“The stereotypical country music song” by Joseph Vasquez

 

It seems like for the past few years my life has been like a stereotypical country music song; so much of my time and money has gone to my truck and my dogs (I don’t have anything against pure country, it’s one of the most sincere forms of music) My dogs are family, so I would do anything for them, and my truck is almost 13 years old, so there’s obviously going to be issues.

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I live in beautiful, sunny Southern California, the longest I've gone without a dog is two weeks, and I'm going to write until I can't anymore.

You know what? Beautiful People.

For you all lost souls, here’s my love for you.

And yes. Out of the way, some of us find the peace and coldness necessary to breathe. There’s no height enough to feel your collapse against the rocks down the cliff. Where your fears remain… tearing up your sanity very often.

And you ache, and you crawl, and you abandon. But there you start hating and painfully breathing, completely choked and ruined. But time smashes implacable, so you find yourself standing again. Perhaps trembling, maybe with huge wounds but, there you go. Like a f*** warrior.

Just going out victoriously from a savage bloody fight, holding tight your flag with broken bones, being invisible to anyone else. Your force, your intensity, the warmth oozing from your scars draws a maroon path everywhere you go… you can feel the grenades blooming at your walk.

Invisible people. Ah… Beautiful People. Feeling fiercely every move, every emotion… every tracing… to the point of boiling veins. Warmly devoted, loyal like an old broken wolf. Bold, perfectionist and crude as a thunderstorm. A f* electric thunderstorm. I warn you, be very aware.

Carrying burdens no one even thinks about imagining how heavy and viscous it can get. Dripping down your shoulders… making your movement almost impossible. Slow…

Burst, pulverized, demolished, forsaken, forgotten. Beautiful People.

Who see beyond masks, marks, sights and prejudices. Looking for silence in their inner forests. Silence… Each of them drowned underneath their deepest neurosis, fixations, which bring redemption and, perhaps, something similar to a safe place.

Not necessary kind, but lonely hawks. Savoring down their throats every piece of sensorial caressing…

Beautiful People. Rejected, judged, laughed at. “You must be just like US. Perfect.” You know what my dear? We are f* perfect. We have scars, wounds, paths on our skins. We have ruin, demolishing mistakes, we have fierceness, old “souled”.

So what?

I love my imperfections, my circular thoughts and my sleepless nights.

My loneliness, my compulsions and introversion.

My dark blues, reds and greens…

My paleness, my cuffs.

And so will you. Face the mirror. Be proud. Adore yourself. No more bull’s eye.

 

And what? Life is violently beautiful. It takes to be different to feel in your spine all ghosts and angels electrifying your thoughts.

Maybe sometimes…. you find a devastated soul just like you… and lights up your darkness. In the pure night.

Ah yes… Violently, absolute, sentenced, implacable. Beautiful People.

I'm Mar. Head of The Bold Mom. Promoter and compulsive thinker.