I have been asked by many kind and thoughtful individuals who am I, where am I from, what do I look like, and so on. For a while I was hesitant to provide any real information. However a few persistent individuals have convinced me that behind this alias, an individual with a real name whose words carry weight must be shared.

So without any more reservations, my name is Sam Sanchez and this is who I am.

Wed 12:09 Posture

A sudden interruption of thought.

I envision her and I sitting a foot apart, our legs lined in between each other almost placed on top one another, but still too cautious of P.D.A.  One warmly tinted yellow light beams down upon us.  The weather outside persuades us indoors and although well lit, this setting is more of a stage with only a single light revealing only us.  Others fade into the backdrop, out of sight and into the darkness.  Visible is us and us alone.  Her legs crossed over, mine stay in rhythm with hers.  She leans forward fingers intertwined, stretched across the circular wooden cut table fit for two.  We didn’t bring books or magazines.  No newspapers distract us.  This moment is only for reading into each other.  She separates our touch.  She shys behind her hand as she blushes from subtle suggestions whispered.  The smile lines near her eyes say yes.  We can’t leave just yet.  We barely started our little experiment.  Were here to say as little as possible but still communicate all our desires.  My posture says “I’m here ready for you when you are.”  She looks reluctant, afraid of being lost in pleasure.  I’m at ease.  No harm will be done here.  She’s in excellent hands.  If only she knew how carefully these hands would hold her.  How delicate yet stable these hands adjust for her.  The structures these hands will erect for her.  The barriers these hands will tear down for her.  But all she sees are finger, joints, veins, nails, and a light brown layer above it all.  

Sun 10:43 Delicacy

Watch the graduated slopes and curves of her hands.  Observe the glow of light radiating off her rose tinted palms.  Light may be directed down upon her but its only from her glow that one begins to think upward toward its source.  Origination is not a polemic here.  She is the glow and that is the source of thought.  Focus back upon the pattern of fresh wrinkles decorated amongst her skin.  Small by nature, her form is suited for gentle expressions of delicacy.  Compact in structure, she is built for overcoming adversity.  An excellent expression of beauty.   

Thur 12:00 Composure

Composure is an interesting feature.  Publically I’m collected, poised and sharp.  But I feel the weight of time and density of waiting, and waiting, and waiting.  It’s been building since the last time I left her, since the last time she left me. 

Life has never been sterile, but in her absence, excitement grows weary.  Always staying immersed in experiences, the normal tolerance of straying thoughts hits my mind like a hammer to glass.  Rigid ideas are demolished by explosions of the very idea of her.  I’d never live an idle moment but still she’d be on my mind dissolving what I use to consider as active important life pursuits into mere menial tasks.  I’d climb a mountain and she’d still be on the peaks of my mind.  I’d write a new revaluation of Western Philosophy and it’d be a footnote to the experiences shared with her.  She’d never know the weight of thought I’ve got on her.  

Sun 10:59 Sunday Wonders

Once idle frames of thought scatter along with heavy winds. As if rearranged by the strength of short gusts, passive ideas blow past mental landscapes. We are now left with a few basic features of thought.

A growing curiosity absent of content, directionless amongst a field of undiscovered riches just below a thin surface layer, waiting to be uncovered.

A quiet passion for transcending passive understandings, peering deeper into wonder, if only to have It peer back.

A humble reminder of the fragility of it all, a certain understanding that these moments are ever-fleeting.

A thirst for knowing the world in all its glory, in all its misery.

A warm love for being-with and amongst others, both in-the-moment, and often somewhere outside.

Tue 6:23 Wonder

I wonder if she understands the uncompromising respect that radiates from every thought of her. 

If the world was seen through a window and she was the frame, beauty would be the only mode of being. 

I wonder if she is capable of understanding my deep seeded desire for her attention. 

If the worlds political spin, I want to be the centrifuge. 

I wonder if she watches me, watching her, from her peripheral vision.

 If the world’s an experience, I want to be the neural network providing the path exciting the electrical charges.

