It’s not good enough, again.

again.

is this too hard for you? again.

you are simply arraging the letters… what the fuck are you, a florist?

otra vez.

you are putting clothes on and mouthing the words, existing while remaining passive and docile. do not, offend me and certaintly don’t reveal yourself.

Purity is an expensive luxury i lack the funds for and romance is an enigmatic hallucination we possess. It is sensual trickery of poetry and biology, i am pleading for a ceasefire! I’d initially written this tomorrow but came back yesterday, doing a double, almost triple take. who is that?

Things are so contradictory, they must be the truths themselves. It can’t be that i am here, only to be unable to be. Would you like to progress as the mere observer? Desire it all in the present, then analyze them so you can construct a tomb before it has even died. If i could properly capture this soulful tenacity, i may be able to render it immortal. But if not, we can dress up, maybe in structured trousers or tailored shirts, we can negotiate a trade-off or two and oh, no no, don’t look up at the gaping sky above us. Don’t do that.

How many people do you want to relate to you? The transactional nature of modernity is dispiritng no doubt. Wrathfulness forced me to study the ins and outs of commerce. But commerce is part of life, dancing between essential and unavoidable. The great pen bearers sold shaggy stories to a lot of buyers. So, what’s it going to be? Everytime you buy a burger or coffee, you want to trace the origins of the universe with the waiter or the barista? Exhausting.

Hello, my name is-

No, you’re handsome.

…i’m looking for somebody, and i need to get to him sooner rather than later.

Must be deep-rooted, the music of young and dumb. Where do you stay?

Enthused, because she has the touch of a masseuse, with the spirit of a pornstar and delivery of a poet.

Are you on your way?

Fuck. i’m not going to track down this guy in time.

You know, we can always waltz slowly, so you don’t miss the despair after devotion. What is the point of the end if it isn't beautiful?

Too late, always. You live on hope, without knowing what you’re hoping for.

The language of feelings belongs to no flags except memory. Memory is the language of feelings. Do we live in memory? Ah, nostalgia, potent and delicate. I’m going to tell the marketing director exactly how to commodify it.

No one listens and no one gets along, but we all pay. You bring me ladders, bring me headaches, but you couldn’t bring me a bit of arrogance or fire? Listen, bring something potent enough to destroy and rebuild, just don’t bring me an abnormally large backpack or questionnaire to fill. They built it to adhere to simplicity and operation, and remaining with those frameworks is easy, and draining. If we’re not together, then i might aswell be in your story.

We’re too visible, the light has not illuminated how intended. My only home was the unseen world, but it is not as dreamy as when i first stumbled into it. What are dreams? i’d tell you on the couch but, it’s too late. The price for eternal vigilance, is indifference.

Faster, slower. Slower, faster. You better keep tap-dancing and pray your feet don’t fail you.

You’re well-intentioned, but the rest of your job is blank. You were constructed, almost unfairly- what is it, you’re a son of nobody?

Do what you want. What do you want? I want to be multiple people at once. One, preferably runs away.

Mustn't complicate yourself so much. All that is great, or to cater to your pathetic dreads, transcendent, is allegorical. You did know that, right?

I realised I am infected. Try to achieve silence, for more than ten seconds. The second arrow hit.

If the extensions of man become overwhelming, overcrowded, there must be something to inhabit. Do not make the mistakes of sanding the edges, darkness and such. As far as I’m concerned, a grave mistake. Do I look like a guy who takes his own advice? Next play please. I’d appreciate the assistance of my shirt being ironed or jeans distressed. I’m not so beautiful or tidy, as I knew I was promised in an alternate outcome.

Born in paranoia, is a poison for us. I discern very well that you want the head of the messenger and the history from him, but I’ll warn you it’ll take all the good you accustomed to. Imagination prospers still, accept it or not.

Indifferent I know I now am, what wraps around my stomach isn’t warmth or a set of nails guiding me to euphoria. I can already feel the shivers, akin to the moon on a body of water. I would like to be in too deep, but I cannot guarantee my tendencies to save erupt should you jump in too.

To have what you want, in the way you want it, is impossible. But this expression is not an excuse to tango with the moon when you’ve been inside the sun. If I told you you can be with both? Destroy (save) yourself.

Oh, now I’m in love. I love you because you are not mine. I love you partially, and in full.

It’s a hard jump to make, beyond a leap of faith.

I can not reach or possess you. I wanted a mission, and I finally got one.

Eternal hunger.

Author’s note: thread lightly, godspeed.

https://distantregards.com/

Scores of intimacy, the single and eternal thread binding our pathetic and frantic existence, is an agonising dream I keep putting on snooze.

