blog, poem


I want to stand in awe of you.

I want to point my lens and linger over the shutter with a boyish hesitation that leads only to a grin. The snow is heavy and falling in a gentle way. Like snow in a book. A blinking skyscraper radio antenna sets the cadence of the night outside. It is dreary cold, but we are warm and tangled.

Behind your bed, the wall collapses into a nook that runs the length of your body.  Cuddled into it, your body silhouettes, and I want to snap the shutter. Click.  The chilly air is humming against the window pane behind you, and beneath your feet falls twenty stories suspended by sand and steel. It is quiet. The city is still as the flakes gather on the dampened cement below. Down below, a taxi cab slides across the icy tar like a stick of butter on warm porcelain.

The red light blinks through the foggy glass. Blink. Blink. Like a toddler gazing upon a zoo-kept python, you press your nose against the pane and peer into the night. You are in awe, and me too. I want to tame your lion hair. It is a mane neglected, a worn trophy of the love made, a lazy fluff. Blink. The red light spreads opaque through the dewy cloud gathered on the glass.

In your bed I stretch my sleepy legs. They are sore from the run. In your bed I roll onto the heavy quilt and stare into the ceiling, like Galileo, like a child on an empty hill beneath the sky. Your bedroom is mine. You are mine. You are mine for now, and for ever, as a jumbled blotch of words and colors. The photos burned onto the frame are lesser than the ones in my head, the ones I want to form into words, into pages in a book. The snow falls like a story, and through the powdered haze, a distant red light flashes. Like shipwreck.

You are nestled in your window island, terribly far away. Terribly far away.

blog, poem


I’m writing this in the back of a caravan as it scuttles across the empty plains of West Texas. August comes around and always feels like a Sunday. Three years ago, I was hungover and in love and drinking iced coffee from the garden level of a north Denver apartment. Now, after spending another week back home in Colorado, I feel the same: pining for love, hungover from a lazy summer in the sun, sipping from a mug.

I know my writing always reads something romantic. Truthfully, though, it’s rare anymore that I feel any sort of desire to pursue romance. I’ve become too self-serving over the years, too busy pursuing a myriad of goals that benefit only me, too interested in spending time alone. I enjoy my quiet time. I know many folks my age that have also given up on the cinderella story, on the boomer lifestyle of 1950’s jello adverts.

Sometimes, though, the heart will flutter and seek flight. Now is one of those times.

I was back home this week with a group of running friends on a road trip. We hiked up mountains and slept on the floor and cooked and cleaned together. A week straight with these folks and it only felt like family, like symbiosis. Guiding them through my old haunts brought back an expected nostalgia, certainly, but it also helped me see these spots anew. I ordered different meals, different drinks, walked into new buildings, snapped out of the plastic shape of old routines.

On my mind throughout the week were the relationships I left here. Understanding that I took that love for granted while it was abundant and present leaves me feeling foolish. Walking along the same avenues where first kisses were planted on unassuming heads opens a monologue with your younger self, one that ends without resolve. I can’t rewind time, even though the junctures still look so familiar, as if it never passed. Standing at one of these, a corner near a science building on campus, I feel the pulse of old heartbreak. I also feel a sort of heightened awareness to recognize the love when it’s around. The type of cognizance that comes with learning a very physically painful lesson.

And so this affirms this lingering thought I’ve had in my mind for a while, one that has been absent for half a decade, one that I’ve feared and barricaded and ignored in favor of nurturing the self: that I am ready to give it away. I would like it real and good and poetic and pure, and it feels something like escaping a cocoon.

It must be immaterial and private and between only us. I hope to leave it unnoticed and mute; my favorite relationships are those that I know least about. Keep it secret and intimate. Sex is as good as the sum of its parts, but making love is transcendent. Making love feels like leaving earth. It feels like one of the only few ways we have left of being entirely present. The muse of art and war is born in the dark sheets between two bodies unraveling into one another. I want this. I want the mundane and the annoyance and the discomfort of merging two lives together, and I also want to make love.

