No es la única vez que sucede. Con el paso de los años, las historias cambian. Lo peor es que todas las versiones se dicen con tal confianza y seguridad que ya no sabes cuál es la real. Es claro que, entre más mayor se es, la memoria empieza a hacer de las suyas, y no la culpo: mientras más tiempo pasa, más grande es el catálogo de sucesos. Supongo que ahí se cuatrapean los millones de recuerdos posibles, sumado al lenguaje y al filtro inconsciente que existe al pasar de lo pensado a lo dicho. El resultado es que cada vez que abres la boca, la historia cambia un poco. Basta con elegir un elemento del catálogo (el dije morado) y, a partir de ahí, quién sabe qué parámetro entra en juego para construir una nueva versión.

Así pasa también con los traumas. En mi memoria se quedaron frases fuertes de personas que amo y que, precisamente por eso, se quedaron en mí. Ahora que son mayores, he comprobado que genuinamente no recuerdan haberlas dicho. La memoria es una hija de puta: guarda como trauma lo que quiere, pero muy convenientemente, con la vejez, lo olvida.

SPOILER ALERT: no hay que traumarse demasiado con lo que dicen las personas que consideras importantes, porque cuando llegan a cierta edad, ni siquiera se acuerdan de haberlo dicho. El trauma, al final, es totalmente tuyo.

Entonces, ¿cuál versión es la real, mamá? Le pregunté, y sabiamente me dijo: «Ay, hija, ya ni yo lo sé. Con trabajos me acuerdo de lo que hago últimamente; quédate con la que más te guste».

Wendy Sánchez Aldana Islas

Editorial designer who transforms observation, writing, and music into graphic form.

www.instagram.com/wnygd/

La entrada Spoiler Alert se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.

It was no longer cold, the tea covered my mouth and I could pronounce the words out loud.

I LOVE BEING ALONE. How would you call me?
Lonely? Selfish? Egocentric? Cold? Fearful? Sensitive? Short fuse?

Yes, I'm a bit of all of that, but the point here is that I love being alone and I had forgotten about that an hour ago.

How difficult it was to find silence amidst so much stimulation; the candle was falling and my mouth remained half-open. I don't know if it was the effect of smoking or if I had something to say.

I could reveal everything, but I like it when the reader is left with the internal details: the half-extinguished candle, the cigarette butts, and the tea bag resting on the cup.

The night was made for the writer, to deal with insomnia and the hidden words of the day.
And silence? Silence was also made for the writer.
And chaos? Chaos as well.

Everything was made so that I could write.

The thing is, I hadn't put on any cream.

Delfina Cuevas

Actress and poet from Buenos Aires. Lesbian and feminist, she writes from personal experience, sensitivity, and a critical perspective on contemporary life.

www.instagram.com/delficuevas_/

La entrada Lo que escribo en mi ventana se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.

Just this morning, during my morning walk, I was thinking that everything would be easier if we didn't have bodies. Then, as always, I started to daydream: first I imagined us as bubbles; then, why not, all in the same mold, with the same body, the same physique? After all, what matters is the content of that body. I vividly remember reading Kundera talking about not knowing yourself physically; it blew my mind.

"Imagine you lived in a world where there are no mirrors. You would dream about your face and imagine it as an external reflection of what's inside you. And then, when you were forty years old, someone would put a mirror in front of you for the first time in your life. Imagine the shock! You would see a completely strange face. And you would know clearly what you are unable to understand: your face is not you."

And here I am, recording myself with my phone to see my whole body, replacing my now-nonexistent mirror. What a drag being human and all the vanity that comes with it.

Wendy Sánchez Aldana Islas

Editorial designer who transforms observation, writing, and music into graphic form.

www.instagram.com/wnygd/

La entrada Vanidad se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.