The entire chronicles of man, from ancient intellectuals debating to future cybernetic dreams of tomorrow, is nothing more or nothing less than a relentless quest to return into the clasp of feminine energy. but I haven’t even gotten to cover between these walls, I recite more the ones that keep the world’s unpunctual inferno, at bay.

Dressing up as modest, an outfit repeated not through reflection but of fear and knowing, creates a paralysis and restraint far stronger than what I could design. music has transported my soul further than fuel and mechanics could, but molten gasps and pelvis adhesive to my hands, finally erases my existence and confirms my purpose.

I spoke of exile and fugitives, but never stressed the puritanical world which contaminated the waters you deserve to swim in. My contributions have been abysmal, with zero invitations or resolutions. I remain perplexing, you remain tantalising.

Pretentious renditions of decency or elegance vanish when I try to draw a comparison to what’s unspoken. always approaching, and never quite arriving. This paradox of craving doesn’t permit me to unravel, but instead examine the entire lineage of human desire.

Author’s note: this untitled splatter of ideas does not relate to anything else previously written on here, maybe; and was written in a couple of minutes simply as a placeholder.

Hours, days, months, years… if you consider me brutal then adopt armour to minimise the collision of time and skeleton. I describe my travels through the self and other with my lips as the narrator, but blindfolded to reflection, not introspection, creates friction my shoulders are not yet bouldered sufficiently to lift and slam into the ground.

Is this a fair exchange? I mean if you’re deaf, dumb and blind, but beneath my disgust and pessimism, my fundamentals remain optimistic and located in the ever tangible and tactile humans. I’ll tell you what I am over dinner.

If all is too confusing, sincerest apologies. I know no other way of exercising my tongue, and though I can shift between languages or barter a pen for a keyboard, ultimately I remain threading my own whirlpool. A whirlpool I draw strength from, a whirlpool any visitor is bound to drown in.

Listen

You see the rust on that doorframe? It doesn’t just sit there. It hums, low, heavy-grain and features a velvet bass line. That’s exactly what the colour brown sounds like to me. I fucking love the colour brown and I’ll tell you more about the other ones over breakfast.

Losing my mind? No, narrowing it down.

Ten thousand opinions on things that don’t matter and heavy-armed soldiers from the moral military. Man and men, I’m not fond of you and I throw myself into the nominations. But the intensity of being morally right or superior, or digging to find your aha! moment, then posing as compassionate, offends me.

You’d think being a quite handsome, mercurial and seductive person who charms his way into any wish would be the best thing in the world…

It is.

But this isn’t about me no, this is about the absolute runway bound, pretentious and obnoxiously quiet, carved out and magnet for beauty thick-hair headed fucking twat across the room for me. Did you get diagnosed for starin’ problems? Am I about to scrap near these shards of mirror? Pues vamos cabron.

If you think I’m rough, you should’ve seen the other guy. Ridiculous faded t-shirt and a wash of jeans I can’t name, but there’s a guide here- sharp as a razor, cold as well water. I can hear the analogue synths and feel the wet asphalt between his charcoal and washed navy. For the love of an altar, please shave that moustache.

You know how I’d catalogue most my travels? “ABYSMAL ROOM SERVICE” in a potent Calibri, text size 13.5. But the solitude does wonders on my skin- not that I’d ever be unfaithful to the Sun.

The mind, the disturbing spectator who spends time speculating and groaning;

Por favor, cállate.

The mind, the disturbing;

But if my battle for autonomy had emerged victorious, I’d migrate beneath the sun, writing and living out eroticism and maybe discern if I perceive colours, sound or atmospheres. You fucking average Joe.

We used to love didn’t we? Civilisations and the mechanics of the hours we constructed to constrain ourselves in. This engine hums a mechanical lullaby. The drive is there but where is the finality? Surely there still isn’t roadworks.

I’m reminiscing on the future and oh, it feels exquisite. Like silk sliding off a bare shoulder or the sharp twist in a tongue when you kiss me to confirm my existence. I’ll have to tell you more over lunch.

author’s note: though every trickle of ideas that are posted are connected, this specific one is a more direct continuation from last piece.

https://distantregards.com/

Get a load of this guy. The dark wool overcoat wraps him in the present, with some thick eyebrows and thicker hair, I bet his personality is voluptuous at this rate. Fucking asshole is so handsome he probably skips the whole lovemaking theatrics and finds release through the mirror instead.

The surveillance grid is tightening like a garrote. I know you’re sick of me being metaphysical, but what else do you want from me? It’s the only thing keeping me company. My favourite destinations are voices or interpretations of language; words, accents, whimpers, but the only message you should synthesise if you must, is first travel through the individual before you board any plane.

The older man provides placeholder conversation. the great juxtaposition between the two, youth and age, potential and decay- is this old man just an anchor to a fading morality? I’m waiting for him to tell me to pull myself up by the bootstraps, or hand me over some game given I’ve been staring at the group of women across the tables. three, to be exact.