I’m tall and lanky and funnily shaped and have a childish face. I don’t wear great clothes and make little money. I’m shy around the girls that smitten me. I observe more than I participate. I think too much. My confidence is fickle and often frustrated. I assumed, by now, I would have ironed out these insecurities, but they tend to solidify when I’m most lonely. And that feeling waxes and wanes with the moon. But these things go away when I have someone to call.

When I have the love, I’m nicer to my mother. My grandpa stops worrying. I have perspective and a reason to stop in the gift shop. I write more, I sleep well, I learn new tricks. I see new places and shake new hands and live a life more spontaneous. I begin to share. And that’s the kicker, really: I want to share. We are calmer when we can split the bread.

It’s now quite dark in East Texas. The clouds have become a silky sheet of deep purple in the sky above. Soon this life will become overwhelmingly busy with the duties of a career in progress and I will return to having very little time to myself. I will doubt and dismiss the idea of pursuing a partner. But for this moment, out in the middle of nowhere, on the tail end of another setting summer, I will imagine myself in love, quietly, and rest my head to the thought. The rolling fields of windmills swim by, and I think about her.

She lets quartz hang from her ears. She buys things from old women. She drinks cucumber water. She makes love on top. She leaves a thunderous wake, a pinkish swirl, a scent. She wants me around.



Two Years Gone

I keep little notes in my phone of outfits I see on folks that look particularly nice. I write them down in a hurry.  Like this one:

  •   brown khaki jeans, white shirt, white nike runners with a blue swipe and gum soles

He was a student getting on the bus. Some people look nice in the easiest of ways, and he was one of them. I think he could wear anything and turn it into a note on my phone. Or this one:

  • worn black jeans, olive flats, beige sweater

I liked the way this girl walked around. She made her flats look cozy. She made her sweater look like it meant something to her. And:

  • dark blue dress, thin, light, with shiny mustard flats

Some folks have a confidence about them, and they radiate it right through the clothes wrapped around their body tight.

I ate eggs benedict on a sunday morning with avocado and black beans. I drank three mugs of coffee and scratched my ruffled hair and paid the tip. The lady who served us last time had a spiffy set of curls that bounced around and a sliver hoop in her nose that flickered under the diner lights. I spot her from afar, and she’s smiling all the same, just at a different booth.

We ordered a strawberry pancake and split it 70/30. It was too dry, so the syrup went on twice. The couple next to us kept threatening to leave: she stood up, fixed her shirt, crossed her arms, then sat down again. I’m no longer interested in keeping the black beans separate from the benedict so I throw it all together in some lazy casserole. It tastes good.

I think about the way people bond better over breakfast. I think about sweatpants and hangover teeth and the way lethargy makes your shoulders slouch. The way that stress won’t let you just sit down and take it easy for a minute. But breakfast at the diner doesn’t let you stress your shoulders up.

Across the glossy floor, at the table snug against the wall, I spot another note:

  • gray pants, light red shirt, white shoes

My head is down as I type it into my phone and the waitress snags the plates away. My arms fall over my belly and I grin. It’s good to eat. It’s good to be a human and eat a real nice meal. Two bright red credit cards hold down the receipt, keep it from floating off the table and onto the sticky floor.

I think about all the love I’ve shared over orange juice and waffles with whipped cream. I think about my heavy heart and the way the diners blend together. I feel it in my skeleton. Sometimes your smiling, naked cheeks, dimpled and full across the table shine right into my head, and I miss you. I miss all of you.

The sun blasts through the windows as we weave through the waiting crowd.

Into your apartment and onto the unmade sheets we wander. Our heads fall into the pillows and you toss your leg over onto me. Open your phone. Chuckle. I stare at the ceiling and wonder where the day will go. If our lazy will just keep moving through the moments. If we will lay here until monday. Your roommates aren’t home and the dusty air blankets the room. I play with your hair. You don’t notice.

