I’ve lost count of how many things I’ve written about you, about me, or about us—but I do know this: there’s something we do exceptionally well. We pause ourselves for years, only to press “play” again and continue as if nothing had happened, as if everything had. 

We move through three main drives: necessity, homeostasis, and dopamine. In the end, we all have an intrinsic impulse that leads us to move forward, to board the bus, and to keep going. 

I am the host of an eternal procession, condemned to walk among the ruins of my own deeds, while the wind outside howls at me and marks me with a sorrowful sentence.

A flash blinded me. My eyes had turned to glass. I looked at the ground, and there it was: the darkness I feared so much seemed like the only option.

20 mg for his name 40 mg for his voice and the rest of the bottle to accept that it wasn’t love

And you said you would be eternal, like starlight... sempiternal. And yet not even starlight is eternal. And the only thing eternal is death.

There is something in that small voice that disarms you, that cleanses you, that reminds you that love can be simple and absolute.

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.

In the silence, ghost cities are not made of burning asphalt that scorches your feet, but of faces and names that spit my ruins into the unconscious of the universe.

The artist invites us into her unblooming, untidy garden to embrace our flaws and our nature: to love lazy days, unclean looks, and sleepless nights.

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.