A confession in two movements

March 22nd, 2021

Sitting cross-legged on the couch in my friend’s apartment in Harlem. The window is open and I can hear the city’s soundtrack as it collaborates with the music I’m playing from my own laptop. Instrumental, of course. “Ghosts VI: Locust” by Nine Inch Nails. Outside, the whining of a motorcycle through the breeze, a hammer somewhere in the distance. Some drilling. The sun is shining through the window. The middle window: stained glass. It shimmers in its many colors through its depiction of flowers and vines.

I sit here in peace. A breathable moment. Livable. Breathe. Bearable.

This peace has been absent from my life for almost a week and a half.

It’s been a week and three days since the accident. Since my car, like lightning through the sky, came crashing through. Crash, skid…maybe repeat. (Will it repeat?) The airbag explodes like a flash. That quick. Underprocessed. Smoke starts filling the car. Time to go. Time to see…

Yes, I made it. The moment is now a memory. The car is now a memory.

Timing is everything, friends. Mother nature is the real driver. Buckle up and hope for the best.

Trees fall. Branches fall. And bruises hurt.

No, I didn’t need an ambulance, though I was offered one. The car needed it more than me. 


Yes, timing is everything. It could have been much worse, and every post before this my legacy. 

When I got home, I entered what felt like a catatonic state. Nothing but sleep the next two days. Not the doctor’s orders, but my mind tells me what it tells me. Stress, anxiety, pondering. They put me down like an old dog.

But maybe I needed it, because when I came to after what seemed like two days of being in a catatonic state, I felt an energy. No, a courage. 

I’m still trying to figure it out.

When people have asked me if I am alright, I know that I am. But I think that’s more of the physical aspect. Mentally…is it ok to say that I’m not sure yet?

I feel like I have more questions now. More “What-if’s”, for a lot of things.


March 29th, 2021

And now I sit at a cafe, a block away from St. Marks. It’s a pretty big space. Hard, harsh wooden floors surround me. Two friends talking next to me, laptops out. Maybe doing homework (pretty close to NYU). People reading books, drinking coffee, and just sitting. Working. Thinking. Classic rock playing on the radio. 

This may be a bad idea. The coffee, I mean. It’s 3:34 but I have to be up at 5am tomorrow. And I’ve been up since four a.m. And the wake is tomorrow.

A friend of mine unexpectedly passed away a few days ago. Taken too early by the coronavirus. It’s devastated a lot of people around me, including myself. Processing everything going on has been a…well…a process.

I’m anxious and tired, but I wish I could stay up all night and drink coffee. Stay up, listen to music and grieve.

I think about it more and more, and I realize that this year has taken so much away from my life, and it’s only March (flirting with April). I’m tired. I’m lonely.

I hope this cycle of loss is over. I could use a rest.

I know I have fallen off my writing in recent weeks. It has been hard to find the energy to write, I confess.

In all honesty, this is the first day in weeks I’ve gotten the itch inside me to write. I don’t know if it’s out of grief or a self-medication of sorts. Maybe I have nothing to lose at the moment.

Is this sad? Is this depressing? I’m sorry. Sort of.

One thing I must confess: this blog has helped me do is (when active) spark my mind creatively. It pushed me to, even if not good, write. I have always thought of the stories and entries I post in this blog the literary equivalent to B-sides. Exercises in passion and productivity. Better something than nothing, even when sometimes I feel as if I have nothing to offer. 

Anyway, this is where I’ve been. I feel the writer coming back. I wanna keep going…

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