There’s nothing to it, really. We’re just here, and it feels good.

Soon, I’ll be gone again, and I’ll leave you here, and I’ll do my best to remember all of this. I’ll make a note in my phone. The scent of your sweater nestled into my chest, the way it follows me home, all the way up the mountain and into my room. I’ll text you.

We’re awake, into the day. I notice you’re wearing the same thing you wore when we did this the first time:

  • black leggings, pink hoodie, canvas flats, big hair

I still see them now, two years gone, all those breakfasts.


Segue (The House)

I’ve started recording audio versions of my blog posts. Just press play and follow along!

Dear reader,

I write to you a letter on new endeavors. I’ve never been at such a juncture before, though, so this plunge into the void feels more like a forced push rather than a gentle change of lanes. And at the end of all things, nostalgia’s grip is tightest. Alone in this empty house I tap away at the keys, letting it all come back to me.


A year ago exactly, I found a new corner of the cosmos to call my home. A fresh-faced senior anxious to revive the routine of school, work and play was embodied in my every move. I couldn’t wait for another year here in Boulder. The new house welcomed new roommates and a breath of fresh air. Everything was hopeful.

I remember taking tequila shots in the house with two of them the Saturday night before classes began. Energy was high and life was back in place. I welcomed myself back to campus and felt at home, like I was meant to be exactly where I was. I have always identified with an affinity to learn, so school has ever been the feeding ground for my hungry mind. Once the swing of things was in full motion, I can say I was content.

If you’ve followed my writings since last August, you can guess what happens next.

Things took an unsettling turn as I fell into heartbreak. After an action-packed October, the winter grew inside me and depression overcame. The semester ended and I found myself alone in the house with nothing but time to think. And if you’ve been bummed before, you’ll know that thinking is rarely sorrow’s antidote.

But the house was calm and, for the most part, kept the feelings away. It was safe, and I felt secure within its walls.

New year’s eve at the house was patiently quiet as well. As the clock struck midnight, my thoughts were engulfed by literature, my body sober and worn, my heart teased by the potential of having someone near. I committed to the cliché that brings a new calendar: of letting old acquaintance be forgotten, of restarting, as if I were a programmed machine. The veil I used to hide behind kept me blind until she drove by the house. Then, like mustard gas, a blanket fell upon the walls and everything became asthmatic.

I kept holding on to arbitrary dates, expecting the house to return to the way it was, the way it felt, when I entered it. I kept coming home later and later, afraid of being haunted by its glances. Distance became impossible: either I was on campus or at the house, and both corners were very cold. By March I had made no progress. April was relentless. And May meant the end of college. But I still wasn’t okay. I felt like I no longer belonged.

When the house turned on me, the city did too.

As the spontaneity of summer closed in, I got better. I got a lot better. Everything was warmed by the power of meaningful work and lovable friends. Flings and crushes refilled my desire to love and be loved. Tan-lines and drunken nights brought happy tears and side-aches. My soul became yellow. Yet, in returning to the house for sleep, I still felt the presence of its dead memories. But I ignored them for a while.

June was perfect in every way.

July was half fun, half stress, as the quickly approaching deadline of August put my gears into motion. I was forced to spend the evenings in the house in search for work, in search for a new quadrant to call home. Separation from school helped heal my heart. But the seasons turn in cycles and tonight, I’m back at square one. There is one thing, however, that acts as a relic of hope:

This is the last night in the house.

Tomorrow I leave everything in desperate search for the distance I’ve needed since the house became a leech. I’ve been forced from this city by love letdown, by vicious triggers that won’t go away. The past twelve months have taken me through sludge and squalor. Tomorrow, I push a fist into the face of remembrance and separate far, far away.

What I’m really trying to say, reader, is that I’ve never been happy to leave something that I loved.

