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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Luck
Without appetite, without strength, I am an apparition in my own home, where my family stopped seeing me long ago and, when they do, it is with the firm conviction of avoiding me like a flying insect that exists only to bother others.
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Eve
Though for some it may seem like a childish exaggeration, like that fear or thrill from childhood of feeling chased by the moon, I know the sun will never again cast its shadow in quite the same way.
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Down Here
Lo sabía, sabía que el último tren había dejado la estación desde hacía mucho, ese tren que podía llevarme a páramos maravillosos donde el amor y el calor me bañarían constantemente…
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You Embraced My Nakedness
Lo único que recuerdo de aquella escena es un abrazo que te hizo quedarte y que yo no huyera de aquel momento, ese abrazo nos hizo quedarnos…
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Before the River Rises
Ghost with wide eyes, wandering in the background of photographs and in the reflection of windows: you often stroll through my mind with your light gait that makes me smile, as if your memory were an inside joke I speak about with myself when I’m alone.
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Manic Episode 1.0
I run up and downstairs, up and downstairs, turn my room upside down, and tidy it up again. It's spotless, but the cup I'd poured myself is cold again, and I resign myself to using the microwave.
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Something About the Sea, Time, and Space
El mar, entonces, para mí existía solo en la imaginación. En casa teníamos un librero negro que apenas se sostenía sobre unas patitas que estaban siempre a punto de vencerse y que debíamos calzar con dobladillos de papel de revista. Le llamábamos “el librerito”. Sobre él, como en muchas casas de México, una concha de…
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How much loneliness did it cost us?
There’s a story I still don’t dare to write. It’s a time so dark that I had forgotten the feeling of constant loneliness on the road: how the cold seeped into my bones all the way to my heart, chilling desire, life, dreams.
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My world, the world, underworld
My eyes drift away and my life seems insignificant, tiny. Barely an extract of infinity, a line from a book. Barely a sigh of Odin. Barely, barely, barely.
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Far from the polar circle
That’s how it is: we neither need each other nor miss each other when we’re apart, but as long as we’re in the same room, we turn the world upside down with this attraction; just as the moon raises the tide.
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Bucareli, 7:40 pm
In the middle of the avenue, a woman from the street is walking, clearly under the influence of some drug. Her hair is messy, her clothes dirty, her gaze lost. Her features are harsh, she looks angry, walking as if daring life itself: she’s moving against the flow of traffic, and for a moment, it feels like she’s coming straight at me.
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Pantry
How heavy the body becomes when it moves without meaning. My soul slips away in little fragments and my chest no longer hurts when I cry. I rest my bones in bed for endless hours every day until my flowers wither or the coffee pot is finally empty.