This fucking hotshot has staring problems. A moustache? A fucking moustache? How many layers of performance must this generation yield? The white shirt paired with white cargos multiplied by a backwards cap and dark glasses is such a futile exercise in camouflage. No doubt he’s maximising a privilege of being tall and so symmetric though.

I mustn’t remain so idle. Enough being a watchdog, there’s no lack of musings here but imperative is that my discipline remains. I paint myself in warning signs or recline in shadows because you won’t survive here with me. The human flaw of needing to conquer or pretend to know, imagine we applied such tenacity with progressive matters…listen it’s not about bread and circus it’s more that critical thinking is a deal-breaker.

The man reaches me calm, I asked him what are you doing? Met with a cryptic I’m taking my time, he stresses mediation won’t hurt me if I try. I’m thinking too much, full of myself, worried about a career, do I ever think of my health? All his accusations land, and I have nothing to deflect with. I’m looking for the rifle they gifted me, it had initials on it; DBCU (depth, bravery, conscious, unified) fucks sake that’s right, they’re not my initials, no wonder it’s jammed. Did my secretary not have one job?

I’m getting jumped violently. The second man reminds me longevity is in the dirt, a piece of land is a peace of mind. The third man offers me salvation; let’s get you some property, equity is best, your essence will expire so let’s invest. Ah pues sí, income with so much outcome, I relish gazing at my heritage and saying we’re blessed.

The depth of my characters is a jaded trope, it’s all paint and angles! I scream, as I rev into third gear and leave the three men on the curb with my middle finger and respects. Any more introspection and Interstellar is looking at a sequel, it’s time to face the music: what’s a crown to the clouds?

Trying to find my way home, but all roads seem to follow the one architecture blueprint. I should tune into the news, there must have been some policy changes for autonomy and creative-expression to have been dwindled.

I should’ve talked out with the guys. perhaps there was no harm in leaving my number with the three ladies, at least two of them might get back to me if I can’t have one. I’m pathetic, you know why I’m pathetic? I’m a perfectionist, which indicates i would have had to craft a body of work so renowned and revered it would have readjusted my baseline… is what I would say if I was pathetic. there’s your triad.

My aches are not tangible, this sense of being an anachronism… I’ll make a singular confession, yes I’m constantly reminiscing on the future, is that why I’m oh so romantic? I must find my way back to the heat of the moment, and ensure they can capture my photogenic, crocodile tears.

This is no way to cultivate love, or collectiveness. no. don’t flinch when I bash against the walls, I vow to not be infected by the serpent that devours it’s own tail. I have to stop staring out the window and get off this chair, reclusiveness, a nightmare I aim to detach from. Enigmatic I don’t feel strong enough to embody, so before I clash with the fourth man please pass on my rampant contingencies for history;

love is the engine,

wear sunglasses indoors,

women cum first!

share your wealth not finances,

always blame the Americans even if you’re wrong,

don’t meet them if you haven’t met yourself,

trust few

create like a child & edit like a scientist

and fuck me,

please email me before you call me.

https://distantregards.com/

The Sun I perceive doesn’t shine, it strikes. my eyes have ingested it’s rays- it must explain why I caution where I direct my sights to. I experience immaculate wrath whenever I see desires sanitised or cowardice in front of raw sensation. but renouncing lack of animalistic passion in others, is pointless. my permanent curse is too overpowering. the same love for divine existence will always rub against the disdain of the creatures that inhabit it.

My compromised patience hints all the way  towards the mirror. If progression is emphasised only through the collective, then I must remove such complex emotional ornaments. the quicker I can float somewhere miles above my own body, the better seats I’ll have to the strange, beautiful and pathetic spectacle of man.

                                        -

The blistering heat in the city presses down on the asphalt, stripping the afternoon of all ceremony. Beneath the shade of a charcoal cap, he pulls a brown thread through a fold of  pinstriped silk. His hands, adorned of gold bands and pale quartz, don’t tremble. It feels like a hunter who mistook his appetite for a higher calling.

There is no tangible trace or explanations for his nomadic nature. He doesn’t belong to anyone, which only suggests he belongs within everyone. Current interpretations of connections or partnership struck him as an absurd notion to impose a lid on the explosive nature of desire.

Further down the deck, a thick terrycloth towel obscures the woman’s face. Oiled to a high gloss against the oppressive sun, limited to pure form- shoulders, hips, the gentle rise of a ribcage and the stark red bikini which cuts geometric lines across her silhouette. If she had no face, she could be everyone. She could be the ocean behind the wall. She could be the structure itself.

