On Staying and Starting Over

They say not to wait for permission.
But no one talks about how disorienting it is when you realize no one was ever coming to invite you.

Especially if you don’t speak the same language.
Especially if you need subtitles.
Especially if your accent sticks out, or your rhythm is just slightly off.
Especially if the world you came from is gone — and you have to build a new one right away.

There’s a kind of quiet grief in not having a place already set.
But there’s also a wild kind of freedom in deciding to set your own.

Rules on being human:
You will receive a body and no instructions, then spend the rest of your life trying to decode rules that don’t apply to you — while missing the entire point of witnessing yourself in the first place.

• Plot twist: you make the rules.

• Second Plot twist: rules are only meant to be broken— so you can defy everything you thought you knew until you find the right set of rules. 

For all the times I cared, I used to think sharing my internal process was dramatic —
or maybe just too complex to be understood.
But in a time of collective regression, shortened attention spans, and shallow eeeeverything… we owe depth to ourselves.

Maybe emotions are more data than drama, like we’ve made them to be. In an AI era, I intend to get better and better at feeling every-single-one of my feelings until all my circles become upward spirals.

Not living out your creative side is the fastest way to poison yourself into daily misery.
Into a life that never quite fits, no matter how much you shrink, edit, or rearrange it.

But what if emotional depth wasn’t something to hide?
What if reflecting on our own experience isn’t indulgent, but the only thing that saves us from wasted potential?
That idea has haunted me for so many years that I had to invite her for tea.

To deny your creative nature is to risk becoming just a body.
No soul — just a blood pump.
A machine without software.
Imagínate tú — qué triste.

And honestly? Inefficient. Unless you’re trying to live like the average western robot.

Creativity is not a luxury. And its also not as fancy as all our social media accounts make it to be, it’s about having your own lil method to the magical madness of your life, dude.
Without it, all that energy builds up in the wrong places —
making mountains out of molehills, falling in love with potential over current presence and
obsessing over problems that were never yours to hold.

It becomes a floating charge of energy with nowhere to land —
so it attaches itself to the wrong things, exaggerates the wrong emotions,
and fuels all the parts of life that were never meant to carry that kind of weight.

Lately I’ve been asking:
Was I being kind… or was I just denying myself speech?

How many times have I silenced myself for the sake of not hurting someone else’s feelings? Or maybe out of fear that expression was mistaken for childish behavior (pero tu sabes cuánta terapia y practica toma ser un comunicador asertivo? It’s so immense I wouldn’t know quite yet)

There’s a fine line we all wear around our necks —
between being gentle with our words,
and cutting our own throat with politeness.

So for all the times I’ve edited myself…
For all the times I was lost in translation…
May the words find me.
And may the feelings stay.

Instead of waiting for the invitation, I’m setting the table. Lighting the candles.

And if you’re lucky, I’ll mix you a Matcha too.

Come sit. 

Stay a while.