The Trinity of Life

What is human thought? If thoughts can neither be seen nor heard how do we know they exist? How can one begin to classify thought, human reason or conscience? The matter being we ourselves must not exist if that which we are made of lives within its own existence. Humans are made of organs, which are made of cells, who have organelles, made of molecules which are made of atoms. Thousands of cells, living with their own purpose of life molds the human body, so what is it that gives us our conscience? Is it a higher power, god perhaps? Though, no material proof has ever been discovered. If conscience comes from nothing, nothing is a state of being, or something. Though, everything comes from conscience. A theological trinity; at least, a thought. The irony of the matter is the disturbing addiction to a religious probability often times, in the Christian word, revolves around the Holy Trinity. Both beliefs merely thoughts and neither proven. Yet one must conclude that everything comes from a conscience, which comes from nothing, meaning everything comes from nothing. What about emotions? Are emotions a state of being? Human reason dictates that we are separate from our emotions; there is a distinct contrast of the physical state of being to the state of human conscience.  And yet it is emotion that dictates our actions. Pain, anger and agony are all physically felt yet simultaneously they are an element of conscience. And it is here that religious probability meets its flaw. Emotions, a psychological state of mind must be a physical state of being to cause physical effects: effects in which I, myself acted upon and suffered the repercussions.

Half the time, I can't logically understand what I am feeling, let alone know where to derive such feelings. Ironically, I constantly try to think logically about everything in order to find an analytical interpretation dictated by reason and logic. This "process" I follow, this "intellectual" scheme to which I am always so loyal, ends up alienating me from those that I love, or at least, the one person I love. I can sit here and know deep down that I need to let go of whatever discrepancy that is catalyzing my instability in emotions. And yet, there's a protruding, echoing voice within my head, telling me how insignificant and unimportant I am: how no one could ever love me: how I will never be worth anything and therefore should be cast into a reality of isolation and solitude. That's the reality of it all - isolation and solitude. This world of love and compassion I'm living is merely the fantasy, with the reality being coerced into the most abysmal depths of my subconscious corroboration. And yet it claws, and scratches, and fights its way out; leaving wounds along the way.

It kills me knowing I have the sweetest man who loves me more than anything in this world; in his eyes I'm the most beautiful woman who will ever live. But yet I belittle his emotional expressions into falsities and pathetic sympathies.

It kills me that I try to think logically about my depressions; knowing that emotions are mere intangible matter - therefore not even matter at all. They are not physical entities and therefore shall elicit no physical effects and have no directional bearing over my body, mind, or soul. And yet, when night falls, the tears pour down like rain - what is more physical than the cold, chilling feeling of a teardrop landing on your skin? How it falls down and the moment it breaks into a million smaller tears you can actually see all the pain and sorrow trapped within those now hollow, salty waters.

As if some higher power wants to sarcastically taunt me with my illogical emotional turmoil, I still follow these attempts at intellectual reasoning to place an understanding on that which I cannot understand. Everything, everything we know and accept as knowledge are centuries-long opinions widely believed. Every single bit of information labeled as factual is an opinion of someone before us who was able to manipulate and persuade those around him to have just as much faith as he. Everything comes from the conscience, which comes from nothing. If we all are made of the same structured cells then why do we think differently? And within these differences of thought, why are certain patterns labeled as normal and others as faulty and broken? Why am I labeled as broken? Everything comes from thought, which comes from nothing, therefore, transitive theory states everything comes from nothing. The Trinity of Life. And even further scrutinized, everything is nothing. I am nothing - which completely contradicts my entire psychological motif I've been trying to disprove. The trinity of life is a bitch. And Edward, I am sorry I'm broken.

The Horror of Our Love

I'm a killer, cold and wrathful
Silent sleeper, I've been inside your bedroom
I've murdered half the town
left you love notes on their headstones
I'll fill the graveyards until I have you.
Moonlight walking, I smell your softness
carnivorous and lusting to track you down among the pines.
I want you stuffed into my mouth
hold you down and tear you open, live inside you -
love, I'd never hurt you.
But I'll grind against your bones until our marrows mix
I will eat you slowly...

Oh, the horror of our love
never so much blood pulled through my veins.
Oh, the horror of our love... never so much blood

I wake in terror, blackbirds screaming
dark cathedrals spilling midnight on the altars
I'm your servant, my immortal
pale and perfect, such unholy heaving -
the statues close their eyes, the room is changing
break my skin and drain me.
Ancient language, speak through fingers
the awful edges where you end and I begin
inside your mouth I cannot see -
there's catastrophe in everything I'm touching
as I sweat I crush you.
And I hold your beating chambers until they beat no more
you die like angels sing...

Oh, the horror of our love
never so much blood pulled through my veins.
Oh, the horror of our love... never so much blood

You're a ghost love, nightgown flowing
your body blue and walking along the continental shelf
you are a dream among the sharks
beautiful and terrifying, lit and restless
we dance in dark suspension.
And you bury me in the ocean floor beneath you
where they'll never hear us scream...

Oh, the horror of our love
never so much blood pulled through my veins.
Oh, the horror of our love... never so much blood  

-Ludo

Father or Foe

I want to believe in this new father in front of me - this never before seen parental figure that not only embraces me for who I am but encourages for truth and acceptance. He has never shown me such understanding; only misery and belittlement, castigation and fear. Bruises, tears, scars, are the only memories and imprints left upon me as a being through out my life. But now, he has grown into such a character that I can honestly, without hesitation, divulge my loss of virginity and not be rebuked. But can I truly trust in such a confidant? Or will slowly breaking the walls I have constantly, fortuitously built to protect me end in yet again, disappointment and shame?

He used to be an abusive drunk. He used to hit my mother. He used to throw tables at his very children. He used to not love me. I have always been ashamed - never has he been a father and never will he receive the chance after all the opportunities he dwindled and wasted away. Every time I believed, even for such a brevity as a second, that he was changing for the betterment of our family, I would be heartbroken in some catastrophic way; in ways that lead to my own self harm for such shame of where I come from. My mother is skeptically paranoid enough to be institutionalized. My sister is immature enough to jump off a bridge if someone lied and said it was the "new trend". My father has such a strong temper that he wouldn't think twice about slamming me into a wall. My grandfather is so mentally perverted as to attempt to molest his own children. My other grandfather so sexually addicted as to cheat on my loving, adorable grandmother. See the pattern? I am the offspring of a mutated genetic line - mutations eliciting moral and ethical degradation and fucking mental insanity!

What about my own mutations? How is my perspective of reality distorted you may wonder? Well, I lack the ability to control my own emotions. Happy or sad, weary or strong, all directly influenced purely on events that, might I add, I will always misunderstand; if not misunderstand then understand even though there is no symbolic or allegorical meaning behind those very events. How can I understand something that doesn't exist? - exactly.

Back to the main point. Is this really a changed man or is it a facade? Can I finally feel loved by at least someone in my family or will I have to rely on the support of my boyfriend to keep me on my feet during my episodal emotional outbreaks? And fearfully wondering yet evading, is this a father, or a foe?

A Mother's Love

I can't help but wonder what the connection between a mother and child must be like; that unconditional dependence for something so small - a connection so strong to something so fragile. Though it is this fragile strength that corroborates the connection; the utmost strength to protect and nurture contradicted with such a weakness for the safety and well being of one's child. I myself having always dreamt of being a mother, feel my quintessential destiny in this life is to be the epitome of wife and mother in such a way that family comes first. Family should always come first. And yet, something that can be so joyous and enlightening can be so devastating and unforgiving. In all my dreams and reveries for my own "avenir", every single hypothetical circumstance plays out perfect - no sudden mistakes or unfortunate happenings, only blissful joy. Tonight opened my eyes to the other end of the spectrum; the mothers who place all their love, hopes, and attention into their baby but then lose their newly born child. Actually, this loss can happen whether the child is young or old - death is still death.

"The Other Woman" is a film reflecting the topics of adultery and in this case, the good that can come of it. Though what appeared to be good only ended up being pain and loss. A mother, young and proud, immature but wise, lost her child to SIDS - Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. Though at the time of the death, she had fallen asleep with her baby gently caressed within her arms, suckling on her breast. She believed she had smothered her one and only daughter. How could someone live with such a guilt? A guilt of murdering your own flesh and blood? I have unfortunately experienced two pregnancy scares within my relationship with Edward. As immature and irresponsible as it is, I hoped. I prayed every minute of every day that I waited to find out if we had conceived our first baby - I was ready to be a mother. Both scares ended in false aspirations and wasted worry; this devastated me. I was so confused to think I missed something I never had, loved something that never existed. It defied logic. Yet, there are mothers in this world that experience the inexplicable joy of birthing a child and then, without any say in the matter, lose their baby to God. My heart goes out to you women - I shall pray for you.
_______________________________________________________________
Jamie Ann Marie Smith, my beloved sister and most trusted friend, is currently expecting her first child. At five weeks into the pregnancy, her future baby shall either be Isabella Marie Rivera or Jacob Allen Rivera. Either way, I will be an aunt and a godmother! I couldn't be happier for you Jamie. I love you with all my heart; you and the baby. ♥

The Contradictions of Love

Before I begin to explain the absolute devastation I experienced last night, you must first understand how this one characteristic was my pride and joy of my relationship. Being that the entirety of my relationship has been quintessentially fighting, arguing, crying, and missing one another, it has never been an easy feat to have people be happy to see us together. Most of the time, my feelings have been either ignored or labeled as "ridiculous"; as if any possible cognizant emotion fermenting within my heart is naturally a spasm of paranoid skepticism - no bona fide validity. Be it that it may, I do endure hardships with controlling my emotions - whether or not I'm happy is out of my control and to be so helpless as to not even appreciate moments of life that most shall never experience saddens me to no end. Regardless, I still am a person of intellect and passion and due to such I know what I want and expect in my relationship: things I must argue for to receive.

This one characteristic I refer to has always been, whether arguing or blissfully happy, a constant through out our year and a half long relationship. He has always been loyal to me - to such an extreme that he cares not to look at other women. My body is the only one he has eyes for; and it is this fact that has appeased my hyperbolic extremity of self-consciousness. I am a person of intellect in such a way that I could not even comprehend the emotional corroboration of love; how is there biological, physical proof to its existence? Parents are supposed to unconditionally love their children, though in my experience I received nothing but belittlement and castigation. Is this love? Well I was imprinted to believe so - until he came along. His unconditional need and longing for me has always been all the physical proof I need; the connection and out-pour of emotion during our intimacy, all the biological.

Last night I was told that the intimacy and sexuality that once flourished between us in such a beautiful way, he ignores and oppresses because he cannot help but wander his eyes astray. Where to - to the breasts and asses of other women. In my absence due to the long distance, his hormones are too strong to remain visually loyal. Yet, contradictorily, he has always promised me I am the heart of his desire; such feelings can only be catalyzed by me and my body. Hell of a promise. Argument and ostracization soon followed - which made me feel as paranoid and skeptic as he always had considering "checking out" other women is a natural, common practice. Most men do so and such habits hold no reflection of their want to only be with the one they love.

And yet I could not help but be infuriated. When we share each other, is he thinking of someone else: When we go out, is he looking at someone else: When he fantasizes, is it about me or someone else? How do I know? And I need to know; I can't bear not knowing for certain or not being able to appease the insecurity now stirring within me. I had never been taught love and therefore my entire belief of love has been built upon the idealistic, perfect perspective portrayed within centuries of literature. And through this I feel that if you truly love someone, you would only want to look at the one you love. Though he claims he does only want to look at me. Then why do you look at them?

Never Going to Take You for Granted

Last night was yet again a culmination of drinking, drugs, and sex. Is it sad that our youth nowadays has so little that makes them feel wanted and complete that they not only want but have to resort to methods of intoxication to fill such a void? Is it even sadder that I recognize this ridiculous pattern but still choose to partake in these immature antics? Though in my drunken and marijuana-filled stupor, I had two realizations; realizations purely derived to the ridiculousness of the party reality surrounding me - it is not worth it. Ironically, I must thank the influences of alcohol and marijuana for my eye-opening epiphany.

Young men chasing young women: young women throwing themselves on young men: young men gliding their hands all over unconscious young women - and even into places i shall fail to mention. Is this really what our generation has grown to view as love and compassion? In my own perspective, this is just a facade to, ineffectively by the way, mask the pain or heartache truly fermenting inside. And the crossroads tie in because such a void would be filled if it weren't for the abysmally low self-perspectives and self-worth of all these young people. Two years ago I would have been even worse. Two years ago, I would have not only drank the alcohol, I would have not only smoked the weed, I would have also let some guy I have never met before have me in any way he wanted. Realization One: I have been shown what real love is since that time. And even though it can be a pain in the ass sometimes, nonetheless, it is real. I know I deserve better than what these faulty expressions of compassion offer. I deserve the love of my life; Edward Joseph DeJesus.

As the night progressed and my mental state deteriorated, young men began to flock. First was a young man who attempted to pull me close and constantly hug me as a way of establishing "trust". He was "taking care of me" and therefore I can "trust" him with my sanctity as a woman. Second was a young man, even a friend, who figured that constantly saying "I love you" and venting about all his life problems would stir up sympathy from me; apparently a sympathy that, in quote, "would not only make him feel good but me as well." Lastly was a young man who, even though I was in a deep sleep, figured it was acceptable to try and bring me into the other room with him. I thank God that my best friend Emily was also lying down with me and told the bastard to fuck off. Realization Two: Be sure who your real friends are. Because when you know they are real and true, you can always trust them, even with your life. And I love you Emily Margaret Burns. You are the best friend anyone could ever ask for.

These parties do nothing but cause problems and drama. Do I really want to look back and tell my children that I willingly endured such experiences? No, I want to raise them so they know what they deserve: real love and a partner who would give their life. Just as their father, the love of my life, would do for me.

Swim to Shore or Drown

How can you choose what is the best choice to make? How do you know whether or not the decisions you choose will lead you down the right path; a path leading to where you want to go. Because in my experience, these supposed right paths end up sinuously turning until you have no idea where you are. I know where I want to go: I know what I want to do and the life I want to experience: but I've no idea if my choices are going to get me there. Will I live up to the expectations of my parents? Will I overcome the difficulty of chemistry and receive my biology degree? Most importantly, will I be the best wife and mother a woman could ever be? How do I know these things?


So many fears, trepidations, doubts, which ever word you choose to label such emotions, have plagued my mind for years. I would always ponder on my possibility to fail; never on my ability to succeed. Never have I felt worthy or good enough, until now. People are going to make mistakes, people are going to fall. The whole point of not knowing the purpose or meaning of life, or not understanding why such experiences leave fatal wounds on your heart, scars on your skin, the whole point is because where's the excitement in that? When the love of your life kissed you for the first time, did you plan it out: the moment: the time: the place? Or did he grab you, pull you in, and press his lips upon yours, oh so gently and lovingly? There was a rush of emotions and adrenaline, a climax of happiness convoluted with fear. But yet, you had no idea where that was going. All you knew is that you wanted to be in that moment.

I want to be in this moment; these ever so fleeting moments that turn to days and years. Every year will hold its own arsenal of obstacles. And screw this feeling of unworthiness. Fuck feeling unbeautiful. I am beautiful. Yes, inside and out, little old me, is beautiful.