Conversation is nice, but total absorption takes over frequently. It’s one to observe so keenly, it’s another to immerse so freely. Consumed by an insane, boundless greed to be everything for everyone, to stretch his consciousness so thin and so wide that no one could draw a breath without breathing in his language, is a rifle that points both ways but shoots only once.

Fundamentally, he was and remains alone. But the nightfall collapses the sky into a dense, crimson fog. the thick air, damp shoulders and triad of women seem irrelevant against his examination of what he saw earlier. Dark curls spill into one another, gold chains gleam against sun-kissed collarbones and loose knit tops, but there is no feedback through shades that continue to omit clues.

Outside the tavern, the orange awning casts a glow on the pavement which might finally provide some direction. But the same woman appears, her dark plum dress slips out the door and into the night. Two paces behind, he follows her, with his hood drawn low and gaze sharpened. The residue of different perfumes on his wrist is a small acknowledgment of a man who followed no master or obeyed any contract.

The monochrome lighting of a quiet room finally halts the pursuit. There she was, unhurried breath and a silent sculpture of heavy hips and softer waist. She simply existed, without question of the scents that clung from his collar or emotions crystallised. Grounded and immense, like stones buried beneath the sea.

It was redundant to intellectualise, or attempt to make sense of the absurd. Is every touch, every needle, every word, every lie told a brick in the infrastructure of a grander worldview? However you see it, it is.

Her dark silhouette stood anchored in the turquoise shallow waters. Here could be a sanctuary, an endgame where the ridiculous weight of existence seems stripped away. But peace is an illusion reserved for those with a lack of vision. Even as he watched her body framed by the quiet water, the horizon behind him burned. Tall sugarcanes set ablaze, thick red flames eat through the crop. Dark ash rots into the sky from rubble and punishment. Ambition is a fever that permits no rest, and whatever rebellion you ignite will demand you remain bound to something.

https://distantregards.com/

I’m not challenged sufficiently but blessed is the ability to conduct manual. there is nothing that can’t be self-generated, so let’s not get tangential. pull the chair out and draw cohesion for me, as if such is tangible. people-watching? people-watching. I must have promised it.

more blessed is a diverse collection of shades, different lenses that rotate between tint and perspectives but ultimately protect whatever hue my pupils are from ever coming in contact with an innocent soul.

to my left, the inescapable public marital breakdown is on air. the wife, beautifully embellished with a beige linen, lamenting bounding such vibrance to a man who chews with his mouth open. the greatest aspect of feminine energy is always what’s unsaid. I need to cross the street, but I’m obstructed by three men and one woman, who’s smiles i bypass once I zoom in onto their government ID lanyards, even from 200 metres or so out.

abundance of awareness must go beyond a quirk. right, everything has it’s root cause, emphasis on the root given a well-documented disdain for trivialities. does every piece sound different? don’t tell me. “piece”, I feel disingenuous at how I’ve fooled you I’m a writer or posses a knack for literature. I’m not all mercurial, but if you accepted my invitation it’s easy to identify my single, pulsating strength.

approximately three stores down the street lays an unfortunate familiar figure. the beg for money or food doesn’t differ on this particular weekday aside from the jacket and blankets that hug him, but I can’t indulge in this moral masturbation as if I rewrote his human condition days ago.

there’s a lot of exhausted faces but none arise from working too hard. don’t clutch your pearls yet, yeswe are overworked, underpaid, and precisely controlled, but the real fatigue is injected through more fatal points. every skill requires a market, every moment can be digitised and each problem begs to be optimised rather than solved. these observations absorbed from people left, right, front and back of me mean nothing. the modern-day tendency to be shaken out of apathy only through dramatic events… I don’t know if I’ll join you at the disco.

I scan every single outfit in approximately 8-9 seconds. there’s an anthropologist edge here, but the symbols or status that currently reign really don’t concern me. my synthesis remains identical to what I already concluded: women are the greatest muses & it’s time to reduce the pinterest. some conflict of interest.

my vehicle is parked further than convenient, but what greater pleasure to walk longer steps, under the sun, amidst the population. there’s an endlessness here, it’s all raw material. I’ve downloaded certain accents or peculiarities already, any hints of idiosyncrasies I locate is akin to water in the desert. my scarce appearances outside provide me with wealth, not in the economic system I am non-existent in, but obsessive ideals about the new-man and collective. you’ll know when to revisit my words and trace the epoch.

