En Estados Unidos los accidentes de coche suceden porque la gente está acostumbrada a seguir las reglas, y cuando alguien las rompe todo se vuelve un desastre. En otros lugares el desastre ya está incluido desde el principio. No hace falta que alguien lo rompa. La gente está lista para que pase cualquier cosa: vive…

El fondo de ella es color amarillo opaco, como un pedazo de miel de abeja condensada, con el interior cristalino y un núcleo ámbar oscuro en contornos tipo cuarzo. El perfil se redondea como si hubiera rozado toda su vida entre arena del mar.

J. me ha dicho varias veces: “no me gustan esas películas con personajes patéticos”, refiriéndose a personajes que sufren, que intentan entender lo que les pasa. ¿No es más bien patético sufrir pero hacer lo posible porque no se note?

Yo no sabía nada de amor, pero sabía mucho de ti; tenía todos tus detalles presentes, podía hacer un mapa de tus pecas, de tus cicatrices y de todos los lugares que un día besé con tanto amor en la memoria.

Despierto sudando a la 1:39 am. Me pongo a releer “The Death of the Artist” de William Deresiewicz. Tardo en quedarme dormido de nuevo. A las 8am despierto de nuevo, con un dolor de cabeza increíble.

Por razones meramente geográficas, la torre se entendía como el centro de la ciudad, como el lugar donde todas las cosas deberían suceder. Una mentira. Así como me atrajo vivir en un punto céntrico donde todo pasara, me movilizó trabajar bajo una luz anaranjada.

En el metro se escucha mejor el girar de la Tierra. En el metro Jesús se hace presente por medio de la voz de un hombre ciego. Pienso en el metro: las enfermedades no existen, no hay razas ni países, y las señoras se ven grises.

En mi memoria se quedaron frases fuertes de personas que amo y que, precisamente por eso, se quedaron en mí. Ahora que son mayores, he comprobado que genuinamente no recuerdan haberlas dicho. La memoria es una hija de puta: guarda como trauma lo que quiere, pero muy convenientemente, con la vejez, lo olvida.

Writing is operating on the vibration of the instant like someone sewing a resisting edge; a language that does not represent the world but produces it, where the word is always a fragment of something that is never fully said and escapes while being written.

The night was made for the writer, to grapple with insomnia and the hidden words of the day. And silence? Silence was also made for the writer. And chaos? Chaos too. Everything was made so that I could write.

The other day my full-length mirror fell and shattered into tiny pieces. I called my mother to ask her what ritual is performed; I don't want seven years of bad luck. I laugh so hard, but these kinds of thoughts amuse me. What would I do without them?

It’s soulful chaos versus soulless perfection. It’s improvisation versus ritual. It’s the belief that discomfort is the price we pay for community versus the belief that giving each other space is real community.

Sitting by the back window of the car, music in my ears, icy air on my face, mind blank, eyes wide and watching. I notice that next to me, a few inches away, a white dress is hanging from a hook.

Ayer en la terraza, mientras Camila hablaba, pensé en lo que pasaría si me tiraba del balcón. El resultado final de los cálculos mentales que hice me llevó a no hacerlo. Sin prometer que no lo volvería a intentar en otra ocasión. Producto bruto. Resultado neto. Así me hablo (a veces, cuando quiero cruzar mi…

And I wish my heart wasn't so broken, and I wish it hadn't been you, because we could have laughed at everyone, we could have run away from everything, we could have run without looking back. Because in the end it was never just the two of us; because in the end home bore your name; because in the end there's nothing like feeling loved. 

Those who aren't chosen have to drink water, for lack of kisses. They eat a giant watermelon, alone, at the kitchen counter, and save half, imagining that it's spring again and that they have someone to share it with.

I began my tour of the usual places, observing more closely so as not to miss anything, trusting that my memory would withstand the passage of time better than my father's. Returning after years inevitably awakens nostalgia and the silent doubt of whether one made the right decision to leave.

Everyone sees you trying, but few truly understand everything behind it: the effort, the difficult moments, and all that you had to go through to get where you are.

I know I was brave. That I loved without measure, without fear. And that, even if it wasn’t forever, it was real. Very real to me.

El tiempo se mueve a través de mí como un virus, como un recipiente…

I want you to know: I hold myself together through this nostalgia. Sometimes it feels uncomfortable and I ignore it, like a nightmare I want to forget; other times it becomes a refuge and I fantasize about it.

That first coffee that warmed your hands on a freezing morning in a city that, even before you knew its streets, had already named you one of its own.

It’s hard to say that because of someone you end up hating things, places, or people you don’t even know—but it’s true. 

It feels like an echo in an empty house. Sometimes, in the morning, you forget the wall exists and think about telling them something small, a minor detail of the day, until the weight of emptiness stops your hand.

This text disconnects when I realize that something connects. And I find myself finding myself in authors who are not me.

Both you in the center and I in the north are ways of thinking: in my center, you have me feeling different things, while in my north, you nourish me with every syllable.

Minutos antes en mi sueño aparecía Roberto Bolaño… Bolaño se acerca… Bolaño me habla… En el sueño Bolaño me pregunta “¿Qué haces en esta ciudad donde eres pobre y desconocida?”…

I tried to close my jaw, to stop the process, to interrupt that silent mechanism; but something remained open, insistent, beyond my control. And I understood that it was not a falling, but a form of revelation.

How important Sunday cleanings are. From time to time I discard my mental habits, along with what I have to wash.

They walked beneath the street scaffolding like ghosts rehearsing memory—each step a soft percussion against the bones of the city, against the gooseflesh of late Fall.