They say to quit when interest is high, to go out on top. In viewing everything through the lens of retrospect, I wish that last August never happened to me. I wish that September through May would go away, that I left this place before it had a chance to betray me. I wish the house was never mine. And I will wish these things until I’m happy they happened. For now, I’m feeling far from that acceptance.

Until then, I must sing the song of my life. Then I must let go.


Cardboard boxes surround me and reflect off the light of a little laptop. Seven days from now I’ll be moving into a two bedroom apartment with my best friend in Denver. I can say that I had a heck of a run in Boulder, but I need some space before I can think of this place as a happy one. I tell people that it has run its course. I don’t tell them what I just wrote you: that I regret the last year of my life here. But I commit every piece of writing to transparency, so now you know. The best two months of my life are coming to a close, and sometimes I feel that the good times are always ending before they can begin. I’ve really had a kick-ass summer, though, so I promise that I’m not upset.

I just need some space.

Life can’t pause. I’m scrambling like a rabid ant right now. In a month, I’ll tell another story of transition, of new beginnings in a new city, of a new era of my life. The years of college are over. My first step into adulthood has officially begun. I guess that this is what everyone’s been talking about since I was swinging at piñatas and eating birthday cake. I guess this is what they refer to as ‘growing up’. I guess there’s so much more to all of this than I can see right now.

I guess I never thought it would come.

But I guess I’m ready.

And all I can do right now is keep on loving.

-Sam G


On Impulse

This will be a good one, reader. It’s been far too long since I’ve made you smile.

Right now inside my closet, buried underneath some ragged brown mocassins and running Nikes, are a pair of white, Bata sneakers, euro size 42. I purchased these shoes on a whim in the middle of Italy and I’ve probably worn them roughly twenty three times over the past two years. They were a spur-of-the-moment kind of buy; one of those bargains that brews up just enough remorse in the days and weeks that follow. I imagined them becoming my favorite sneakers. But as my wardrobe continued to expand in all directions, I quickly realized that the potential I had in mind for those sneaks was dearly overestimated. Besides, they’re actually terribly uncomfortable.

Yet tonight, I come back to them with a smile. Like a kid revisiting his old baseball mitt.

But let’s put ’em aside for a bit.


Rewind the clock three weeks and you’d find in front of you a shaggy-haired hippy-looking fellow fresh out of college who’s hellbent on keeping that dirty look going as long as possible. He knows all too well that the clean, well-kept hairdo is a much better fit, yet he stubbornly resists the clippers. His friends have been preaching for months to find a barber, but his only response is a quick flip of his locks and a condescending smile. He laughs it off. He knows he’s going through “the grubby phase”, and his reasons for doing so are worthy, but there’s something growing in the back of his mind of which even he is unaware.

Suddenly he wakes up and can’t stand it anymore. Within three hours, he’s smirking at himself through a mirror as a pair of shiny sheers slip through his dampened mop. A year and a half of progress falls so easily to the floor. As the stylist clips away at his curls, he casts his glance downward to the ever-growing pile of wavy browns on the floor.

Like tree rings he sees a part of his timeline carved into each strand. A summer. A girl. A heartbreak. A dark time. All of it is there, painting the glossy linoleum beneath his toes. He moves in and out of small talk with the sociable lady (who happily welcomed his walk-in) and those memories that are flashing at him from the floor. How fragile hair can be. “All done,” she says with a smile, “and look how much you lost!”. He chuckles to himself; she has no idea how right she is.

And then he’s gone into the wind of an open highway.

Within a week, he capitalizes on that spontaneous life combustion. An aura of confidence long lost has erupted around him; he’s glowing outwardly. Like a quick snap of the fingers countering hypnosis, he suddenly feels alive again and ready to relish in his nook of the world.

He has crushes.

“How refreshing!” he says. A sudden sort of magic has his heart beating for all the right reasons. It’s a sensation he is used to, but one that has been lacking from his life for eight long months. The boy’s a flirt and, seemingly out of nowhere, he has room to mingle with the butterflies. And it’s fun. And they smile. And so does he.