I’m the loneliest man alive, but I keep surrounding them with beauty to throw them off. I’m a rolling stone, but not the instruments I had the privilege to watch electrify me live. they say it gathers no moss, but I’ll tell you the real stability is in traffic hour. I’ll return to a different corner or bench later, to frame my philosophy better. It’s a privilege to be a ghost, but if a fourth wall shatters and you see me alone, don’t worry. I’m coming to tell you all about it.

https://distantregards.com/

You have now successfully met the requirements to obtain your bachelor! We wish you the best with your future endeavours and congratulations on such a momentous achievement!

thanks, Samantha. I know this anti energy isn’t the finish line of my psyche, it’s just traditions simply don’t move the needle for me. it’s time to stop impressing the dead. the etymology of such amuse me. bachelor’s, degree, masters. I’ll let you decipher the killing joke.

these meditations have little to do with academic chapters and more so attempts to annihilate four years of stagnation in the space of time my vehicle gets serviced. long cautionary tales of how no substantial change occurs overnight clenches my thirst for defiance. I’ve shifted the tides precisely through sun and moon.

who protects me and who surveillance me clink their glass only to palm their faces. I do not concede losses nor gain victories, whatever orbits my system can quickly dissolve from mere distractions to a mission. I’ll even break the fourth wall and confess to those with comprehension just how jaded I am from the mirror- if I am to be witnessed, let my posture be electric, and tune shock to a maximalist expression.

I’m complicated, I’ll be the second to admit it. artificial lights host space to exchange trivialities, nodding to manufactured opinions.    mutual mediocrity won’t automatically stretch the hands out they’re waiting for. I’m struggling to find remorse, or desire, to play maid with those uninspired or incompetent. don’t clutch your pearls yet, the shadow always looms over me. I know spiritual abundance and hyper-vigilance makes me as much an enemy, if not the cause of destruction.

but how beautiful is it to see alchemy in real time, only if you trace the currents of consciousness and sentiments unearthed, instead of a hidden face or enticing silhouette. I wish the only element that mattered would be the links I left for you to explore, but a much more potent, yet paradoxical calling shatters my ear drums.

license to reveal myself is daunting, but the pacifist times are now. how virtuous and with such ease is it to champion the underdog, a martyr who lost all yet remains on two feet with optimism that warrants questioning. how erratic to begin to unravel the two different me’s that exist in respective planes. such output would never come from one entity.

remaining entirely blind to whatever it is I am pre-destined to behold, keeps my eagle talon sharp. seeking to offer clarity or conclusion to  the great maze of fog I’ve left, I’m quickly teleported with you. there is no rational or manufactured tension- such way of communicating or synthesising is the same in any location. I could travel a thousand more journey’s, and indulge in insufferable questions regarding my design or purpose in civilisations. this heightened, almost overdosed intangible encounters usually illicit some drugs or vices- how could I be straight edge?

the fatigue escorts me out of all this blasphemy. one can be internalised eternally, but a void is, after all, a canvas spacious enough to occupy something formidable. what more glorious way to conclude an interpersonal odyssey than not conclude it all, leave no hints of tomorrow and avoid lingering curiosities.

the phantom of those who remained idle crawl on me, placing a tedious weight to a light traveler. he whispers in my ear, but to make sense of it I turn around. the writing’s on the wall are beginning to dry.

“- A great north is approaching”

the great karma disguises itself as unstable equilibrium. it never yields positive results to negotiate deals in an alleyway- I signed off to play the role of average joe, only to get brutally murdered. I try to thread modestly, but my teeth gnarl at touching the collective conciousness.

groups of people sprint past me, with gazelle like strides. I’m figuring the apocalypse finally  came, but they rush towards the same camera, finally being seen. contractions in my chest obliterate my pride, I hold my heart only to forget I rent it. who will hold the sovereign’s hand? will I be polluted by their gaze?

I’m brought to court, not to be tried but to be courted. perhaps the two function the same under different lighting. exposure is demanded, but my raw psyche or inventions disintegrate under the scope of the magnifying glass. oh, this isn’t attention, I’m being meticulously executed.

I won’t escape this room, but I can design its demolition. back at the field, I ground myself to concepts that navigate airspace. the wooden deck satisfies my love for all shades of brown, whilst the shift to fifth gear teases the finish line of becoming unpardonable. my barber is negative a client, whilst the stories narrated through my face become redacted. the same outfit adorns but also overheats my body on top of this human costume.

enough literature has extensively covered the inherent dangers of conquest and consumption. but I won’t be able to read it until the architect becomes more important than who’s sleeping in the foyer.

twenty-three at midnight, I can only wonder what’s next for me, but I’ll peel a secret and tell you what I really wish for is longevity. I am a master of ceremonies, but my silence is indicative of disagreement. tradition or numerical checkpoints don’t move me as much as the genuine belief that celebration and adoration should be omnipresent. I must’ve forgot to invite my very self though.

the thickness of my ambition is measured through the length of my sleeves and the width of my waist, but my best fit is found in between arms or with my hands stretched out. cleaning oceans, planting trees, gifting medicine, my lived experiences pre-decade passed remain with me like a tattoo. my essence hasn’t wavered, instead erupted into something I’d rather not articulate.