I wonder if she senses my unease about dialogue.

If the world’s a stage, I want to be the only Act.   

I wonder if she notices me wince when repositioning her head upon my arm.

If the world’s a mystery, I want to be the Clue.             

I wonder if she hears me breathe gentility as to not wake her. 

If the world is problematic, I want to be her solution.

I wonder if she can feel my thoughts.

If the world’s a game, I want to know the rules.

I wonder if she feels my passion for her.

If the world is ours, I want to show her its essence.

I wonder if she feels my love when I run my fingers across her forehead behind her ears down to her neck.

If the world is a tragedy, I want to make it a comedy.

I wonder if she stops to catch her breath when I’m not around.

If the worlds full of suffering, I want to be her source of comfort.

I wonder if she feels my pains.

If the worlds meaningless, I want to create a new one for her.       


Wed 2:17 Fission

Smooth to the fingertip, she strokes my wrist. Nerves stretch to meet her Love. My thoughts elsewhere, redirect their attention towards this moment. The peripheral is now out of sight and vision narrows on her. Radar can’t detect the growing heat between us. One more electron and we’d be declared a new element. The only substance stopping us from total fission is that unforeseeable calm that comes from a look into her eyes.

Writing for you.....
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Mon 9:36 Romance 2

Summer nights have something unique.  The view from the fire escape gives a birds eye view to scenes otherwise unseen.  The skyline radiates a glowing straight line between atmosphere and rooftops.  Just below rooftops are straight roads split by brown cobblestone paths.  A cacophony of rustling people heading to places they’ve already been to.   Well lit streets lead towards the commons with nothing other than city visible.  This scene is romantic even if no one’s around.  Who really needs any other to be romantic?  

Fri 2:23 Mountain Ranges

We brace out stretched hands for moments mutually understood, a love uncompromised by harsh realities. Fingertips direct the motion of hands adjusting to shoulder blade curvatures as we comprehend not with thoughts but with experience.

In rhythm to now blossoming dandelions tracing alongside mountain ranges, expressions of self open up below yellow warmth. In exchanges of attention we alternate between listening closer to quiet rasps of deep inhalations embracing unseen forces and forestry exhalations passing through rugged landscapes.

Wed 10:11 Words for Sale

If my hands were that of a carpenters, I’d build you a home.  Currently, I am a mason in progress. 

What I cannot do with fingertips, I shall substitute with words.  Words that speak to the world but are directed only towards you.  Words that falls short of articulating the desire and uncompromised love for your attention.  Words that want to spell-out the world of confusion in-order-to explain anyway its difficulty.  Words that want to reach that part of you undiscovered.  Words that believe it is possible to comfort you in times of sorrow.  Words that attempt to incite a semblance of care towards the writer.  Words which want to unify that emotional spontaneity of experience and the tempered nature of reason.  

Sun 9:08 Fixed Vision

A soft glance against her shoulder.  On such bitter cold nights you can feel the steam back against the skin.  It re-minds us that at all times we are encased by an ether.  One usually un-felt but nonetheless behind the veil of pressured touch. 

Eyes stray in circumspective fashion but return to rest where they find comfort, upon each-others.  

Fri 12:10 Exposure

Every nerve seems exposed.  Internal sensibility is comported outwards.  Reversed and exposed the neural networks rearrange themselves as my body teaches itself to feel in a different way.  Worldly stimulus is now altered and memory fettered by reason reminds me that although conditioned to experience the world in a particular manner, the task now is to cope with these ulterior dimensions. 

This isn’t just about strict physicality.  This isn’t just about internal biochemical neurological alterations.  This is thinking writ large.  You see thinking isn’t just the brains activity electrically self-signaling charges throughout the body to and from neuropath ways to each particular muscle fiber engrossing every sliver of cartilage, bone, joint, ligament, organ, and tissue lining along the way.  Thinking is the constant articulation of every possible experience already being exchanged and received amongst being-in-the-world.  This is the self, coming to terms with itself, coming to terms with the world.