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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Otra especie
Esa actitud ya está dentro de mi clasificación de transeúntes: el que considera que la responsabilidad de no chocar es de quien todavía habita el mundo físico, porque él no puede hacerse cargo; está ocupado en otra dimensión.
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Birds
I walk barefoot to feel whatever life may offer; I give you the words everyone uses, but in the order my soul needs in order to rest within yours.
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That Summer
That summer we worked side by side, slowly learning each other’s names, our stories, and the quiet ways our souls seemed to understand one another, even if our bodies never crossed that line.
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The strange mercy of being alive
The coffee cooled untouched, the light shifted, and in that small room of metal and shadow, she felt the strange mercy of being alive: unnoticed, unneeded, but undeniably here.
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Drought Times
I allowed myself to wither in times of drought, when your words were not constant, and I stretched out my hands to see if I could reach a little of your attention, like someone searching for something in a drawer that has been stirred up over time, knowing they will never find it.
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Yellow
Tú me enseñaste el arte de acomodar libros y apuntes para aparentar una faena de tareas y sacrificio sobre el escritorio, para conservar el privilegio de quienes se entregan a la noche y la despiden igual, para beberse la madrugada.
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Five Minutes
I get bored doing nothing, and even though I know I should be doing other things, I never start them.
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Cold Water
To rise and search for myself in the timeless waters, to carry myself always until I inhabit my body, to look the monster in the face and rescue myself from myself.
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May
I didn’t see the coordinates; I had no intention of stopping to watch the sunset.
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Stay Here A While
Dance with me inside the thin haze, stir the wind with your windmill arms and provoke the weather; challenge it, snatch away its blues and grays.
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Devastation
But now everything is calm and peace, and a feeling of pleasure foreign to him until that moment. Now he wants to live, but thanks to the war, even if he survives, that will be impossible.
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Immediate Reality
I just try to survive everyday life and, sometimes after that, I speak out loud, repeating situations from the day, phrases I’ll forget tomorrow, because somehow I know it: I don’t belong here.
