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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Hypnos Spoke to Me About You
Vivía en el futuro del subjuntivo “añorando” por un sujeto que se rehusaba a encarnar sus textos. Una idea que se rehusaba a ser percibida, solo escrita, solo soñada.
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Come Back, Come Back
You don’t have to rush; I can sleep somewhere else, on the floor, like during those months when your head was in your body but the thoughts inside it kept your body away from me.
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My Green Bag
I thought that maybe I don’t want to get rid of the bag, but of the idea that the things that accompany us for so long can simply be replaced, just like that.
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When sound leaks into silence
Music, it can be said, travels on the shoulders of pebbles dropped into ponds of still water.
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The Couch Is Also a Point of View
Being inactive is discovering that the world doesn’t collapse if I don’t hold it up. That the house survives the dinosaur. That the couch is also a point of view. That not producing is not disappearing.
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The Arithmetic of the Sky
The first time the robin appeared, I still didn’t know how to hold the word death in my mouth. It fell apart, like a bite I couldn’t quite swallow.
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Words Are Like Water
I hold great affection for this version of myself: the writer capable of convincing others through words, yet incapable of convincing himself.
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Talk with my psychologist
Escitalopram in the mornings. Pregabalin at night. And if things get intense, Quetiapine.
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On Guard
My objects come to life—they get angry and scold me, because the desire to try slips away through my gaze.
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Doctor Talacha
So, I think I'd like you to tell me that everything's fine, that underneath everything's fine, that there are scratches and dents, but that everything's fine.
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Jacaranda
The jacaranda tree at my house and I share the same age. In 1987, she was planted in a garden bed in Santa María Morelia, and I was taken from María Emma’s womb.
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Shuffle
I walk with the feeling of listening to the same thing twice. The street imitates the song, or the song imitates the street. I take off one earbud for a second, just to make sure the city is still there.