He starts running.

Metaphorically, of course, but also quite literally. A quick peek at his watch before the first song starts to play: 19:46. The cool summer breeze pushes him along and the tunes in his ears are hitting all the right notes. He’s grinning as he trots about the streets. Without a plan at all he swiftly cruises through each crossroad. And at the tipping point of his route he decides to sprint even farther from home. Then the sun starts to set and he hasn’t stopped. It’s 21:46 by the time he returns and the bones and the joints in his body are screaming. But he’s singing. He can’t be stopped.

He bleeds.

The little prick in his vein was something he always wanted to feel but constantly placed at a safe distance. “One day,” he tells himself, “I’ll fill a little bag of my own.” But the fear of the pain always kept him at bay. Not twenty four hours prior the boy was lacing his shoes for the longest run of his life. Now he’s leaned back in an oversized armchair as the nurse instructs him to squeeze tight every three to five seconds. His life pumps out of him. How long has he held on to that blood? He remembers the stories that the hair told and loves the thought of the red running from his system. “You did your homework,” the lady says, “because it’s flowing like water!” He wonders if she heard what he was thinking. The needle slides out and he’s walking away.

He only knows today.

“I promise,” he tell himself, “to keep my clock set to twenty four.” His oath to spontaneity has already saved his life. Two months ago, the routine that swallowed him never let any room for an impromptu dinner or an improvised date night. But tonight, he’s buried in the blades of grass, counting the stars above him, minimizing his life to the length of one day. One spin of this planet is all he knows; it’s all he can see. That’s what he’s promised.

He jumps on his bike and rides into the night.


It’s nearly eleven at night and the three-wicked candle is nearing it’s end. I’ve never made it to the end of my own candle before! The pool of “warm white sands” scented liquid has started bubbling and I fear a house fire, which means it’s lights out for Sammy G. I can’t even tell you how magical my life has been these past three weeks. As cheesy as it sounds, it all started with a haircut, and the timing couldn’t have been more spot-on. So I’m riding the wave of the spontaneous summer and have committed myself to the length of one day. This season gives space for that, which is why I crave it all year long.

Oh, and those shoes that I was talking about. I can’t say I’ll wear them anytime soon. But I can say that every time I’ve ever worn them, I’ve never planned to do so. Which reminds me of the question of the day: “why not?”. I asked my second grade boys that question this morning and none of them could come up with a decent response (which, if you know kids, is a rare occurrence). So the next time I’m on the fence about some strange purchase, or being invited to a fiesta, or giving blood, or seeing a movie I know nothing about, or having another scoop of ice cream, or learning how to sew, or jumping out of a plane, I’ll resort to those pair of words. And I’ll leave you with one of my favorite little ideas that goes well with “why not?” and this summer of living on impulse:

When was the last time you did something for the first time?


Hot Air Balloons

Before I begin, I want this piece to be a little more special than some of the others. I want to transfer the weight inside of me into something worth reading, not only for Sam Gaglio, but for you, the reader, the audience of this scene in my life. I want to tell you a story without fiction, and through that, impose onto myself a more full perspective. Because, at the heart of everything that has characterized these past four months lies a certain suffering. And inside of that, there is meaning, an even more terrifying entity.

Embrace for impact.

A typical Monday night except for one thing in particular: I decide to take the bus home from school instead of walking. Then I got pretty sentimental. But it was the kind of sadness that, at its core, is light, and blissful, and calming. I suppose that’s a bit of a paradox in itself, but I hope you can follow nonetheless.

I caught a glimpse of life in its whole. It was a sudden moment that ended just as it began. It was so quick to occur that, if I hadn’t thought twice, it would have fleeted and disappeared in an instant, like the imagery of a dream. Time, by nature, is curious, but for just a tiny, momentary pause, I fully grasped all of its mysteries. And then, the knowledge was gone.

