A menos de un mes de irme

La teoría es mucha.
Las clases son insuficientes.
La vida lejos de las clases y teoría de alguna forma me son carentes.

Necesito salir. Irme.

Buscar la boca del león, tal vez.

No sé lo que me espera y muchas cosas son incertidumbre.

No tengo idea qué pasará de aquí a un año, pero el no saber me deja abiertas todas las posibilidades.

Precisamente la amplitud de posibilidades es lo único que me constituye y compone en este momento. No hay necesidad de concretar. Al menos no todavía. Cuando amarre, ¿qué seré?

La pregunta me alista para mandarme.

SHORT POEM #1: "K"

It used to be...

that my dad would say

"Look for school programs.

20K isn't that bad per semester. We can totally do it."

Where is he now? Have you seen that man?

Tell him I wanna go to a 50K school now. The asshole.

My English Lit Master's

Nobody is supposed to know this
Except maybe those running it
Mostly, education officials

I never thought I would get to this

Being kicked out of my Master's.

It isn't serious. I'm already graduating. The contradiction and the beauty lies therein, particularly. Of having submitted my graduation papers as I am notified, also, of having been kicked out by the same school in the same building. Two different secretaries. They have aged differently.

This happens as I await for my new English lit/Play directing master's programs applications. To which I might not get in, of course, as I am not a part of the wealthy bunch, but of the scholarship-waiting (or should I say relying?) crew. "How come that hurts me?," I wonder (as I sit in my bedroom, on the verge of happiness and suicidal depression.)

Hard statement, isn't it? To admit solitude?

If they knew all I wanted

Is just...

to keep writing.