I am forced to sit silently in an isolated waiting room so I can receive an invitation to speak from a receptionist who doesn’t even register my name. can I use my credentials? I’ve stared at death, I’ve flirted with birth, but my face doesn’t have the adhesive for scars to stick, I must be in someone’s good graces.

there’s a lot of I, it’s exhausting, precisely how systems want it. communities and collective commodified into a selling buzzword, posing as compassionate, I want to ask them to suck my dick with authenticity at least.

yet my refusal is absolute, no wreckages will force me into a worship of cynicism. beneath my idle expressions I remain boundlessly loving. they warn us against the dangers of idealism but are we not all idealistic? or is this blood splattered from a position opposite of authority?

if I’m contradictory, I shall design that tastefully too, I wish I could be lied to- speckles of the remaining human spirit downloaded into our antithesis, denials of genocides as if my glasses are stained, ideologies poured like disposable fuel for a furnace and creative extinction processed through inventory metrics. no se puede ser pendejo.

oh but how noble is it to champion humanity when your heart is cascaded in rubble. how moving is it that a Venezuelan, an immigrant, is superior in suffering and understanding. how telling is it my greatest performances involves I? how paradoxical, ceremonies are held simply based on how I make you feel, or how I’ve become a garment that wears itself inside out. within a bulletproof immune system, i’m approaching my diagnosis of reductive essentialism.

I am entirely powerless, but my design shakes my need for perfectionism and poses as decent. should I clench my fists or should I caress your waist? I only embody ethereal love for knowing wrathful destruction, I’d have a conversation if I wasn’t so paranoid, but I’ll peel another layer and reveal you a  fear is knowing I can’t differentiate responsibility from control. why must submission be the only road I know without a map?

I must be projecting an appetite for the journey we accelerate through to be constantly riveting and purposeful. on hours I should be basked in petals and confetti, i strategically head to the mirror, where I see nothing. stranded on outer periphery, I count my remaining coins as if they are bullets to loaded.

I do not yet know the great privilege of waking up between your legs. my heart remains suspended from it’s true commerce. my insatiable hunger is sheltered, cocktailed with my rage that serves as progressiveness. I have, and remain stranded in a landscape of emotional rationing. there is no I, there is no we, but I’ll delay any real celebration until we can all eat, together, carrying generations of warmth in our ribs.

gracias, x100pre.

I sign about you, but my wires get cut. the lights dim quick and my mass appeal shrinks. my great discomforts placed under the floodlights and magnifying glass, my physical makeup and cast upon potential cause my heartbeat to pedal like a hamster wheel. I spend hours in silence wondering if I’m the most talented where I’m from, and inbetween that the hourglass would have ran it’s course.

It’s not about who does it first, it’s about who does it right, but having peculiar taste or an advanced eye for beauty doesn’t reward me as much as being of service or impacting communities does. it’s too late. I should have spent my exile refining systems, accelerating what drives me and materialising the tangible. i’m too elusive even for a detective like the mirror. I’m the most selfless selfish individual, idealising what fades away and painting what moans to reassure me. I am you, you are me, the working class world team, but had my sculptor not carved me out properly, i would have been the first anti-social socialite.

December 1998, your come out was a standing ovation, an omnious undercurrent signalling the inception of an eternal submission. surrendering is beautiful, but torture is a canvas that eventually runs out of room to leave marks. you banish me in 2013, sometimes i wish I could go back in life, not to change shit but to feel a thing or two twice. when will my sensory desires be fulfilled? anglo-saxon entities dim the lights, not understanding i glow in the dark. muted rhythms and static energies leave me somehow more restless, pent-up worlds i’ve built and wishes to touch your belly button from the inside keep me pulsating.

Twenty seven years later and your granite traces what’s left of a story i failed to rewrite more than a decade passed. I carry your misfortunes on me, you are the altar of beauty but my soulmate is somewhere further in the world. individuals desperate to decode me leave me jaded, individuals who tap my heart somehow run faster than me. my hands are invisibly tied- between our romance and voraciousnes, you accept my boundless and expansive love, understanding i’m not an experience, but the turning point.

Note: to the thousands of Venezuelans killed and counting, to the thousands wounded and triple, quadruple one’s missing- the only words i can articule is please live through me. it’s all i can do.

for those informed on the situation and willing to help, I’ve converted the remaining items on my website to $30 and $20 strictly with the purpose of donating every single to those i know are affected. alternatively, i update my instagram frequently with verified, local organisations to donate to, so it doesn’t get intercepted by government.

if anyone considers or if there is a future paid subscriber, 100% of those funds will also be donated.

como siempre, gracias por leer.