It hit me, though, of that I am sure. Before I elaborate, I have to rewind the tape, to January.

The thought of the following four months without her left me paralyzed. To add to the stillness, the inevitable all-consumptive beast that is school had just collapsed onto me, crumbling all around. In that moment of decision, I knew that misery was inevitable. The logical brain saw the challenge ahead, something to which its always been uncontrollably attracted. “You cannot defeat me,” it said, “because I have never lost”.  The pain of future memories, however, began to take shape, preparing for their relentless haunt. I was forced to choose, not between ‘good’ and ‘bad’. Rather, between ‘one’ and ‘the other’. This forked path will continue to follow me every day. It’s funny, thinking back, that the things you’d like most to forget end up being the ones you remember best.

Fast forward to March.

My heart is impressionable, like a white sponge. In the midst of all the mayhem, it is convinced to have finally found the antidote. How quickly it was proven wrong.  I tell myself that my energies are pure and should be fed to my priorities. But certain things, I’ve learned, are in their essence out of control. What I remembered: I did everything I could. What I will constantly forget: I did everything I could.

Am I making sense, reader? Can you follow?  Fast forward to now, right now.

It is Monday night and two wicks of a white-sands candle are burning to my right. I have been swallowed and spat up again, a constant regurgitation of my person. Each week has been a struggle so deep and difficult that, now, looking back, I surprise even myself with my strength. If I were a boxer, the metaphor lies in the knockout. If I were a swimmer, I have drowned. If I were a robot, I have been unplugged.

But I am a lover, and right now, I am also unstoppable.

The reason I got so sentimental on the bus is because I was stricken by the impermanence of everything around me, and even the temperance of myself. What I mean is, even though my difficulties have outweighed my pleasures, none of this will last forever. What I mean is, after a certain amount of time, nothing that I was seeing on the bus will exist, at all. What I mean is, I fell in love with the realization that this, too, will pass.

But this magic also brought disbelief, something that has been stirring my cynicism. The question at hand: why? I don’t want to know why we’re alive; no, not at all. I want to know instead why we are so evil. I ask, why are we so cruel? Why is it that, something that seems so obvious and pure to me is so rare to occur? I want to give you an example, reader, because I want you to understand.

Lately, I’ve been holding doors open for people. I don’t know why this doesn’t happen more often. It’s really a simple act that stretches outwardly, creating a cascade of courtesy. When followed by a ‘thank you’, the event turns even brighter. Why don’t people hold doors open for each other?

Lately, I’ve been trying to love everybody more. But so many people cannot accept this love and do not know how to give it back. It has become my purpose, to simply love as much as I can, but it’s the hardest thing I can imagine to accomplish. Why is it so easy to hate everybody? Why does everybody make it so easy for me to hate them?

Lately, I’ve been seeing a lot of ugly people. Why do men find dark pleasure in the physical? Why have I done the same? Why do women paint their faces and follow the material? Why aren’t people themselves?

Where does the heart go when the body blooms?

What I mean is, why do I feel like, right now, I deeply understand the importance of living and feel terribly alone because of it?

So I got off the bus and walked home in the sleet. Then I sat down at my desk and lit that candle and started writing all these things. Every day for the past four months I have been forced to give my everything for some things that, in my eyes, don’t matter at all. I have never been more frustrated and defeated in my life. I have never been so perplexed by the mere lack of passion and energy and creativity and personality and general awareness of people than I do right now. Can’t anybody see that we are going to die pretty soon?

Am I the only one who wants so badly to be alive?

This is the epitome of my disappointment.

Recently, I talked with a life mentor that told me to prepare for disappointment, because it will meet me at every step. Once I see the light of May, I only wish that none of this ever happens again. That heartbreak never has a chance to get the best of me. That something as demanding as this semester never takes hold of my life and chokes it to the bone. That, in spite of everything I’ve proven so far, none of it matters if I don’t finish strong.

