I'm going to start writing right now. I sat down over half an hour ago with sentences in my mouth. They're all gone now, all unfinished.
They slipped through my fingers and I never knew what I wanted to say.
I was at a loss for words and speech; that's why I started writing right away.
It was no longer cold, the tea covered my mouth and I could pronounce the words out loud.
I LOVE BEING ALONE. How would you call me?
Lonely? Selfish? Egocentric? Cold? Fearful? Sensitive? Short fuse?
Yes, I'm a bit of all of that, but the point here is that I love being alone and I had forgotten about that an hour ago.
How difficult it was to find silence amidst so much stimulation; the candle was falling and my mouth remained half-open. I don't know if it was the effect of smoking or if I had something to say.
I could reveal everything, but I like it when the reader is left with the internal details: the half-extinguished candle, the cigarette butts, and the tea bag resting on the cup.
The night was made for the writer, to deal with insomnia and the hidden words of the day.
And silence? Silence was also made for the writer.
And chaos? Chaos as well.
Everything was made so that I could write.
The thing is, I hadn't put on any cream.
Actress and poet from Buenos Aires. Lesbian and feminist, she writes from personal experience, sensitivity, and a critical perspective on contemporary life.