Looks at pretty girls

There was a point in my life where I wanted to be like these girls. But who needs that kind of attention—who needs to waste their time looking best for the camera. Who needs to feel wanted somewhat by many people instead of completely by just one soul.

Who needs not to feel how loved I feel right now by my darling husband*

We all just want to be held and have the person who holds us put up with our shit

There is an emptiness that comes with being severely famous among myriads of people who only want a picture with you, some attention from you, some kind of gossip because you’re an interesting figure

All you need is one to feel whole

Believe it

march fifteenth

My heart hurts again, the way my head was last night.
I sit here and think of passing, of disappearing, of losing.
Chest pain, headache, nausea, let me feel you pierce me today. Remind me that I am weak, that I am idiotic for eating garbage and letting my self look and feel like garbage.
I try my very best not to give others a hard time trying to heal me—so the best gift I can give is a smile, a greeting, a “thank you” for appreciation. I am not the same anymore. I am dead.
But I won’t let anyone see it.
I’m not one who likes to stir the shit ingredients into this world.
It gets worse on its own anyways.

Another easy thing to do is to reminisce because we no longer remember the things of the past for what they actually were but rather what we would like them to be. This is why a friend or a significant other of the past is easy to reminisce about—because you would think of all the wonderful things between you and that person while leaving all the reasons why he/she is now apart from you under the surface. Why do we do these things?

Because we like reverie. And we like making pretty pictures in our heads. Desire and comfort and belief distorts the actual fact.

The past is not that pretty.

Señora Richardson: ¿Krisha?

Boy who sits in the back: No está.

I no longer say I don’t understand why I cannot write anymore. Nowadays, I would say it’s my fault, there is no mood for writing, I must force myself now or try to convince myself that once I forget about this moment (the setting I was situated in and its noisy events), I will never be able to have a hold of it as vividly and as sharply as I do now—I will never be able to passionately write a story for the world to read later if I do not develop the knack to write about it now. There had been many moments yesterday and the day before yesterday wherein I saw mundane things of the world, of the streets, of my bedroom and saw how much prettier and less mundane they looked when painted in words. And then I recall that I wrote for that very reason. And then I recall that I owe this world a whole lot of writing. I owe myself a lot of reading so that when I write again, I do not feel like I’m unpolished, a raw, a horrible dancer, a painter that has faulty ways with his brush. I forget, sometimes, in fact most of the time and the entirety of the last few months and the last year, that I can produce wonderful things. Talent and potential would plough the residue of the storms in January without my help if they had their own hands and feet.

But I have the hands and feet.

How did you come up with the name ellereza?


There’s no particular meaning to it.

I was simply fond of the name “elle” and wanted a “z” in my name. After a little bit of messing around, I liked how “ellereza” sounded. How shallow, you must be thinking…