💛

I remember taking my first breath, July, 2003. The day i was delivered i lost sight of the crown, the horizon opposing me stripped my ego, leaving me with confidence as my last resort. my exile was neither punishment or salvation, decades would pass by, and i would still not land. there is no danger of how close to the sun i am, nor marvelling that i operate at such altitudes. there are no tragedies, there are no revolutions. there is a middle ground, designed for the insatiable, who sprint so hard just to stay in place. master, take the chains off me.

My sensuality and desires have never been fulfilled, i cry for you suddenly and repeatedly. i was under the impression you and i would age together, even distance wouldn’t tame my animalistic hunger for you. I’m starved, i consume where i can where i am, modestly and overly at that, I must be conditioned. there’s a lack of season and turbulence that keeps my pulse beating to the rhythm i could produce with you. my edge isn’t lost, but it’s just as misplaced as me, brilliant and erratic in environments that demand bureaucracy and continuity.

A decade is a long time with anybody, but for somebody who travels so lightly a decade is far longer than just the number ten. it’s confusing to still, to this day, want to wake up between your legs, feel you, dissolve my anatomy and entity on the basis of you. I can’t seem to stand up and dictate if this is home or love, or if the slippery slope slides down to the same road anyways. they keep telling me i’m going places, but dare i try to turn back and there’s a gun pointed at me.

Crisis and rubble replace my makeup and filter, my teardrops are hydraulic and there is no wiping them. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you the gift they annotate to the present day, twenty-seven years were not liberated but instead swept, a surface cleared out so i could finally collapse.

Please, you must have moved on from me by now, my utopia won’t come anytime soon, you aren’t a man short of options and my two cents is keep me in the shadows, the second they hear your affinity to me watch how you’ll be able to hear your own thoughts. you stab yourself trying to bandage pieces of me, it seems the optimal choice is to live out an alchemy you yourself aren’t a stranger to- everything must go. I trust you’ll find your way back, and when you do, it doesn’t have to be as such tragic lovers.

Note: to the thousands of Venezuelans killed and counting, to the thousands wounded and triple, quadruple one’s missing- the only words i can articule is please live through me. it’s all i can do.

for those informed on the situation and willing to help, I’ve converted the remaining items on my website to $30 and $20 strictly with the purpose of donating every single to those i know are affected. alternatively, i update my instagram frequently with verified, local organisations to donate to, so it doesn’t get intercepted by government.

if anyone considers or if there is a future paid subscriber, 100% of those funds will also be donated.

como siempre, gracias por leer.

💛

you’re soon to be under the knife and i’m already heading towards the car so i can pick out the right tint of glasses, those that blackout my expressions. I am not an emotionless being, i am the body of water dipped into a volcano, but my exterior would require an axe to defrost. i’m not interested in quirks or labels as to what i might be, I have consistently taken the shape of my container.

Those white lights- no don’t start going all cynical on me. my fears of the western world i exist in, my fears of being institutionalized, a mere dent in my black hole of non-conformity and hierarchical placing of nature. all weapons forced against me have to jam, the sunrays trace themselves onto my skin like ink and the saltwater dissolves me like the emotionally intelligent partner you used to fantasize about. it’s inevitable when a flower gets its petals our instinct is to pluck it.

I’m trying to reach entities beyond me, those whom i might have been serving throughout my life yet can not define for i am overly boundless and eclectic to define a singular conclusion. I spend hours in silence, and then some. am I not a great conversationalist? well  if my eyes don’t count, can my pain act as an outreached hand begging to swap a crown for salvation? the past does not enter my inner matrix, but I will dwell and even time travel to intellectualise what past life debt am i repaying to be placed with all my modern day curses. the design is great, avant-garde even, packaged with features that bring luxury instead of utility. I stare at this inescapable, melting blue light- do i bare my soul, finally surrender and ask for help, create a fundraiser, smash the contingency plans and sell my faith to the human generosity? no, you cursed me far worse, not a single ounce of selfishness, violence and judgement but injected me with pride and devastatingly sculpted an excellent painter, one who could blindfold the reality.

My resistance is so grand, am i inviting an inferno just so it can be amazed at how i can wear hoodies in the summer? academically i was never going to excel, the only treausures i could find of myself were always through crisis and nurturing. if we can’t quantify that, inscribe my name within the proximity of an infinity symbol so i could remind myself of how many times I’ve pulled through. how dare i echo any resistance, you tied my hands and heart with barbed wire, and showed me a contract of protection. your real sadist fantasy, is seeing me always outlive a collapsing nation, system and blood lineage. mámame el bicho, cabron.

