him almost naked and even getting him to willingly kiss my shoes. There is always this fear; scaring the hell out of me... it’s no laughing matter.

(25 days late)

Nocturne

Nocturne III by Silva (translated by Luis Zalamea) 

It was evening,
a night filled with perfumes, whispers, and the music of bird’ wings;
A night
when fantastic glowworms flickered in the nuptial, humid shadows,
at my side, ever so slowly, close to me, listless and silent
as if prey to premonition of the most stinging pain
that inflamed the deep secret of your fibers,
over the path filled with flowers that stretched across the plain,
you were walking;
and the full moon
in the sky, so infinite, so unfathomable, spread its light.
And your shadow,
lean and languid,
and my shadow,
by the moon’s rays silhouetted
on the path’s sorrowful gravel,
were united
and were one,
but one long and lonely shadow,
but one long and lonely shadow,
but one long and lonely shadow…
Tonight,
desolate; my soul
by your death so bitterly pained and anguished,
torn from you by time, distance and the grave
upon that infinite blackness
where our voice cannot be heard,
lone and mute,
on the path I kept on walking…
And dogs braying at the moon came to my ears,
at the pale face of the moon,
and the croaking of the frogs.
I felt cold; the same chill that in your chamber
numbed your precious cheeks, hands and brow
amidst the snow-white linens
of the funereal shroud.
It was frost out of the tomb, it was the ice of the dead,
and the chilliness  of the void…
And my shadow,
sketched out by the paleness of the moon,
walked alone
walked alone,
walked alone upon the prairie;
and your shadow, lean and graceful,
pure and languid,
as in that warm spring evening long ago,
as in that night filled with perfumes, whispers and the music of bird’ wings,
approached me and walked with mine,
approached me and walked with mine,
approached me and walked  mine… Oh embraced shadows!
Oh the shadows of the bodies mingling with the shadows of the souls!
Oh shadows that search each other in tear-filled and somber nights!

On the morning of 24 May 1896, a housemaid found Asunción Silva dead in his bed with a gun near his body; he had shot himself in the heart the night before.