Todo pasó muy rápido, y cuando me di cuenta, aún estabas aquí. Han pasado once años, y tu memoria todavía me pesa. No tu memoria, la memoria de esa noche. La noche en la que casi desapareces. Pero no, sigue sin ser eso. Me refiero a la noche en la que quisiste dejar de existir. Escucho que llaman a los últimos pasajeros del avión con dirección a Madrid, entre ellos, yo. Corro a la puerta. “D: diecinueve”. Hay un mar de gente. Te seguí nombrando, en silencio. Al principio te escribía cartas. Muchas cartas. Cartas que yo sabía que nunca ibas a poder leer. Porque ni siquiera iban a dejar que las recibieras. Una noche antes había ido a caminar a Montjuïc, era tarde. La una con treinta y nueve minutos, para ser exactos. La residencia estaba en la calle Paral·lel 173. Me quedaba muy cerca. Camila me mandó un mensaje diciéndome que esperaba que no hiciera locuras y que estuviera en mi cama. No le hice caso. Caminé hora y media pensando en lo que pasaría hoy. Traté de escribir bajo un farol que medio iluminaba la noche. Primero escribí “Nada”. Lo taché. Me quedé solo con la N, la inicial de tu nombre. Cerré el cuaderno. Subí hasta el mirador. Había un vago. No me hizo ni caso. Lo tomé como señal, y regresé. La verdad es que no dormí nada, pensé muchas cosas y ahora estoy aquí. No quería ir en tren, porque es lo que siempre hago y porque es más caro. En estos momentos no quedan muchas opciones. Tengo calor. Quisiera abrir la ventana del avión. Y que una nube me succionara sin que nadie se diera cuenta. 

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 propia sombra). Eso han sido mis días últimamente: atascamiento continuo, segundos fatales y luego nada. Una oleada de antipatía por el mundo me asalta y me deja la boca con sabor a metal. 

El vuelo duraba una hora con veinticinco minutos. Los suficientes para pensar en la última vez que te había visto. Pensé también en que tú no me habías visto ese día. Estabas conectada a muchos tubos. Tubos que respiraban por y para ti. Tu papá nos sacó del cuarto. A Carolina y a mí. Nos dejamos de hablar pocos meses después de lo que pasó. Ella se decidió víctima. Yo, daño colateral. Sabía que el verdadero problema había sido lo que te había pasado a ti. No podía permitirme ser cómplice de tanto cinismo. Resulta demasiado violento entenderse. Me alejé. No desaparecí. Tú sí. Me encontré a tu hermana hace dos años en un bar en la ciudad. Al principio no me reconoció. O fingió no hacerlo. Nos abrazamos por encima. Como si evitarnos fuera la respuesta al dolor compartido. Me dijo algo al oído. No entendí nada. 

En Madrid hace más calor todavía. Aunque el día está nublado. Pido un taxi. Voy directo a la funeraria. No quiero hablar. El conductor me mira por el retrovisor, como si supiera algo. No dice nada. Desde la ventanilla veo el Retiro, los árboles quietos, sin viento. Una mujer lanza migas a las palomas como si pudiera suspender el tiempo. Una pareja discute frente al Reina Sofía. Alguien ríe dentro de una tienda de souvenirs. Todo eso ocurre mientras yo voy hacia el último sitio donde estará tu cuerpo. Veo la ciudad pasar con su desinterés intacto: plazas húmedas por un riego reciente, terrazas vacías con sillas metálicas acumulando nada, una enredadera creciendo entre las grietas de una pared grafiteada. Un niño corre tras una pelota. Un perro lo sigue sin correa. Nadie se detiene. Nos acercamos a la calle Jorge Juan. Cierro los ojos. En una esquina, una bugambilia florece como si no supiera. Y me dan ganas de pedirle que no lo haga.

Ana Victoria Guevara

Nació en Los Mochis pero creció en la Ciudad de México. Es abogada de profesión y como escritora, ha publicado artículos, ensayos y poesía en diversos medios. Le encantan las películas de Almodóvar, la música electrónica, los pasteles verdes, los poemas, la lluvia y que haga frío.

www.instagram.com/anbck___

La entrada N se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.