Crinkling, faint waves of the Rolling Stones disperse through the wired headphones. You must’ve forgot to turn it off before anaesthesia muted the drum and bass. the waiting room doesn’t like me, it’s minimalistic, bleached and controlled- it can almost sense my oxygen for sound, darker complexions and liberation. retrograde energy shifts is not something I was made for, but born into. I am handcuffed, consistently internalised and salvaging situations. end my training phase, and give me a real mission instead.

a note: this was written, and reluctantly finished with a heavy sensation, not knowing the following hours two devastating disasters would collapse my homeland, friends and family. my latest note has resources where you can keep spreading awareness or even contribute. additionally, I will soon be lowering every single remaining piece from my brand (in my bio) with the hopes of emptying out my whole inventory, and passing down every single cent to my neighbourhood back home in Caracas, especially in the area of Palo Verde. Con todo el amor,

Dylan.

remember the family is here :))

before I would tell you my full name, I’d tell you that the only two concerts I’ve really ever been to is the Rolling Stones and Bad Bunny. before I’d tell you my favourite tastes or scents, I’d tell you my favourite planets could be Pluto or Mars. before I’d reveal who my favourite people are, I’d tell you the places I want to reach and establish a connection with. before you’d open your mouth, I already know whether you have a genuine curiosity, or you have some ulterior motive with me. At no point do you need to know me, nor understand me. I’m not that irresponsible. If I do yearn for anything though, is I hope eventually you can feel me. Vamo’ bailar pues.

Recently I had a small spiral in my insatiability. Did my fears of showing myself catch up? Had I shifted into too high of a gear, one I could not keep up? Is it simply a product of my current situation, being in survival mode, demoralise me and drain me of anything I could offer? Pues yo no sé. My mind is not a reliable source, my body and spirit are. Though I am still weary, rugged and on fumes, my spirt keeps flickering, tapping at the centre of my body, affirming me I have at least one generation, or two to go. For one, split, uncharacteristic moment, a sense of self kicked in- a reminder of a superpower I have: I can change overnight. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to call upon it, and it wouldn’t be yours either. a lot of us are children of exile, which is why I couldn’t climb a mountain for a view that only I can appreciate.

if I start speaking about my homeland, my heart, my longest-standing romance, mi querida Venezuela, I won’t make it through this piece. I will collapse and delete my profile. Pero diablo, que rico es ser latino. But beyond having an appreciation and unconditional love on being Latin, long before it was cool or it could be justified through streaming numbers, I feel just as enamoured as the different faces that have come in and out of this elevator of my life- Asians, Indians, Africans, Europeans. Different walks of life that have further shaped my worldview, my language, broken and re-designed my heart, my eyes that have different lens. Fate and destiny are delicate, potent concepts, but that a name like “Distant Regards” would come to me, or that majority of the key players in my life would be foreign, seems meticulously prescribed. To me it serves as an incredible tension that requires a period of explosion. I may not have the means yet to achieve that mobility, but each second that passes the more I can hear the phone ringing from other places in the world, echoing to me “find us”. The writing is on the wall, I am just waiting for the paint to dry.

I hope my wings start melting soon, so I know I am close to landing. I do not care for questions, I do not seek for answers, I do not entertain overthinking or “but what if”. In the same way I wasn’t sure I could learn english, in the same suspense one day things go left and I could get shot, in the same burning sensation life’s most desirable question had me at one moment; what is the purpose of life? In the same anxieties my parents had if I could adapt to the other side of the world, in the same curiosity previous lovers had whether I could change, in the same unrealistic expectations that loom over my head, I will walk forward, with or without tools, without answers or waiting for confirmations, but at ease so long as we’re holding each others hands. though Latin America has a target I have drawn an arrow towards, the manifestation of home & family is beginning to feel more like people and groups rather than acres of lands or roofs above us. With full steam and resentment, I feel much more compelled to build micro-systems to exist in than to wait for a broken clock to finally tick.

The notion of genuinely wanting to be great and dominate, yet having a north star that is dedicated to the collective seems clashing and unsustainable. To be filled with love and peace, yet driven by hatred and distrust, seem contradictory. To sacrifice myself whilst being lifted up, seems illogical. Pero no te olvides quien estás leyendo. These are the energy shifts I am convicted I was designed for.

I once again, find no accidents in that I am not a writer, but conjured up my longest piece in the heat of the moment, in the form of a text to someone- to you guys. I find no coincidences, how drawn I am to everyone here. We may not speak the same language, or share the same habits, but we have the same eyes, one that carry uncertainty, grief, unearthed talents and a lust for the world to validate us. In a world desperately trying to convince you who you could be, are not to be, are currently being, I snuck right through without permission and got to see the confidential answer as to what makes someone special. for all the generous nature of the forces beyond me, I am so lucky that I am just like you.

Yo se que un día lucharemos junto.