Narrative
“We look for the sermon in suicide, the social or moral lesson in the murder of five. We interpret what we see, we select the most viable option among the multiple options. We live entirely, especially if we are writers, by the imposition of a narrative line on disparate images, by the “ideas” with which we have learned to freeze the changing phantasmagoria that constitutes our real experience.”
–Joan Didion
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Vanity
The other day my full-length mirror fell and shattered into tiny pieces. I called my mother to ask her what ritual is performed; I don't want seven years of bad luck. I laugh so hard, but these kinds of thoughts amuse me. What would I do without them?
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N
Ayer en la terraza, mientras Camila hablaba, pensé en lo que pasaría si me tiraba del balcón. El resultado final de los cálculos mentales que hice me llevó a no hacerlo. Sin prometer que no lo volvería a intentar en otra ocasión. Producto bruto. Resultado neto. Así me hablo (a veces, cuando quiero cruzar mi…
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Home had your name
And I wish my heart wasn't so broken, and I wish it hadn't been you, because we could have laughed at everyone, we could have run away from everything, we could have run without looking back. Because in the end it was never just the two of us; because in the end home bore your name; because in the end there's nothing like feeling loved.
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Café-ando
I began my tour of the usual places, observing more closely so as not to miss anything, trusting that my memory would withstand the passage of time better than my father's. Returning after years inevitably awakens nostalgia and the silent doubt of whether one made the right decision to leave.
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Girl from Canada
Everyone sees you trying, but few truly understand everything behind it: the effort, the difficult moments, and all that you had to go through to get where you are.
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Longing
I want you to know: I hold myself together through this nostalgia. Sometimes it feels uncomfortable and I ignore it, like a nightmare I want to forget; other times it becomes a refuge and I fantasize about it.
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The First Time
That first coffee that warmed your hands on a freezing morning in a city that, even before you knew its streets, had already named you one of its own.
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Hate
It’s hard to say that because of someone you end up hating things, places, or people you don’t even know—but it’s true.
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Missing the Living
It feels like an echo in an empty house. Sometimes, in the morning, you forget the wall exists and think about telling them something small, a minor detail of the day, until the weight of emptiness stops your hand.
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The Visograph
This text disconnects when I realize that something connects. And I find myself finding myself in authors who are not me.
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Dawn
Both you in the center and I in the north are ways of thinking: in my center, you have me feeling different things, while in my north, you nourish me with every syllable.
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Nocturne to Tell Ana
Minutos antes en mi sueño aparecía Roberto Bolaño… Bolaño se acerca… Bolaño me habla… En el sueño Bolaño me pregunta “¿Qué haces en esta ciudad donde eres pobre y desconocida?”…