I can't help but feel a void in my soul and an immense heaviness whenever this is discussed or even mentioned. I can't help but feel like I should run away. 

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. 

My safe place ceased to be mine, our vacations turned into working hours, and our love turned into resentment. 

Don't get me wrong: I still love you, I still think about you, I still miss you, and I always need you. But with adulthood came problems, people, pain, and that strange expectation that if I love you so much, you'd give me the same in return. 

On the contrary, waiting for your love did not bring me happiness: it led me to catastrophize myself in a way that I did not recognize. 

Because I would never abandon you to side with those you consider your enemies. Because I would never stop loving you to side with someone who—even if they're right—is not you. 

But you know what? It terrifies me to think of your anger, and that perhaps I am secretly supporting the ideas of someone we are supposed to repudiate from the bottom of our hearts. 

And I couldn't tell you if it was really your love that saved me so many times, or if it was me imagining that without me you wouldn't have a shoulder to lean on. 

But, honey, I really hope it's worth the wait for the fireworks to last forever, because when you discover that, like everything else, they also fade away, it will be too late. 

Azul Mvá

Video art, scriptwriting, production design, urban art, sad texts. Sometimes Sadnenita, sometimes nothing at all.

www.instagram.com/Sadnenita

La entrada El hogar llevaba tu nombre se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.

I've always preferred intimate places. Perhaps it's due to the influence of my father, who used to say that valuable things should be cared for, and when you finally find them, you have to keep them.

A few weeks ago I returned to the city and felt lost again. And Cuernavaca isn't exactly a metropolis, but it's changed so much that it's hard to recognize. The good things are still there, but they don't appear as easily anymore.

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.

As I walked, the cool air brushed against my cheeks. A gentle breeze stirred the few remaining green leaves, dislodging the dry ones as easily as brushing off a speck of dust; they fell lightly. Then I found it: the perfect spot. Tall trees, a vibrant garden, a small stream, dogs strolling happily with their owners, and just a few steps away, art: imposing murals.

My father used to bring me here. We'd eat in that garden, play, and he'd tell me stories about the meaning of those murals. Back then, I believed everything he said; his stories inspired me, they pushed me to leave because the city was starting to feel too small for me. Now I know that many of his interpretations were his and his alone, but that doesn't matter anymore.

That's when a new—yet familiar—scent caught my attention. Coffee.

My first reaction was the opposite: how could these capitalist entrepreneurs invade such a perfect atmosphere? But the smell, the warmth of the day, and the charm of the place won me over. I couldn't resist the unknown. Gram Coffee.

It was a small, cozy space with large windows, plants, natural light… and, above all, extraordinary coffee. I sat down, ready to find some fault that would justify leaving, but before I could, a smiling young woman approached. She recommended a coffee roasted especially for them, originally from Xico, Veracruz, and suggested pairing it with a guava pastry. She couldn't have been more right.

Gramo was bustling: people chatting, others working, some—like me—simply observing. I couldn't help but wonder what drew all these people there. Who had the idea to open a coffee shop in a place like this? And how does a business like this operate in a city where everything seems to move at such a frantic pace?

As I reflected and enjoyed the aroma of my cup, the music began to dominate my senses: it was playing Saturn, by Sleeping at Last. My skin prickled. I turned my gaze back outside, toward Siqueiros' murals, and took another sip of my coffee. Without realizing it, I was smiling.

I'm home. I'm in my city. I'm not lost. I'm back.

And even though Dad is no longer here, I found him here.

Thank you, Gramo Café.

Santiago Pérez Maldonado

I am an observer who writes, a dreamer who writes, a critic who writes, an unemployed person who writes. And above all, I am someone who, when he doesn't know what to say, writes.

www.instagram.com/chagomex

La entrada Café-ando se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.

