¡EN CONSTRUCCIÓN!

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(Como la mayoría de los cerebros...)

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Entradas populares de este blog

Self-portrait of a bookshop

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I can get a hint of what is going on through the white curtain. The glass of the store window vibrates whenever someone opens or closes the door of the little shop. Voices, conversations covered by gentle music, softs “thank you’s”, and then the bell ringing when the clients leave. Nothing for a while. It is a slow Sunday afternoon, and the days are getting shorter and colder way faster than I ever thought they would before moving to this country. The bell rings again, and someone gets in. From my position, I cannot see them locking eyes, the clients walking around the store, but I can feel their gazes seeking each other. The pace of their steps is telling a story. Second. No. Third date. They haven’t slept together yet. But her hands cannot keep off him for longer, I sense she’s grabbing that thick book with a yellow cover as a strategy to stop herself from running to his arms. A couple of cockroaches are sipping tea in the front cover. She stares at him. Smiles at him. I cannot s...
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5 kilos.

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  She weighed her love in kilograms. The ones she lost or gained depending on how much love she had to beg outside. She was hiding in the crags of her many times broken little heart, looking at the numbers on the scale, and waiting patiently for her new adventure. She unconsciously punished herself by fasting. She would hear her intestines roaring, and she would repeat to herself: guilt, guilt, guilt, chaining the syllables and turning it into a prayer. She was convinced that in the lightness of her flesh, in making her fragility visible to everyone, she would find a way to fly away from that dark sensation that was latching onto her throat. She remembered that the lust that was consuming her every day never touched his body; she just gave him a glimpse of it, and that was enough to scare him for life. She told herself over and over again that her body was not deserving of the warmth and that she would never be touched with the passion she expected. She saw herself in front of th...
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El terror

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  Me veo siempre desde fuera. Sentada en la cama, con las manos entrelazadas y la mirada fija en un punto absurdo, irrelevante cómo a veces me parece que es mi vida, sobre todo cuando los días son largos y no puedo parar de pensar una y otra vez en todas las veces que no me elegí. Me veo con una sonrisa ausente, mientras celebran a mi alrededor victorias que yo sigo considerando batallas perdidas, sigo sin entender cuál es el mérito. No. No es cierto. Si hay batalla, y lucha, y ha habido sangre y mordiscos y lágrimas y rabia. ¿Y si soy valquiria? Y por eso tuve que cruzarme el mundo, no sentarme al sol en un octubre tibio, no acurrucarme en el nido de la vida que me vino dada, no conducir con un atardecer naranja en una tarde de enero con una camisa de algodón y un jersey esperando en el asiento del copiloto, no, eso ya no. Sólo frío, y noche, y lucha, y batalla y la sensación de irse a la cama con todas las heridas abiertas, palpitando la sangre en mis entrañas y feliz. Feliz de v...
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