The-Literature-Files

You keep hearing about people telling you to be a traveler instead of lingering around in the form of a tourist. Well, there is a great difference – in a tiny amount, that is. A traveler, from its basic definition in New Oxford American Dictionary, is a person who simply travels. A tourist, on the other hand, is a person who is traveling or visiting a place for pleasure. Make sense or what? The discourse had been making rounds on online forums and travel conferences, clearly developing ingenious ideas and shrewd distinctions between the two monikers. It led us to create a quick reflection on ourselves, whether we fit the description of

i've never looked a monster in the face all the monsters that i know are invisible lurking in the woods of my great sweeping body

But you can have eating wild grapes and their skin like beetle wings cocooned in bruises. You can have swings that go so high you kick a hole in the clouds. You can have chickens following you through the front door and the cat’s gift to say, Look, I am taking care of you. You can have happiness, but tempered as your first taste of wine when you hid your puckering face because you were eight years old and dangerous. You can have a touch you blush for, ferret hands dancing, small and terrifying and knowledgable. You can have an aspiration of “us” held on one stool leg, darting breaths but never admitting to dreams, to a s

The vastness of opportunity, is infinite. Opportunities are what others are too afraid to do, what others have not yet done, what has been given up on, open spots in the lane of life. We spend so much time doubting ourselves and our potential, while persistently patting ourselves on the back for accomplishing mediocrities that anyone could do. We diminish ourselves, we limit ourselves, we contain ourselves within confines that are entirely self - inflicted, because we’re too scared of what could happen if we actually get what we want. Fear dulls down your light, it feels like life holding you at gunpoint –– you can’t

I make a decision and I retract it as fast as I made it. I have a chance to blossom, instead I evade it. Everything out of my control, some days I feel like I’ve made it. It takes less than a few hours of self doubt, to completely deflate it. One second I’m flying, the next I crash and burn. When is it going to be my time, my turn? I look around & all I see are blurred faces, in blurred places. It’s hard to be in focus, when escapism embraces. Living between the extremes of winning, and losing Opportunities arising only to turn out bemusing. I’m tired of the lack of truth in peoples word. Most who talk don’t e

Time passes and I still end up saying your name, when I told myself I wouldn’t let it slip out of my lips. Memories are still clear as ever, painfully so, although they’re starting to merge into one colossal dream that managed to become a nightmare in a matter of seconds. I wonder if you wonder, the way I wonder. I wonder if this is just a writers mind. Lost, confused, scared, hurt, sad, lament, pain, excuses, replaying, broken, worthless. –– These are just some of the words that come to mind, when I think of our final chapter. They taste rancid in my mouth, and I spit them out on days I remember our story. Your f

I want to stare into your eyes intently until we’re no longer strangers. I want to lay on your chest and hear your heart beat my thoughts. I want to kiss your bottom lip until it pulsates my name. I want to scratch my nails down your shoulders, so you know I have your back. © Rocio Belinda Mendez