Guest Blogger - Aquiles

Hello everyone. I am Aquiles from Minute by Minute. Pleased to meet you.

While the Novelista Barista is busy at her new job (wishing her the best of lucks), I will share a couple of thoughts with you.

To write or not to write—that is my daily battle—not because I have a hard time expressing my emotions, thoughts, and feelings through the use of words, sentences, and punctuations, but because I do it too much. Just like the photographer and his/her camera, I always find myself capturing the moment—using the pencil and paper as my tools. I often find myself experiencing a constant desire to write about the sun setting on the west; the lover’s moon; the rain drops in the American South; the child that plays with his mom at the park; the girl who rides the train on Sunday morning—with no specific destiny. I like to capture life special moments, for as the minutes go by, they fade into the past.

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The next lines tell a true story.

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I am frustrated.

My heart feels overwhelmed.

I am angry with myself, but is it my fault?

I don’t know, at least not yet.

I look for my iPod; I’m in search of that one song, which melody and lyrics were exclusively composed and written for me, just in case I was frustrated; in case my heart felt overwhelmed and I did not know whose fault it was.

I am frustrated.

Oh beautiful mulatta, I just walked by you.

I was confused as to whether I knew you or not.

But, I did.

Unfortunately, I realized that my eyes had landed upon your beauty not too long ago one second too late.

You seemed to have known me as well. But by the time you looked at me, I was gone.

We knew each other. Yet—it took us a minute to synchronize the idea in our busy memory. But by the time we remembered, we were both gone.

Now you, mulatta of dreams, with gorgeous caderas, exotic hips, and sun-burned skin, you are gone.

Frustration invades my heart.

I only wish I could have said hola, rented you a smile, and walked away with your gorgeous eyes engraved on my memory.

I am frustrated.

It is my fault.

Now you are gone and I am here thinking of you; writing about you; wishing you.

The mulatta is gone.

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