Photography by Sofía Revilla Casillas // Developed and scanned by Foto Hércules

Mary Fer García

Audiovisual creator and creative entrepreneur focused on developing digital experiences and projects that connect music, emotions and storytelling.

www.instagram.com/maryfergu07/

La entrada Chica de Canadá se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.

I’m tired of reading everywhere “let go”—that damn cliché that makes me feel out of place. Am I doing it wrong? How do others manage it? Is it good for life to keep longing for the past? Isn’t nostalgia itself a form of longing?

You are lodged deep within my subconscious, which I’ve always believed to be the purest reflection of the soul. You are, without a doubt, imprinted on my soul.

Photography by Xiang Tiange

Lupita Álvarez

I exist. Between what I was and what I will be.

www.instagram.com/gba.v

La entrada Anhelo se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.

That first coffee you shared with someone in a small local café, between laughter and flushed cheeks.

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.

That first espresso you didn’t frown at, and that rewarded you with a cocoa note you gladly stored in your sensory memory.

The first kiss, the first coffee—how generous, how kind. 

Photography by Cristóbal Coello Robles // Developed and scanned by Bengala

Raquel Del Ángel

Shall We Go for Coffee?

www.instagram.com/srita.macchiato/

La entrada La primera vez se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.

I hate having to think about where to go before going out, just to avoid running into you. It makes me hate those places you and I never got to go to. 

I hate that my family might see you with someone else who isn’t me. I hate that you feel no shame and still dare to say hello. 

I hate you, because you don’t suffer the way I do. 

I hate someone I don’t know—their face, their name—and I know there are several faces and names I hope I never come to know. 

I hate that suddenly I feel the need to know about you, and I stalk you to find out about your life, only to block you again.

I hate that I have this parasocial relationship with you, in which I was just a mistake in your life, and now I don’t exist. 

I hate that I have to force myself to get you out of my head and my heart in order to be happy without you.

Photography by Carlos Arturo Gómez Robles

Nadia Sarahi Soria

I hate having this parasocial relationship with you, in which I was just a mistake in your life, and now I don’t exist.

instagram.com/nadiawwws

La entrada Odio se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.

It is the nostalgia for something that still exists, but no longer belongs to us.

Missing the living is walking through a city full of ghosts with a pulse. Knowing that this person is just a few kilometers away, that they have breakfast, that they laugh, that they might even be listening to the same song as you at this very moment—and yet the bridge between your worlds has collapsed. It is not about the definitive loss of death, but about the loss of will, of wanting to be there.

Silence is not an accident; it is a decision sustained over time.

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. You realize that what you miss is not only the person, but the version of yourself that existed when they admired you.

That is the most bitter nostalgia: knowing that the object of your affection is still in the world, evolving, changing, and creating new memories in which you no longer appear—not even as a footnote, nor on their list of things to remember.

It is learning to live with a presence that only inhabits memory, while the original remains out there, under the same sky, breathing calmly without you.

Photography by Abigail Flores // Developed and scanned by Foto Star

Sayuri Leon

Intimate and harrowing poetic prose. Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona.

www.instagram.com/spiritually.punk/

La entrada Extrañar a los vivos se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.

Then I observe myself with that observer and ask: who might be inside me? Sometimes I think there is a being (without a distinct sex, just a being): a deceased philosopher, writer, poet, with a certain degree of madness, reincarnated in me… but it’s not me. There are days when it is very inspired, and others when it simply isn’t there.

There is something that connects. In 2020, I discovered El grafógrafo by Salvador Elizondo, and it resonated deeply with me. When I recall it, I find myself within it.

This text disconnects when I realize that something connects. And I find myself finding myself in authors who are not me.

Photography by Regina Arellano Muñoz

Wendy Sánchez Aldana Islas

Editorial designer who transforms observation, writing, and music into graphic form.

www.instagram.com/wnygd/

La entrada El visógrafo se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.