Rio Gomez 🇵🇷🏳️‍⚧️

Posting almost 600 text posts on here. It's been a lot of alone time on "social" media. A lot of the times it feels like I'm in the gym practicing powerlifting again, or in the practice room just hammering out skills. I didn't think the similarities would be this big.

can sleep, after my own sleep. Some of the people hate doing dishes, but I love the grounding aspects, and so I do them. I search for the intersections of our needs daily, often wrongly. I come to life like its time to dance each time the music plays. 3/3

for the hobbies I’m passionately driven for. It’s not perfect and oftentimes my head was on another planet where I couldn’t hear what made by life sing or what the people wanted. I wasn’t helping people in my house or in my life. I choose painful responsibility of making sure my family 2/3

I’ve failed every time I’ve tried to dedicate myself deeply to one medium. If I only read and write essays. Imbalance is gripping my pillow with sore fingers deteriorating into nightmares. My restful sleep craves balance with data of nightmares and dreams. I crave expertise. My community asked 1/3

This bonnet I bought off Amazon must have been for someone smaller than this massive Puerto Rican head. I’m annoyed at the marketing copy.

I get instantly humbled anytime I practice a new physical skill. No matter how easy it looks. This skill called for slow walking, not sweating and crying at the slow walking.

I can’t be heavy enough. Hate when triggers are so loud that the surrounding week has the volume cranked up. Peaking the redline and I’m about to blow out these club speakers. I can only pile on so many weighted blankets.

My favorite seats are only beds or floors. Kindergarten meeting children outside my family. With my friends laughing on beds watching a 12 inch CRT.

I feel so stupid. I follow a business model that doesn’t work trying to convince myself it does. I preach slow, disciplined ethics. Coaching is quick transformations. I’m holding this tension like a barbell trying to rip out my arms.

I listen exlusively to dj sets. Music flows hour to hour and not song to song. It only counts if I hear heavy breathing on the mic. Something has to flow awkardly. I have to disagree with a choice. Please God let me hear tension.

the house. Inventory every month of our 3 month pantry. Even at 4am I can hear all the snores from all the beings over my EDM. Gratitude for growth. A fish flops onto land for the first time and drowns in air never able to report back the sky. 4/4

still. Unless the stillness is growth. I trust language like I trust holding my breath underwater. Meditating 10 hours a day for 10 days gives way to enrolling in EMDR. Tears fermenting for twenty years wet my now slimy cheeks. I feel safe enough to have roommates. I help her grow and she runs 3/4

delayed, health delayed. The world grows worse.” And this urgency stresses me, who puts that stress on my roommates. This is freefall involution. Bonfire in a blizzard. Burning and shivering. I freefall inwards. Whole body expanding and contracting like lungs. It’s impossible to stay 2/4

I’m utterly shit at prioritizing where to grow. Today I don’t know whether to meditate more, write more, or study more. I have a stack of 100 books in my to read list. I pressurize my urgency with scenarios. “I read the wrong book. Then queers counting on me have their dreams 1/4

I am a creative person and I hate it. It means I feel pain if I’m unimaginative. Self reflecting on creativity: Trim the end of asparagus and it becomes edible. A child does not notice his mother did this. But grows to cook for others.

Collaging myself together post psychosis is funny. I see others staring at the cracks in the opening sky. Peace peace.

You, me, the relationship hive mind. Pheromone bubbles. Group chat? No, friend group hive mind.

Spite fuels me like nuclear rods. I first learned that at an audition. I played a rusty saxophone so bad that all the other kids laughed me out of the cafeteria. Iterate spite endlessly as writing output grows.

a trampoline. But all the time. Always a part falling. There’s no such thing as the ground. Falling? Flying. False distinction. Hit escape velocity. 2/2

Walking horizontal is a drain, decay. Falling forward. Downward? Falling. The focus is the falling and not being hunted. Energy propelling us forward. Missing a stair step. Coming down from 1/2

survival in our music. While I watched Hollywood. I’m crying at the end of the credits while my white girlfriend asks me what’s wrong. 3/3

my mother taking in homeless queer teens. Mother for the neighborhood. While I read Kant. I’m reminded of my grandmother letting me learn the harder lessons on my own. While I read utilitarianism. I’m reminded of all the stories they’ve told me of survival and all the stories of 2/3

I made my heritage invisible. Colonialism turned inward towards my history. A viral post on the Siksika Nation was admonished by an indigenous creator. “Maybe look into your own culture first.” And then I feel embarrassed. My branching Puerto Rican family tree. I’m reminded of 1/3

until they no longer exist in front of me. Know them, chew toy. Part of me cements their being without more questions. I am unzipped into thirty blind snakes on the floor. I am the fog they sink into. I wake up the next morning stitched together in the wrong places. 2/2

I want to treat them like a chew toy. They’re hot. And like most hot people, I want to bite them. My jaw hurts enough for a small headache. It’s uncomfortable to meet people slowly. I hallucinate this person with each projection 1/2

What do you mean if I get better, my family gets better? I just want to nag them until they do what I want. I *logically* know I only have control over myself. I don’t want to have to track all my water drinking.

5% better each day infuriates me. I want transformation movement. I want a power up with the bells and whistles. I don’t want to wake up every day at the same place on the same mountain wearing these same peasant robes. I keep finding these peasant robes in my closet when I’m groggy in the mornings.

It feels like a joke that I have to work for the better future. I do these dishes. But I can’t see tomorrow when my girlfriend uses the bowl. I can’t reach for a crystal ball that it’s all “Worth it” in the end. Even my imagination falls flat.

When did I get so attached to being clever? I was happy when I beat the Deathclaw Fallout 3 monster at 13 by shooting it as we played ring around the rosy around a table. The joy I felt then must mean that I AM the clever one. If I’m clever, then I can’t be stupid. I can’t ever be stupid.

It’s so frustrating to micro adjust my exercise movements. I’ve been in fitness for 17 years and it’s never ending adjustments. Well, and collapse. There’s hella collapsing.