I hate contrast. I can’t stand it. I’m talking about stark contrast—the kind that unsettles you, the kind that forces you to distinguish, the kind that breeds prejudice. I’m not speaking of a subtle variation, but of the kind that goes from white to black in an instant. I don’t like being part of it; contrast signals an unchosen inequality, a forced reality that is normalized and preserved to maintain a false balance within a hypocritical society. I don’t like those contrasts; observing them repels and distresses me.
So I walk, thinking about what happens and what I see. Sometimes I analyze what I do. Am I doing the right thing? I pretend I walk like everyone else, that things excite me. I become so overwhelmed that I walk faster; maybe if I get tired I can think that my feet hurt instead of flooding my head with unpleasant thoughts about what all of this means.
I don’t fit in—but did I ever? And it’s not as if I care about fitting in. 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.
The girl on the subway is carrying a bouquet of flowers that someone probably gave her just moments ago, and within the world of coincidences they match her dress; the flowers seem as if they were taken from the fabric itself. Surely the person who gave them to her knew she liked them, because they fit perfectly with what she’s wearing today—what are the odds of that?
I like hydrangeas. They’re my favorite flower.
Nothing is static; everything evolves. Nothing is static; everything evolves. Repeat it, learn it, and do something about it.
I always arrive very early and always leave very late; I arrive when no one is there and leave when everyone else has already gone. I procrastinate so much in the ordinary just so I won’t think. After that, I head home; I still have 1.8 km to reach the subway station. I walk. My back aches a little from the material weight I carry. Walk faster, I think. My pace is slow; if I get home too early I’ll be flooded by the nostalgia of the unusual.
I listen to music all the time. I like it. It’s my dome, my shelter, and it always will be.
I’m afraid you’ll call, but I’m more afraid that you’ll never do it again. I know you hate me, I know. Can we kiss now?
Damn it, I can’t stand another day. I’m dying to see you, dying to see you.
This time I feel nothing. This time I don’t want to be the reason for the explanation […].
I’m going to throw myself to the ground without thinking too much.
And rest… from the traffic.
Photography by Ilse Cabanillas // Dev/Scan at Foto Hércules
