A/N: Autobiographycal for someone that will never read it. Still if you do I will appreciate it.

For him:

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I just got back from my trip to Zacatecas with all my generation (3th semester) Yup. I have the necessity of writing something of getting it out of my system. Sometimes I'll be on the mood of writing something in Spanish, then in English: So this Journal entry sometimes will be filled with emotions written in my mother tongue others (like this) in English.

So now it had passed from being a simple crush. From being a weird and funny obsession of ceasing for his beauty. Fuck. Now it is much more.
I know because every single time of every single day of the week I looked into that deep hazel beautiful eyes of his and I just knew... And all I wanted was to keep on sinking onto that hazel color. Onto that hazel soft hair and shove it carefully with my hands.

It all started since I knew he found out. The way he didn't seem to mind, the way he was so different from all the others.

A very starry night:
Now in the camp strong emotions evolve in my insides. Especially when he sat next to me on the dark beautiful night full of stars, not a cloud of smog, just pure beauty. He sat next to me on the wet grass; shoulders touching. and then his guitar strings filled the Autumn’s air. Emotional melodies I knew- I wanted him to sing. I needed him to keep there seating next to me. Forever. Then artificial light vanished leaving the pure beauty of the sky- and there they were, thousands of little dots, shining stars in top of our heads. But none as beautiful or shinning as the one standing next to me (a shooting star).
I wanted that moment to last forever.

Fuck, it didn't.

And I was left alone once again.

On the Truck:
Awkward moment, awkward moment. Fucking awkward moment. This is how it went.
We were in the truck returning to our hotel after some hours of studying Pellote's (pacheco's favorite plant) so yeah. Me and my team were inside the truck and we seemed like cows being transported. And he wasn't in sight, not until I screamed; LET's BRING (Insert-his-name-here) TO THIS TRUCK.
Mistake.
In that instant he sat on our truck. MY truck. and my heart skipped a bit while everybody laughed (I didn't blame them though, I laughed as well). And the indiscreet nature of my friends made things ten times worse.
Yup. So much for Pellote's sakes.

On the Museum of Abstract Art:
Abstract Art. Unexplainable kind of art, with one pure purpose; Feelings. Indefinable masterpieces that transmit deep emotions. But it weren't the beautiful compositions of other time painters that made my heart beat like mad. HUM HUM.... Guess who it was that lit my heart?
(You won!)
Fuck all I could feel was his soft shoulders down the palms of my sweaty hands. And I make that moment eternal once again. With my eyes closed, even if I didn't seem him I know it was him standing in front of me, walking carelessly. I need to believe that. And something in my mind tells me what I want to hear; That it was him. And it was me- touching his shoulders- and he was guiding me in darkness. But it just last an instant. Soon he was taken away from me. And when I opened up my eyes he wasn't there anymore. Leaving everything to my imagination.

Still I knew.

During the Zacatecan-generation-parade:
The band was playing, trumpets moving throughout the streets of the city, and we were moving along. Everyone was dancing (well, almost everyone, except for those airheads). And one way or another I always end standing next to him. Coincidence I swear.
And then I felt his hand on the small of my back, pushing me, guiding me.
And I was happy. Not tired, not thirsty, not worried for how much that moment will last.
Just happy.

Up in the mountain:
Even 300 feet from normal ground I still feel the intensity lingering in his eyes, being trapped in them.
And even if we walked during hours the top of the mountain (The first one) seemed like the top of the world when I found out that he was in there, living one same present as myself. Trapped inside a same reality. And the landscape spread across my eyes wasn't (and would never be) as beautiful as the color of his skin under that blue t-shirt he was wearing.

A very crowdy hall:
It took place during our last night in Zacatecas. Most of the generation was seating on the girl's hall (myself included) listening as how many people talked about their sexual life and desires- witnessing how many people make them come true. I wasn't taking part of course.
Then I heard those freighting words; "Who will kiss (Insert-his-name-here)"
Then time stopped- and all eyes were on me. Half of the people in there turned to look at me and I did the only thing I could- I turned my back on them, pretending not to notice, pretending not to listen. And never accepting that what they were proposing was all I ever wanted.

But I would never have.

The soft tune sonata:
3.00 o'clock in the morning of the last night in Zacatecas and still I couldn't sleep (I could but I didn't want to close my eyes) because I was aware that no matter what I dreamed it could never compare to the beauty of his thin and gracing figure, using a red shirt. Nop never. ever ever.
Nothing.
And I sat next to him this time (Repeating the miracle he had done for me two night ago) and I listened to him playing once more. The same scene playing over and over in my head. His large fine fingers trace beautiful melodies throughout the closed, compact hall. And I knew that tone.
"Semi-Charmed Life"
so I sang. I sang because it was my favorite song. I sang because it had taken me months learning it completely. But mostly I sang because he was playing it for me (not for me really but I don't care) and I closed my eyes knowing my voice sucks but making a failed attempt to try and make it sound good. And he looked at me; hazel eyes meeting mine, asking me to keep on singing, until the strings of the guitar he was holding were not longer audible.
Semi-Charmed Life would never mean the same to me.
Semi-Charmed Life would be forever my sad song, my love song, my everything song.
Even if he stopped he kept on playing: "Stay Together For The Kids" I said and he just smile and nodded.
And I was the one who smiled this time.

Morning Called:
Every day he looked more beautiful (even if one day before that it seemed impossible that he, or anyone, or anything could ever looked as gorgeous). On Tuesday he looked cute. On Wednesday he looked even better. But on Thursday he reached a level of perfection that I didn't know was humanly possible (and I convinced myself that he couldn't looked better than that)
but he did.
On Friday...
And he did even more.
The day after.
The last day of it. The day in which he asked me for a chip from my bag (Chips a la diabla I heart you and I owe you SO SO MUCH!).

And now I'm starting to realize that I don't think he is beautiful because of his physical attributes (so perfect, so fine features, even if he is graceful in his external appearance) I'm starting to fall for him because his inner self is as beautiful (or even more) than his eyes, and hair, and body, and shoulders. Because he seems so worthy.
And I want to get to know him (even if I know I can't win his heart). I want to pretend that it was me who painted on his right converse "Reik" and on his left "RBD".
I want to pretend that I bought the strawberry essence that filled the odor of his car.
I want to pretend that I had ridden so many times on his white car.
Pretend that I can write him a poem that trespasses the beauty he holds in him.
I want to pretend that this fall I'm suffering won't mark me as much as I know it would.
And I want to pretend that I'm not holding strange and new feelings that only at his sight I fear.

I want to pretend I'm not the author of this Journal entry, of this reveling composition.

But I can't. And I won't.

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--Anonymus