But I know it will. I know that this world has the power to break me, completely, and smash all the pieces. I know that I’ve chosen the hardest thing of all to stand by everything that I love. To be voluntarily and completely transparent, a vulnerable target for the arrows of my adversary. I know that I will fall again, harder each time, until nothing is left.

Yet I smirk now, reader, because I know that I will win.

“You cannot defeat me,” yells the heart, “for it is my function to bleed.”


It’s a couple hours since I started writing and my eyelids are falling to the floor. In my delirium, I hope some sort of cohesion emerged from the ramble. And that you can relate, at least a little bit. I felt good in writing tonight, though, so that alone is enough to make it worthwhile. To summarize: I’ve had a hell of a semester, and a lot of the fight is still left in April. But I have come to peace in that, and at the end of all of this, my endurance will be self-evident. I think I’m just a really stubborn kid built on a system of a beliefs that won’t budge. I’m restless. I care so much about things and people and life and love and I really just want everybody to do the same. I suppose the only way to attack that, then, is to keep doing me, fully. To embrace the individual, in the hope that others catch on. It reminds me of a video that I made when I was away from home in 2011. With that, I leave you. I hope you watch it, reader.

I love you.


Loneliness, Flux, Solitude

“I’ve defected.”

Hello again.

I write to you now from a dark Sunday room, the third day of March. I have been swallowed up again by the viciousness of routine and repetition. My weeks fly by, morph together and blur into a macabre yet functional operation, like grey and greased clockwork. I sludge along, my movements automatic, but everything feels deep and hollow.

In other words, I’m a bit stuck.

And this is normal, at least for me.

Recently, I’ve placed myself into a sort of solitary confinement. After the intensity of the school week passes, my routine is dinner alone, then the coffee shop for art and music and thinking. This is Friday night. Saturday morning feels good, so I find the gym, then hopefully a pleasant lunch with momma, then homework for a few hours. The evening is usually like the previous: food, then drawing as a celebration. Typically, by Saturday night, I finally feel exhausted. Sundays are okay, filled with a few hours of homework, and then errands and exercise and hopefully more art. I’ve also been trying to incorporate a film into the mix, or at the very least a few Ted talks before bed. And then the slides reset and I’m facing another Monday morning.

There are two heavy things that have brought me to this circular habit: my quickly approaching future and my extremely immediate past. First, I want to explore the latter.


This is difficult to write about, only because I want to respect the relationship for what it was, and I don’t want to represent it poorly. After all, there are two sides to everything, and unluckily for you only my side will be present here. But I’ll do my best.

I fell in love, pretty hard, which is normal for me. In anything that I’ve ever done seriously I’ve given my all, passionately and fully, and this has been no different. But it wasn’t reciprocated. I blame nobody for the result. I am so happy that it all happened. Now, even though every day I wish it were different, it’s in a great place, and I’m honestly content with it. Still, I’ve been thinking.

I’m not sure I’m so good at love and such.

But I want to get better. I really do. So let’s learn from history.

In my life involving females, I have found myself in one of three distinct situations:

The first is what I touched upon at the end of summer last year in which her feelings are beginning to blossom and I feel the imbalance. She starts falling, but I don’t, and out of respect for her, I must cut the cord quick. This typically happens around the three-week mark. I’ll call it my three-week complex.

The second situation is logically amazing. We both understand each other on a profound level. Our talks last hours, spanning from the universe to the behaviors of caterpillars. Every meeting is a riveting intelligent feast. I feel no jealousy. I feel sexually aroused, but in an adult way, and I honestly can’t explain it better than that. In this situation, everything makes sense. But I don’t feel love. I don’t feel emotion. It’s dry. I’m indifferent. I don’t pursue.

