vocho

New Series: Vochos/Bugs

(mi vochito)

round and round, again...

informal

"antes de vivir"

March 23rd, 2010

Everyday, there is something to live for and something to die for. At least, that is something to believe. Apathy can only help move me from point A to point B to the extent I allow it. So, it ends up being a constant struggle of pushing while pulling, saying to me, that the impossibility of the possible is a point in my thought process that does not necessarily make a point to make sense as a thought. But loneliness is real. As is love and hate and happiness and the pain I've felt. Eventually, everyday becomes just another to put off what I'd rather do during the day, leaving the night untouched and innocent, for the sake of saving my last hope of tranquility. To end up a dreamer, for the sake of myself.

Hands/Manos:Former Ghosts/Freddy Ruppert

Former Ghosts


Freddy Ruppert

This is all about trial and error, unfortunately.

another

más

otra foto para el proyecto:

Work(s) in Progress

I suppose, this could be called social commentary, but that would be a bit pretentious on my part. This project merely reflects my interest in "analyzing" (realistically meaning, looking at) people's hands and how they vary depending on their occupations. These are definitely works in progress, but I hate to try to aim for perfection. There are more to come.

"¿diré que ahora comienza el dolor y la pena?"

He sits down and begins to write about circumstances or events that may or may not happen. He begins by writing:
"He stares out at the river with her running through his thought process(es), further complicating, such arbitrary complexity. He thinks about how far he has come and whether it is worth it to gamble such delicate things on a stranger.
He stares at the water, hoping to see something more than his reflection. There is nothing there, but himself. Well, he thinks 'at the very least if I were to get hurt I can find solace in the fact that the tides will perpetually change between high and low, waves will continue crashing and the days will forever turn into nights.'
All of that meaning, that if something bad were to happen, time will push him to move on."
After writing that passage he realizes what a load of shit he has fed himself. Also, that writing is not one of his particular strengths. He put the pen down, but still thought of her.

"el boxeador" o "derrotado"

I remember a time spent in the ring. The taste of blood in between my teeth. A flash, an unexpected surprise and with eyelids closed I opened my eyes, again. (Did I see you?) I was a boxer, once, but I put the gloves up because a human defeated is a cycle repeated. I remember a time spent in the ring. The texture of bruised knuckles wrestling with the cloth inside my gloves. A punch and an extended arm. Sweat falls from my brow. (Did I hate myself enough?) I was a boxer, once. I was. I put those gloves up because a human defeated is a cycle repeated. I gave it my all, but it hurts to continually fight and fall. Someday, I'd like to return to the ring with gloves on.

"el descanso y los sueños"

February 16th:

Can I live my life as if everyday were a holiday? I suppose not. Don't ruin the moment, though.
I find myself building buildings of unrealistic dreams to lose myself in. Now, I'm lost. Oh, so lost.
But, realistically, I am not.
'Drive away and leave me as I leave you'
'I don't know how to say goodbye'
'Don't try'
[Cue the cheesy, but romantic music]
So, up to now I've been an existential crisis contained within a human shell. A bit sad, but quite beautiful in a somber manner.
What I seem to forget, I'll never remember. So, if I've forgotten you, will I neglect to remember you?
There is nothing more to say, but the same repetitions that I've repeated before.
I love you, I loathe you, I love you? Of the past, that much I know.

egoismo y lo resultado

"Some people believe in individualism. But if you think that you are the most important, then that really is a boring life because your existence is irrelevant to others[.]"

el mundo es suyos

"understandable smooth shit that murderers move with"

the aesthetics of boredom

¿y ahora será la misma vaina?
Somehow, the days are long and the weeks are short.
A contradiction on an existential level.
Yes, that.

más y más

Somehow, there aren't enough hours in the day to do nothing.

escalera

It's entirely possible that through living a life defined by routine, I am symbolically walking up a revolving staircase that never ends. So, why do I wake up in the morning? Or anyone? Oh right...not everyone lives like so. Some have the privilege to choose or the privilege to fall back.

sobredosis

Cuernavaca:
El primer día del viaje tuve una sobredosis de pena. Una pena pesada, muy pesada, pero pasó. Gracias a un dios, que yo no creo en.

Tendré más fotos de la Ciudad de México en estos días siguientes.

océano

"Maybe, I am mistaken, but I view significant others like huge bodies of water. You were an ocean with frigid water. I remember how I allowed my feet sink into the sand, as I waited for the tide to come and hug my ankles. Slowly, I would walk towards you. Unfortunately, I couldn't handle the cold. I was only able to reach you up to my knees, before a wave came crashing towards me. How I would prefer, now, to dive head first. As it is now, though, I am relegated to walk along the tide. Someday, I hope to have the courage to dive head first into the ocean and find you."