The third situation is a complete train wreck, an absolute disaster in every sense of the word, the inspiration behind 96% of all songs, the reason for rocky-road ice cream and The Ten Year Proposal, the romantic heaven and hell, the obsession, the jealousy, the bliss, the worthy gooey pet names, the letters and the things that nobody has to do but it’s fun and fulfilling to do them, the cuddling under covers, the two-person club, the dates and the heartbreaks and the ups and downs and ups and downs and downs and downs and downs. The third situation is when Sammy G puts on his chivalry suit and falls deeply, whole-heartedly in love.

I think you can guess what happened last semester.

Alas, here we are, on the other side of all things, a few miles into the road to recovery. That’s okay. I’ve been here before, and I found the end. It’s a unique challenge. But I’m not good at it. I’m actually really bad at it, the whole break-up thing. Fuck, I’ve been trying pretty hard to do it right, but I can’t help but wish every day that it never ended in the first place. Again, I know it’s for the better, but how do you just let love go?

Haven’t we already established that love has nothing to do with logic?

None of it makes sense, and maybe that’s where I struggle most. I wish I could stop feeling so much, but it’s not that easy. I wish I could remember the bad, but sometimes I just see those things as a fault of my own. I wish I could take everybody’s advice and trust in it, but sometimes you just can’t see the end of the tunnel, so you convince yourself that the only way out is to turn back around. But it’s not. The tunnel is inevitable. And there’s an end. I can’t see it now, but I know it’s there.

Like I said before, I feel like I’m not too good at the whole loving thing. I see many couples that are so great together, where they work through the rough, and for some reason everything just seems to fit. I don’t see jealousy. I don’t see insecurity. I don’t see pain and mood swings and unreasonableness. I just see a solid friendship, a team. In those couples I see myself as broken, as defected. And I wonder if I can really do that. Oftentimes I see the third situation as an inevitable failure (relationship of emotions), and the second situation (relationship of logic) as the only formula that has the possibility of endurance. But that’s just not me. I follow my heart.

Anyway. Those are my thoughts all day. Love will eat you, I swear it will.

Second weight:


I graduate in two months. Then I work at day camp until August. And then, I have no idea.

This is the first time in my life that the unknown has not inspired me. It’s emptying me.

I feel like I’ve lost purpose lately. Again, that’s probably the winter taking its toll, and the typical senior in college situation. But I want to be excited about what’s next, not pushed away from it. In my head there are two paths: one is the traditional route, the safe one, where I go to school and become a teacher and everything is pretty set. The second route is terrifying and thrilling all the same, because it’s uncertain, and it’s free-lancing. Along the second route I explore my artistic potential, to avoid bosses and offices and institutions. The second route is following the dream, in spite of everybody and everything. It’s taking the risk that could cost me everything.

In dreaming about the dream, I only wish I had a partner. I wish I knew somebody that could match my passion and desire to do something great in life. Something really big and worthwhile. The stuff that kinda changes the world. But I feel surrounded by too many people that would rather take the first path, the comfortable one, that live just to get by. It’s infuriating. It really gets to me. Where do I belong? Where are the others like me? Where do I begin to search?

Fuck, I can’t sleep sometimes because I feel like now, more than any other time in my life, I need to take that route. This is it. Can I do it?

This is logic versus love, my friends.


Tomorrow, I will give my everything to school. I will kick this semester’s ass. I will be okay with not being okay every day. I will continue to wander about alone for a while as I weave through this unsettling slump. I will regather myself, remember my morals, avoid partying and ugly things of that nature and do what fills my soul with meaning. I have been a terrible friend lately because of this need to be alone, but soon enough I will get through this. I just ask for everybody’s patience with me. And I want to apologize for that. In these troubling months I would rather not be the negativity in everyone’s happiness, so I’ve separated.

To quote a dear friend (and with this, I leave you):

“sometimes I’m just like, “I can’t win, can I?”…then I’m like, “wait a minute, I always win.” …in other words, this too shall pass.”

It will. Until then, I will keep on loving.
I hope you do the same.


P.S. Would you like to watch a video I created a couple of weeks ago?
because I would like you to: