Mantras

Warning: Every learning portrayed here is the product of experiences forged in fire, 

often with immeasurable pain. 

The reader should not dare to think this is wisdom, but rather the result of infinite clumsiness. 

Additionally, everything written here, like me and my circumstances, is subject to change.

A healthy relationship of any kind is teamwork, not competition. It's about growing together, not about who wins.

All the relationships you've had, have, and will have will (for life or death) end. Consider, then, that every interaction you have will be, by its very nature, the first, the only, and the last one. Enjoy them, and when the time is right, let them go with love and gratitude.

Always listen to your intuition, without exception. Your brain has evolved in layers, and the first layer is precisely the one that sends warning signals to your body when something is wrong. Millions of years of evolution haven't been in vain: listen to your survival instinct; it's clear and compelling.

Corollary: Separate your intuition from your anxiety. Intuition communicates with equanimity; anxiety, with ruminative emotional chatter.

Being possessed by emotions robs you of objectivity. If an emotion is ruling you, the first thing to do is stop and define it; then, proceed as you need to.

Believe in proverbs. In its various forms and manifestations, humanity has always been and will always be essentially the same. Ancient wisdom should not be disregarded.

Compatible boundaries are necessary for relationships to work. The more others' boundaries exceed yours, or vice versa, the more incompatible the relationship will become. And that's okay.

Fundamental corollary: If you constantly bend your boundaries to meet someone else's expectations, you'll forget who you are. Compromise is good; fracture is not.

Devoting your energy to pleasing others will attract the wrong people into your life. There are emotional parasites waiting eagery to lurk, waiting to feast on people incapable of saying no.

Don't be a mirror for someone who doesn't want to look at themselves. Many, many people are not ready to be reborn: some aren't yet, and others never will be. It's not your place to rush the process for others. 

Corollary: Be alert to the signs of emotional irresponsibility. If you get involved with someone who has no intention of looking inward and questioning their own actions, sooner or later, you will pay the price.

Don't fill the silence. Give others the space to show who they are.

Don't make decisions from a place of death; decide from a place of life. The fear of dying, the fear of loss, the fear of a cycle ending, makes us make decisions from a place of grief, anticipating (or rather, prolonging) the pain. Decide from a place of life, from the search for a path of peace.

Emotional transformation (and healing) is one of the most intimate processes a human being experiences. Like every personal hell, every path to healing and spiritual growth is a personal journey. Supporting and being present is a tremendous blessing and a great privilege (both for the one healing and for those witnessing it), but you cannot intervene.

Every hell is personal. It's beautiful to have people around supporting you to get out of it, but your hell remains yours alone.

Corollary: You shouldn't interfere in other people's hell, because their demons may end up hunting you.

Every situation that upsets you teaches you something. Sometimes it's about what you need to learn about yourself; other times it teaches you about others (and sometimes, too, how to refine your own boundaries).

Feeling your emotions is healthy and necessary. Suppressing your emotions will damage your health (sometimes irreversibly). On the other hand, letting emotions control you will lead you to the worst places imaginable. If you understand your feelings, you can also guide them, welcome its spectrum, and you will be (and feel) more fulfilled.

Friendship is the relationship that should flow most easily. It's tribal love, a safe space, and people with whom you can leave most of your masks behind. It doesn't mean there won't be differences; it means that, despite the differences, the common ground, the shared moments, and the growth together are experiences you'll never stop valuing.

Giving advice to someone is like entering their home. You either ask permission or you are invited in. Offering advice without prior consent is not only disrespectful; it is also a violation of privacy.

Healing is not a bed of roses. Healing, in fact, is deciding to cross the path of thorns you're trying to avoid. It's chaotic and painful; not only because you must confront the emotions you've suppressed, but also because you have to accept that on more than one occasion, your lack of awareness harmed others. The reward for learning to deal with pain is learning to deal with joy. 

Corollary: It's difficult to think about embarking on a path that will hurt and force us to confront our own shadows; for this reason, most people don't do it. What makes it worthwhile is that, scarred and scabbed, the you you become after looking honestly at the mirror, will be the most beautiful and powerful version of yourself.

If you try to change someone, let it be yourself. Changing others is impossible and will only result in emotional fractures. Changing yourself also hurts, and yet, this is not only possible but also one of the biggest and most beautiful acts of resistance you can undertake.

Let go of the illusion of control. Fortunately, we have no control over anything or anyone but ourselves. It's terrifying at first, and liberating later.

Love is unconditional; relationships are conditional. You can love without limits, but your bonds must be symbiotic by definition. Love is something you carry with you, regardless the state of your relationships.

Nothing is personal. No action (even if it's in response to something you've done) is fundamentally about you, but rather about how the other person understands the world through their own codes and experiences.

Corollary: Everything is personal. Just as others respond to their own history and worldview, so do you. In that sense, your experience of the world is entirely personal and not obvious to others.

Physical attraction can be extremely dangerous. If what you feel is physical magnetism, you're very likely to fall into the trap of the halo effect.

The best gift you can give those you love is your presence. Value that gift even when others are giving it to you.

The concept of lying is much deeper than what we are often taught. It's not just about claiming that "The White House is brown." Relationally, lying is the inconsistency between words and actions. The more inconsistencies, the more lies there are. Be careful not to be blinded by your expectations of others based solely on what they say they will do.

The most important word in your vocabulary should be "No." It teaches you who you are, it protects you, and it teaches you who respects you and who only sees personal gain through your lack of boundaries.

The same patterns you used to survive a difficult childhood can be the ones that destroy you in adulthood. Acting from trauma, anxiety, anticipation, and defensiveness can lead you (and will lead you) to unwanted situations that will only worsen if you don't wake up. Examine and discover who you are so you can be in charge of your emotions, not the other way around.

The shadow you're unaware of (or don't want to accept) will control and destroy your relationships of all kinds. Radical acceptance of who you are will allow you not only to find your peace but also to experience love and all its nuances from the right place in your heart.

Those who refuse to carry their own burdens will hold you responsible for them. People who don't deal with their demons will sooner or later blame you for having them.

To love is to open layers of your heart. The more you love, the more layers open (and the more vulnerable you are). Be careful when choosing to whom you give that power.

True relationships will have difficult conversations and moments. As long as it's possible to work through them, relationships will find strength in navigating those paths.

We know so little that we know nothing. Understanding this maxim will allow you to open all doors at once. There is no certainty about anything. There are always different interpretations of everything.

Corollary: To know, ask. Every human being is a world unto themselves, and understanding is achieved through active conversation.

When in doubt, ask. In an open and non-binary way: What, how, when, where, why? Questions will help you know if your interpretation of what you hear aligns with the message being communicated to you.

You will never, ever know the true motivations of someone who approaches you. Some will reveal themselves in a couple of days, others will take years. That said, the person you trust most should always be yourself.

The end.

 And then it happened.

The last person asking for food finally succumbed to famine.

Her name was Mary. She was 10 years old.

The doctors run to help her, exhausted from hunger, but still able to move freely.

People bringing the humanitarian aid to the forbidden border cried massively in an ineffable pain.

The soldiers lowered their guard and went to celebrate. After all, the 24/7 shifts were finally over.

The city then, for weeks, 

remained in deaf silence.

The news covered the issue casually in their lower credits, 

while announcing the winner of that year's Nobel Peace Prize.

(The following year, the winner was a politician 

whose social crusade was to clean the city of bodies and debris).

Today, in the newspaper, 

I saw this open land sale to invest in luxury hotels. 

The name of the city in question sounded painfully familiar.

Stuck.

5:10 am.

While the dawn in the sky slowly clears up and my thoughts remain increasingly foggy after 30 minutes of sleep, the biggest struggle at the moment is that my feelings, as in a bottleneck, pile up and blend; cutting both their clarity and the capacity to let them go.

One clear confusion, oxymoronically speaking, is that to this point and in new spheres of interaction, I no longer know who the hell I am now. 

It would be easy to just answer this -oxymoronically framed- wondering; however, it is so complex that no matter how much I do try to dig into every (sometimes even painfully) calculated (and defined by who do I want to be) decision, some of them take me by surprise in such a deep level, that it feels like a new person (or my true person) has taken over my self and leads every scenario... from kisses shared at 6:00 am with a cherished and wanted love, to an unexpected fight with a total stranger.

That on the side of one (fractalic) thought.

And then it is the feelings. 

There, also, the so-called new (true) person manages at their best with feelings known just recently, like a blindfold that is finally gone and allows her to see every colour for the very first time.

I would love to dig into explaining how this part is, but this is truly not possible. 

Suffice it to say that, after growing up, a normal adult person has experienced almost the whole range of emotions a human can experience... And this person is experiencing and managing all of them, every time they happen, as if they were her very first time... 

I guess a good consolation for this part is 

that I will definitely get used 

to feel in a different 

(maybe better)

way.

This overwhelm-ness, though, is the struggle. 

The stuckness.

The pain.

Do I accept this version of me?

Should I embrace this version of me?

Is it okay if I like it?

6:03 am.

Time to try and sleep a little, at least.

Orgasm (Part II)

I run my fingers slowly and subtly down your neck, breathing from your mouth and sipping my own honey from your lips. You offer me your neck as you wrap my waist in your embrace. Your breathing gradually deepens as my hands run down your chest in a caress that lingers at the edge of your hips and then rises again down your back to rest on your shoulders. You breathe in the scent of my neck, and my hands move again; this time, they caress the nape of your neck and return to your cheeks, your jaw, and your cleft chin.

I cover your eyes with my scarf and proceed to undress you. As if they were only caresses, I move down your arms to remove your open shirt while my tongue, playfully and insinuatingly, runs over your neck, your chest, your navel, and your lower abdomen. I feel your breathing intensify, and a warm bulge beneath your belt makes its way, throbbing, under your clothes. I untie your belt and remove your pants and underwear. I caress your sex with my fingertips and gently press your glans in circular motions with my thumb. I hear your first moan and I smile. This is just the beginning, I whisper, and I see your pearly teeth smile mischievously as you stroke my hair.

I lay your face down and sit on your back while I massage your head, the nape of your neck, your shoulders, your shoulder blades. The touch of your body begins to arouse me, and a warm wetness nests on your back. You smile again. Is everything okay? you ask. Yes, I answer. You know me by now. You relax again as I move down your back and knead your buttocks, thighs, calves, and feet. I kiss your toes, and you moan again, more intensely. You turn around. I continue kissing your feet while I watch transparent, viscous drops fall from your member, igniting my thirst. I resist the urge to go and taste you immediately; instead, I slowly move up your body, massaging you.

I finally land on your pelvis. My massages become caresses again but controlled by my nails. That subtle touch invades your entire hip area with a blanket of goosebumps. You spread your legs to give me space, amidst your laboured breathing. I rest the pad of my thumb on your perineum while the nails of my other hand caress your testicles, and finally, I wrap my fingers around your erection. I press and move my hand up the skin surrounding you. I relax the pressure and lower it again. I repeat the movement while my fingers moisten with the honey you release.

You instinctively bring your hand to your blindfold. You hesitate and finally keep them covered. You breathe with your mouth open, and the wetness of your tongue turns me on. I want to connect your wetness with mine, so I lick your glans and run my tongue over it. Your abdomen tenses, and you release all your breath in a deep, resounding gasp. You catch your breath in a ragged breath. You moan again. You stroke my hair, and with your hands, gently rhythmically indicating the pace you want me to follow.

I continue for a few moments until my own arousal interrupts me, and I moan. That's enough. You sit up and kiss me. Your hands move to my crotch, and you feel my wetness with your fingers. You position your member, and I take away your hand with mine. No, I smile, let me do it. You wrap your arms around my waist again, while I swing over you with my pelvis. Eventually, I catch you, and our wetness mingles as we become one.

Warm and soft, our bodies merge as I kiss your forehead and you kiss my breasts. You bite my nipples, and in response, I kiss your earlobes. I moan and sigh so close to your ear that you shudder, and another energy takes hold of you. You continue penetrating me when, between warmth and exquisite pain, my senses merge again. Your breathing becomes frantic and sonorous, and you penetrate me faster as you return to kissing and licking my nipples. My orgasm isn't over yet when yours begins. I tip you back and lie entirely on top of you as your semen conquers me and starts to flow from my vulva.

We both sigh. You remove the blindfold but keep your eyes closed. I contemplate your virile features, your broad forehead, your defined lips. I kiss you so lightly that my lips barely touch you. You smile and open your eyes. That was...

...Inspiring, I add. I curl up in the hollow made by your chest and arms, for my body.

Will we do it again? 

A long-term dream

Gerald woke up that morning with a certain sense of nostalgia for the times in the past that, in the light of the happy present, had taken a bittersweet tone because they were the seed of today. He remembered moment he met Clara five years ago and gradually fell in love with her sweet ways, maternal voice, childlike spirit, and wise reflections. Gerald went through the passages of his memory of how he was so moved when he realized how deeply she was penetrating his heart, that he devised ways to get closer to her, to be part of her routines, to bond with her and for it was his name, and no one else's, the one she would pronounce in her moments of greatest anguish and also in her most intimate pleasures.

Gerald smiled. He found it hard to believe that everything yesterday had yielded its fruits in such a perfect way, as if it had been destined to happen from the beginning. He looked at Clara lying next to him, still not waking up. He whispered softly, "Good morning, my love," and ran his nose and breath over her neck. Clara's shudder (and his own) invited him to continue. Clara could barely open her swollen eyes after realising that that day, like every day for the past 3 years, she woke up again tied to the bed and subjected to the intentions of that monster whose name or face she had never met before the sombre afternoon when she was torn away from her husband and children. Barely breathing, she let him finish; the last time she tried to defend herself, he had beaten her almost blind.

Gerald ended up elevated in his pleasure... how beautiful sex with love is. As for Clara, he had faith; he had loved her for five years now and eventually, she would let down her guard to love him as he deserved, as he had earned, as he had sought to be loved since that afternoon when his own mother was torn away from him and he never saw her again.

Un sueño a largo plazo

Gerald despertó esa mañana con cierto dejo de nostalgia por los momentos del pasado que, a la luz del feliz presente, adquirían un matiz agridulce por ser la semilla del hoy. Recordó cómo había conocido a Clara cinco años atrás y cómo se enamoró gradualmente de sus formas dulces, su maternal voz, su espíritu de niña, sus sabias reflexiones. Gerald recorrió en los pasajes de su memoria cómo fue tanta su conmoción al darse cuenta de lo profundamente que ella estaba calando en su corazón, que ideó formas de acercarse a ella, de ser parte de sus rutinas, de vincularse con ella, y de que para ella fuese su nombre, y el de nadie más, el que pronunciara en sus momentos de mayor angustia y también en sus placeres más íntimos. 

Gerald sonrió, le costaba creer que todo el ayer hubiese rendido sus frutos de manera tan perfecta, como si hubiese estado desde el principio destinado a suceder. Miró a Clara, quien yacía a su lado aún sin despertar. Susurró dulcemente "Buenos días, mi amor", y recorrió su cuello con su nariz y aliento. El estremecimiento de Clara (y el suyo propio) lo invitaron a continuar. Clara apenas pudo abrir sus hinchados ojos tras darse cuenta de que ese día, como cada día de los últimos 3 años, despertaba nuevamente atada a la cama y sometida a las intenciones de ese monstruo cuyo nombre o cara jamás conoció antes de la sombría tarde en que fue arrancada de su esposo e hijos. Sin respirar apenas dejó que él terminara; la última vez que intentó defenderse la dejó casi ciega a golpes.

Gerald terminó encumbrado en su placer... qué hermoso es el sexo con amor. En cuanto a Clara, él tenía fe; la había amado por ya cinco años y eventualmente ella bajaría su guardia para amarlo como él se lo merecía, como él se lo había ganado, como él buscaba ser amado desde aquella tarde en que su propia madre le fue arrancada y no volvió a verla jamás.

Sinister tales 7

Julia took a breath and reminded herself that no matter how much she tore her hands apart as she made her way through the earth, silence was essential. She resumed the task -started several hours ago and planned for months- somewhat stunned by how the events that led her to this moment and place had occurred. She barely remembered her life before this project began; the only clear thing was the destination to which this hole would lead her. She smelled the damp earth mixed with her blood and vomited. She felt that perhaps it was better this way and this feeling made her wonder if she would reach her own limit before reaching her destination.

She continued without resting for another hour when she felt she touched something hard. Her heart started beating wildly. She confirmed through the touch that this was exactly what she was searching for. When she found the edge she had studied to the point of being able to recognize it with her eyes closed (or in complete darkness, as she was now), Julia used the crowbar she brought with her to pry off the corner.

A nauseating and penetrating smell told her that she had opened the cover. She removed the earth around it so that nothing else would stand between her and her goal. With the surroundings now clear, she finished opening the box and breathed in the air that finally gave her the freedom she so desperately sought. She took the small, tiny figure from inside the box and cradled it in her arms while whispering a sad lullaby... Julia understood that the pact with the love of her life was until death did them part, but her bond as a mother would transcend any limit: physical or spiritual; of sanity or madness; and of life or death.

Cuentos siniestros 7

Julia tomó un respiro mientras se recordó a sí misma que no importaba cuánto se destrozara las manos al abrirse paso en la tierra; el silencio era fundamental. Retomó la tarea -iniciada ya hace varias horas y planificada por meses- algo aturdida por cómo habían acontecido los hechos que la llevaron a ese momento y a ese lugar. Poco recordaba incluso de su vida antes de que este proyecto empezara; lo único claro era el destino al que esta horadada la llevaría. Olió la tierra húmeda que se mezclaba con su sangre y vomitó. Sintió que tal vez era mejor así y este sentimiento le hizo preguntarse si llegaría a su propio límite antes de llegar a su destino. 

Continuó sin descanso por una hora más cuando sintió que tocaba algo duro. El corazón le empezó a palpitar desaforadamente. Confirmó con el tacto que se trataba exactamente de lo que buscaba. Cuando encontró el borde que había estudiado al punto de ser capaz de reconocerlo a ojos cerrados (o en completa oscuridad, como se encontraba ahora), Julia utilizó la palanca que trajo consigo para desprender la esquina. 

Un olor nauseabundo y penetrante le indicó que había quitado la cubierta. Desprendió la tierra de alrededor para que nada más se interpusiera entre ella y su objetivo. Ya con el entorno despejado, terminó de abrir la caja y respiró a borbotones el aire que le daba finalmente la libertad que tan desesperadamente ella buscaba. Tomó a la pequeña, pequeñísima figura de dentro de la caja y la acurrucó en sus brazos mientras susurraba una triste canción de cuna... Julia entendía que el pacto con el amor de su vida era hasta que la muerte los separara, pero su vínculo de madre trascendería cualquier límite: físico o espiritual; de sensatez o locura; y de vida o de muerte.

Sinister tales 6

The soldiers approached the town with a clear mission: Help them all. After two decades, the dictatorship had reached an inflexion point; the misery was so great that people had lost their sense of humanity on a structural level, and worldwide authorities considered it was time to mediate. The crowd approached them so vehemently for food that the soldiers had to show their threatening weapons to appease them. Once they managed the situation, they proceeded to provide them with food.

One young soldier, a trained sniper, was sent to investigate the situation in the deepest corners of the town. He would then have to report anything he saw or experienced. He walked carefully through the empty village without letting go of his weapon. "Poor people", he thought, "they're all over there getting food." Further down the road, he saw a little girl crying. She was alone, maybe 4-5 years old, in an advanced state of malnutrition, and covered by improvised garments. 

He put the gun aside so as not to scare her and approached her in a friendly tone. The girl wouldn't stop crying but still walked to him and snuggled into his arms. "Who could have forgotten you? Are they really this hungry?" The soldier smelled her tender skin and a deep dark desire, only conceivable in the most absolute impunity, took over his mind and flesh. He tore away the girl's clothes and got rid of his uniform before breaking into her. There was no time for the latter: A sudden mob surrounded him and tore him to pieces without giving him any time to react, or even understand what was happening. Their Supreme Leader was right when he told them that if they were patient, their hunger would be satisfied. A much deeper feeling also felt right at that moment: Of all possible evils that rule the world, some are way more bearable than others.

Cuentos siniestros 6

Los soldados se acercaron al pueblo con una misión clara: ayudarlos a todos. Después de dos décadas, la dictadura había llegado a un punto de inflexión; la miseria era tan grande que la gente había perdido el sentido de humanidad a un nivel estructural, y las autoridades mundiales consideraron que era hora de mediar. La multitud se les acercó con tal vehemencia en busca de comida que los soldados tuvieron que mostrar sus armas amenazantes para sosegarlos. Una vez que manejaron la situación, procedieron a repartir los alimentos.

Un joven soldado, francotirador entrenado, fue enviado a investigar la situación en los rincones más recónditos del pueblo. Luego tendría que informar de todo lo que viera o experimentara. Caminó con cuidado por el pueblo vacío sin soltar su arma. "Pobre gente", pensó, "todos están allá recibiendo comida". Más adentrado en el camino, vio a una pequeña niña llorando. Estaba sola, tal vez de 4 o 5 años, en un avanzado estado de desnutrición y cubierta con prendas improvisadas.

Dejó el arma a un lado para no asustarla y se acercó a ella en un tono amistoso. La niña no paraba de llorar, pero aun así caminó hacia él y se acurrucó en sus brazos. "¿Quién pudo haberte olvidado? ¿De verdad tienen tanta hambre?" El soldado olió su tierna piel y un profundo y oscuro deseo, solo concebible en la más absoluta impunidad, se apoderó de su mente y su carne. Le arrancó la ropa a la niña y se deshizo de su uniforme antes de romperla a ella. No hubo tiempo para esto último: una multitud repentina lo rodeó y despedazó sin darle tiempo a reaccionar o siquiera entender lo que estaba sucediendo. Su Líder Supremo tenía razón cuando les dijo que si tenían paciencia su hambre sería saciada. Un sentimiento mucho más profundo se apoderó de ellos en ese momento: de todos los males posibles que gobiernan el mundo, algunos son mucho más soportables que otros.

Sinister tales 5

Sandrine admired her best friend Lily so much, that she wanted to spend all her free time hanging out with her. She loved Lily's support, love, wise points of view (that Lily would modestly claim she has learned by making infinite mistakes first), and resilience. 

Sandrine wanted to be like Lily, so she started dressing like her, talking like her, befriending her friends, dating the guys Lily had dated, and appropriating Lily's traits and quirks as if they were hers.

When this wasn't enough, Sandrine wanted to own Lily, so she started texting her daily and hourly, at any time, day and night.

When Lily traced boundaries Sandrine wanted to punish her, so he pushed every bottom she knew Lily had after a lifetime of friendship.

When Lily went zero contact, Sandrine claimed to everyone who wanted to listen that Lily ruined her life, manipulated her and brought her to suicidal thoughts. 

When all of these failed and Lily maintained her distance, Sandrine wanted to become Lily (that way she would never reject her again), so she went to her place to slash her skin head to toe, wide open, to get inside her.

When stepping into the shower, exhausted after such a long day, Lily added a proverb to her list of learnings: "Never mess with the devil if you don't want to see the consequences". She let the warm water run over her fiercely scratched body. "One more stripe on the tiger”, she said smiling, and yawned before going straight to bed. Tomorrow it would start very early with all the cleaning and burying that there was to... What a nuisance it is to add unexpected tasks to your pending list.

Cuentos siniestros 5

Sandrine admiraba tanto a su mejor amiga Lily que quería pasar todo su tiempo libre con ella. Le encantaba el apoyo, el amor, los sabios puntos de vista de Lily (quien modestamente afirmaba que los había aprendido cometiendo infinitos errores primero) y su resiliencia.

Sandrine quería ser como Lily, así que comenzó a vestirse como ella, a hablar como ella, a hacerse amiga de sus amigas, a salir con los chicos con los que Lily había salido y a apropiarse de los rasgos y peculiaridades de Lily como si fueran propios.

Cuando esto no fue suficiente, Sandrine quiso ser dueña de Lily, así que empezó a enviarle mensajes de texto a diario y cada hora, a cualquier hora, de día y de noche.

Cuando Lily puso límites, Sandrine quiso castigarla, así que presionó cada botón que conocía de Lily después de toda una vida de amistad.

Cuando Lily cortó contacto con ella, Sandrine afirmó a todo el que quisiera escucharla que Lily arruinó su vida, la manipuló y la llevó a pensamientos suicidas.

Cuando todo esto falló y Lily mantuvo la distancia, Sandrine quiso convertirse en Lily (así no volvería a rechazarla jamás), así que fue a su casa para faenar su piel de pies a cabeza y de par en par, con el fin de entrar en ella.

Cuando entró a la ducha, agotada después de un día tan largo, Lily añadió un proverbio a su lista de aprendizajes: "Nunca te metas con el diablo si no quieres ver las consecuencias". Dejó que el agua tibia corriera sobre su salvajemente arañado cuerpo. "Una raya más al tigre", se dijo sonriendo, y bostezó antes de irse directo a la cama. Mañana empezaría muy temprano con toda la limpieza y el entierro que hacer... Qué fastidio es añadir tareas inesperadas a tu lista de pendientes.

Sinister tales 4

Claudia met James, her dance instructor, two years ago. He was the most elegant and well-mannered man she had ever seen; he carried a smile that looked like taken out of a magazine and gestures that looked like out of a textbook. Maybe that was why Claudia couldn't believe it when James started to message her often about subjects that had little to do with dancing, and she began to carry a clumsy smile throughout the day waiting for his messages and attention. She went to their first date with a blind knot in her stomach, and made a conscious effort not to faint when he kissed her for the first time. Maybe that was why she was so disappointed when she had barely crossed the front door of James's house and -regardless of any persuasion or begging- he brutally took her... she wanted him, so he didn't need to go that way. Claudia left his house with an infinite pain in her body and soul. Helpless, knowing that no one would believe her, the only consolation for her warm tears was the blood rolling on her cheeks and the pieces of still-fresh meat on her blade... It doesn't hurt to take precautions; after all, you never really get to know people.

Cuentos siniestros 4

Claudia había conocido a su instructor de baile, James, dos años atrás. Era el hombre más elegante y de buenos modales que había visto; acarreaba con él una sonrisa que parecía de revista y unos ademanes como sacados de un manual. Tal vez por eso Claudia no dio crédito cuando James empezó a escribirle a menudo sobre temas que poco tenían que ver con baile, y empezó a acarrear una sonrisa torpe a lo largo del día a la espera de sus mensajes y sus atenciones. A su primera cita fue con un nudo ciego en su estómago, e hizo un esfuerzo consciente para no desmayarse cuando la besó por primera vez. Tal vez por eso fue tanta la decepción que sintió no bien cruzó la puerta de entrada a la casa de James y -a pesar de cualquier persuasión o súplica- éste, brutalmente, la tomó... ella lo deseaba, así que él no necesitaba llegar a eso. Claudia salió de su casa con un dolor infinito en el cuerpo y en el alma. Impotente, a sabiendas de que nadie le creería, el único consuelo a sus tibias lágrimas era la sangre rodando por sus mejillas y los trozos de carne todavía fresca en su daga... No está de más tomar precauciones; a fin de cuentas, una nunca termina de conocer a la gente.

Sinister tales 3

Sarah was, trait by trait, everything Christian wanted to have: Her free spirit, clever mind, and innocent heart wouldn't stop amazing him. Christian had everything Sarah dreamed of: a loving and unconditional family, an accepting circle, and the opportunity to develop freely who he was, not who he had to be. Maybe that is why they matched so quickly; Sarah felt confident enough to trust a man who had such level of support around him. Christian was looking forward to having what Sarah was and sharing her with his family: not really often you have such brain and heart, so these were a promise for a fine delicatessen to enjoy until the very last crumb and the very last bone.

Cuentos siniestros 3

Sarah era, rasgo por rasgo, todo lo que Christian quería tener: su espíritu libre, su mente inteligente y su corazón inocente no dejaban de sorprenderlo. Christian tenía todo lo que Sarah soñaba: una familia amorosa e incondicional, un círculo que lo aceptaba y la oportunidad de desarrollar libremente quién era, no quién tenía que ser. Tal vez por eso se acoplaron tan rápido; Sarah se sentía lo suficientemente segura como para confiar en un hombre que tenía tal nivel de apoyo a su alrededor. Christian estaba ansioso por tener lo que Sarah era y compartirla con su familia: no es realmente común tener tal cerebro y corazón, por lo que estos eran una promesa de una delicatesse muy fina a disfrutar hasta la última miga y el último hueso.

Sinister tales 2

Little Lisa took her own life at the age of 13. Her mother found her when trying to enter her room to put away clothes and noticed he girl's lifeless body barricading the door. When they tried to find out the reasons for her death, they turned to the girl's immediate surroundings: At school, her classmates talked about how much she cried in class and the strong smell of vomit she had; her teacher, sobbing, said that Lisa was the best student and the sweetest girl she had ever met in her career; her mother, who appeared to the world as kind and committed, questioned whether hitting her with everything she could had been the best method to educate her; and her father, in heartbroken silence, swore to himself that he would not allow Lisa's little sister to have the same tragic end... so he would visit her only one night a week and not every night, as he did with Lisa.

Cuentos siniestros 2

La pequeña Lisa se quitó la vida a los 13 años. Su madre la encontró cuando intentaba entrar a su habitación para guardar ropa y halló el cuerpo de la niña, ya sin vida, trancando la puerta. Cuando se intentó averiguar las razones de su deceso, se acudió a los entornos inmediatos de la niña: En el colegio, sus compañeros hablaron de lo mucho que lloraba en clases y del fuerte olor a vómito que tenía; su profesora, sollozante, dijo que Lisa era la mejor estudiante y la niña más dulce que había conocido en su carrera; su madre, que al mundo se mostraba como amable y comprometida, se cuestionó si golpearla con todo lo que podía había sido el mejor método para educarla; y su padre, en desconsolado silencio, se juró a sí mismo que no permitiría que la hermana pequeña de Lisa tuviera el mismo trágico final... así que la visitaría sólo una noche por semana y no cada noche, como hizo con Lisa.

Sinister tales 1

It's 6:00 pm at one of the most punctual trains on the continent. A 38-year-old toddler is having a rage tantrum because a 3-year-old toddler will not stop crying in the arms of her father, a refugee, who does not speak the language well enough to explain the bigger toddler that his kid cries the absence of her mother, who couldn't escape. Encouraged by this fact, the crowd at the train makes such a fuss that security has to intervene. The father and the smaller toddler are taken out of the train, where they are told that until the kid acts civilized, they won't be able to make it to the train again. The father bows his head while silencing his crying inner child and thanks security... he speaks the language well enough to understand he must be thankful no matter what.

Cuentos siniestros 1

Son las 6:00 pm en uno de los trenes más puntuales del continente. Un niño de 38 años está teniendo una rabieta porque un niño de 3 años no deja de llorar en los brazos de su padre, un refugiado, que no habla el idioma lo suficientemente bien como para explicarle al niño más grande que su hijo llora la ausencia de su madre, quien no logró huir. Alentada por este hecho, la multitud en el tren arma tal alboroto que tiene que intervenir el personal de seguridad. El padre y el niño más pequeño son sacados del tren, donde se les dice que hasta que el niño se comporte de manera civilizada, no podrán volver a subir al tren. El padre inclina la cabeza mientras silencia a su niño interior que llora y agradece a los de seguridad... habla el idioma lo suficientemente bien como para entender que debe estar agradecido pase lo que pase.

Overall

As a summary of two years of illusion, 

two months of struggle, and two more of grief,

I must admit that math 

might have worked in my favour, Cutie thief:

I promised you I'd give you 

love and happiness on demand;

I promised myself I'd learn 

from any moment we would have.

It turned out that you got

good talks, good food, and weekend fun;

It turned out that I got

taste, touch, smell, sight, and sound.

But later it happened to you

that you couldn't escape your patterns

and remained snared in your ways:

hurtful, deflective, mute... avoidant when it mattered.

And later it happened to me:

I could see your traits, their pace,

and I turned myself free:

caring, loving, gorgeously brave.

You tightened then the grip around your heart

in the chain prison where you trapped it.

I made then a rent-free room for you,

in the prostitute's hotel of my heart-beats.

And while it's true that it was hard to let go 

after 18 years of panic that hurt like a knife,

not having flayed my skin to patch your wounds

was the bravest decision of my life.

You now resent me for not being unconditional

and walking away by saying the words you couldn't provide;

I now thank you deeply for having been my Bêta Test

with whom -in every phase- I learned how much I grew inside.

So, overall and in summary:

You remained yourself after me 

and I transformed myself after you

(Math indeed worked in my favour, see?).

The cognitive dissonance of an anticlimactic breakup.

I caressed your hands as I used to while you'd drive me down the street when I noticed that none of your fingers reacted to mine. It was, suddenly, as if in between my touch and your skin there was an infinite void (maybe given by an electromagnetic field of atoms, once welcomingly reject·ful), that sucked my energy and turned it into ice before reaching you.

I knew it then, before any word came out of you or me. 

I breathed my pain and started talking.

- Have you decided to end us?

- That’s what you wanted to talk about…

- It crossed my mind.

You remained silent for a few seconds (each of them killed a bit of me). You finally added:

- It’s a lot of things.

It wasn’t a surprise for me. Of all the things you planned for yourself (with me), living the way you did while holding my hand was out of the box. In the end, it was me who always surprised you, and at most, your sentence now dashed the plan of the sweetest love I was going to make to you, on your couch, after kissing your complete nakedness.

I breathed my pain again and stopped caressing your void before adding:

- I know. And I knew that if I dared to ask you for it, there was a huge chance that our boundaries overlapped... and this would make us impossible.

As for everything I said from then on, each sound that came out of your mouth, when not silent, was a bridge for whatever else I added:

- Mm-hmm…

I continued my words and my flow of pain and bitterness, realising in that moment (and until today) that I could not remember the last time we kissed (...was it maybe in the shower, when I finally decided to trust your welcoming invitation, and I brought a shower gel so I wouldn't take advantage of your hospitality?). I did remember, though, the wise proverb I learned many years ago and that now came in handy: "El Silencio otorga."

- ...I have been truly sad for days, understanding your punishing silence as the answer to my question. 

- ...

(I was irrational and full of fears; 

maybe asking you was even a mistake. 

But I needed it. So much.)

- I cannot be sorry for standing on my ground, but I do apologise profoundly for the pain I could have caused you.

- ...

Your silence made me feel in control and also like a fool. 

Was I imagining that your muteness was the scission that would separate our paths, irreparably? 

- I thank you so much for the time we spent. It had been years since I felt something so right, even in the wrongs. My brain is full of new connections and the beautiful experiences that you gave me.

- ...

I got used to your quietness

while questioning everything inside my head. 

Was it all just there, in the end, only in my head? 

I remembered then the time you smiled while writing down my birthday on your phone. "It’s not necessary", I told you, visibly blushing. "It is", you replied, keeping your genuine, beautiful smile. 

No, it wasn't all only in my head.

But I'll never really know it.

Moments later we arrived at the point where our paths were as well, this time literally, separating. I wanted to hold the tears until you couldn't see me anymore (I know how much you hate tears). I swallowed the pain again, wrapped up my love and my five senses, my haikus and my expectations, and gave us both closure when I hugged you for the last time:

- Thank you so much for everything, Cutie Pie.

- Yeah, thank you for the great dances tonight.

You left and left me confused by your phrase, as if your breakup through my words had not taken place just a few minutes before.

Now alone (in more than one layer), I looked at the bag of birthday presents you gave me... The same one you asked me to check once no one was around.

There, among senses and thoughtfulness, 

was the camisole I forgot at your place 

the last time we cuddled.

I guess that was enough message for you to send,

man of few words and even fewer emotions;

my Marlboro man…

...you still have my shower gel though, 

my favourite thief.

Orgasm (Part I)

You asked me to describe to you how a woman's orgasm feels while I was lying next to you and stroking the hair on your naked chest. I then blinked my eyelashes against your cheeks in a butterfly kiss, and playfully told you: Give it to me and I'll tell you.

You smile, look into my eyes, softly caress my naked shoulders and kiss my neck. A sudden wave of goosebumps takes over my ears and the back of my head. I close my eyes and let you act with your lips and tongue. I intertwine my fingertips with your hair and the back of your neck, and I feel your skin getting the rush of pleasure from my touch. 

You keep exploring me while smoothly landing on my chest. Your cold hands, with the slightest touch, caress my breasts. Your fingers prepare my areolas and nipples and make them hard by the touch (covered by goosebumps that pursue you like a wave), just to offer them then the perfect contrast with your warm lips and your wet tongue. Softly, your mouth makes my skin give in while my spine reacts making an arc and my hips retreat back to offer you even more of me. 

You tease me and go to the sides of my torso. I curl up and laugh... A more insecure man would wonder why, but you... you smile back at me, take me by my wrists and shush me with a kiss before taking over again. This time I don't laugh, I don't even smile. I sigh deeply and caress your hair while you keep kissing me down my belly at the same pace as my breathing. There's no need for music; our dance is dictated by our breaths, the pulses of our hearts, and the waves of pleasure that keep going after you.

You turn me upside down and caress the sides of my hips and glutes. The temperature of your hands makes me hyperventilate in excitement while the wave of goosebumps just comes all the way after your fingers again, like the Sea in the eternal, impossible chase after the Moon. You kiss the back of my legs. At this point, my respiration turns into a beg... Give me more. 

You turn me on my back again and keep kissing the inner side of my knees. Instictively, I spread my legs, trying to hold back the moaning that is taking over, from the center of my body, all the way up to my voice. Your hands keep summoning the wave of pleasure that my skin so desperately follows. You give me exactly what I want: Cold, warm, soft, hard, wet, slow... and wet again. 

You reach my thighs with your kisses and I lift my back to see you and caress your head and hair, and wrap my legs around you. You get to my centre, not surprised by all the wetness that is already waiting for your wet mouth. Gloriously, you join the Moon, now eclipsed in the tip of your tongue, with the waves of my sea.

You stay there and I lie back down. In circular motions, your tongue captivates me as the waves concentrate and hold back in my very core. I hold your hair, and my pelvic floor starts a first slow, then a strong sway while I hold you tight.

While coming and going, the waves take on a life on their own, pull my pelvis up from there, and elevate, suspend, and blend all my senses into one. For three, or ten seconds or hours, the waves of my unified, tsunamic sense, come back to every corner of my body; first shyly, then furiously, with cold, warm, soft, hard, wet, slow, love, hate, warm, wet...

and love again.

From my centre to my toes, my fingertips, my nipples and my scalp, the waves hit until they slowly fade away, and a breeze of peace comes back to my mouth in a kiss from your Moonful, wet lips. 

I try to articulate some words but it's too soon. 

You look at me with your indescribably beautiful eyes and smile. 

No need for words, 

now you know.

I smile back and climb on top of you while wrapping your neck in my hands.

Your turn.

The price of growing.

I started this entry, weeks ago, under the title "Nostalgia". It invaded me at that time as much as it does now and yet, in the big picture, this is nothing more than a superficial layer for a much deeper structural feeling.

And well, as curiosity is my engine and compass, I could not help but -quietly- let the beautiful Nostalgia invade me and penetrate every corner of my day and my dreams, to -from my stillness- observe and feel every nuance and every layer she wanted to show me.

And I reached her centre. 

Nostalgia would be a view of the past from Solitude.

So I approached Solitude.

Solitude, still and silent, 

invaded me and penetrated me as well.

Solitude, still and silent, 

made a lump in my throat.

And I cried bitterly out of Solitude.

I felt, in every tear and every pain, also every name, face, moment, kiss, laugh, idealisation, tenderness, love, insult, mistreatment, devaluation, contempt, disdain, blame, deflection, and cynicism… Resounding mixes of what had to be left behind.

And while it is true that Solitude felt that way, 

it also went through me without leaving wounds.

At her centre, finally,

I saw myself.

Girl-woman.

I saw myself full of scars and scabs. 

Covered in mud, tar, blood, and sweat.

I saw myself tired and hurt, 

but more whole than ever.

Growing up is an absolutely extraordinary journey.

Growing up is also an absolutely painful journey: Not only because the fight with our own demons is hard, painful, and shameful; but also because many, many times, that growth will involve loneliness: from the people who separated their paths from ours as we did not learn in time, and ourselves, since sometimes growing up means also deciding to separate our paths from the people we loved and were important to us... the option of staying would only mean going back on a road that is only meant to go forward, and that will not bring us satisfaction or happiness of any kind.

...And because our own versions of ourselves, which were left behind, also remind us that in those versions we were happier with less (and we accepted the painful, abusive unhappiness as one more ingredient of that status quo). 

And therein lies Nostalgia.

We were born alone.

It is the destiny of Life to meet Death and it is the destiny of every Beginning to meet its End; which does not make the experience of any event less real. If anything, this awareness helps us to live each adventure from the peace of its absolute and ephemeral genuineness.

Perhaps that is why growing is so worth it despite the price one pays: The path to the end becomes peaceful and one begins to find gentle aromas after a journey of thorns.

Perhaps that is why growing is so worth it despite the price one pays: The price of meeting oneself, without fear, is truly impossible to measure.

And all that you will be.

You wanted to be the one 

who offered resilience,

Instead, I ended up comforting your distress 

in the worst day of my life.

You wanted 

to communicate openly,

Instead, I articulated every word 

of the end that you were deciding.

You wanted to be 

the strength and the force,

Instead, I held you when your inner child 

overflowed into his pain.

You tried to read my eyes

while I was feeling your broken, 

silent soul.

You begged me 

to fight for you

and I love you

I love you so much

that -with this love and tenderness 

that I used to open a door for you-

I let you now leave for good

while I bless your way out.

First, because I love you.

Second, because you weren’t in the end 

who you said you would be.

Deal?

As the number of full moons that I’ll have the pleasure to see while holding your hand is limited;

as the number of fights that we have ahead might just be a bit more than the number of full moons;

as the times my index will “poup” the tip of your nose -and the fun, entertaining times in between- are falling into the countdown of an imminent end like a cracked hourglass…

I propose you to enjoy this ride with the safe,

temporary and total adrenaline that a roller coaster offers:

Imagine, just for a moment,

that I am your person

and not only a bridge;

Let me imagine that I’ll have the pleasure 

to keep exploring how it feels

when Love and Life meet.

Closure

I fall into the loop of the same triggers.

And I see only a void waiting to suck me in.

It’s hard, in the middle of the onirical mist, to get a sense of what is simply a very vivid mental hell and what is a real foot that moves innocently, but drastically, into nothing, as a limb does when the body is entering the state of torpor.

There's no possible masking in any case: The nervous system will get immediately triggered by what modeled it in the first place, and it will do it the same way for a nightmare, the imagination of a possible catastrophic scenario, a painful wait for uncertain bad news, or the maddening moment in which you stopped everything inside and around, and broke every possible healing or closure, when you decided to leave this Realm, 18 years ago, through the back door.

Atomically speaking

Each of our atoms, organized together to allow literally everything in the universe to exist (and allow us to breathe and pulse), is a protonic/neutronic nucleus that manages such a powerful electromagnetic force that electrons faithfully orbit around it, without ever separating.

If, at any point, this fundamental nature changed and the force of atoms stopped pulling (and pushing) its content in the perfect balance it does, we (we, The Universe) would fade away, passing through each other into an unimaginable nothing. 

What makes this immensely powerful force so fascinating (besides the fact that we are at the fragile mercy of its nature) is that at an atomic level, there is no touching: Every time we (The Universe and its content) crash into something else, the reality is that the condensation of atoms from each part squeeze together without overlapping (nor touching) to keep their natural state as intact as possible, and reject the other one for the sake of each's own nature.

So, at an atomic level, our sense of touch is nothing but our electromagnetic field rejecting the forces of others.

And yet, at an atomic, molecular, cellular, sensory level, is the rejection of your electromagnetic field the one I yearn for. 

On the tip of my fingers;

at the bottom of my heart;

and somewhere between my eyes and my ears,

where nothing and everything blend to build up my world.

At an atomic level, my neurons reject each other by connecting new paths to understand the beauty of this new, meaning·full experience. 

What happens inside these paths though (where even my dreams seem to realistically recall your no-touch, from your lips to my nose) is a complete mystery.

There, I no longer know if the laws of physics 

play any game 

or if this new way of being happy 

melds cosmic and sacred energies together 

into a whole

and bloom from them.

(Does it matter? 

Definitely not)

While this finite timeframe allows us not to touch bodymindheart, I'll surrender to this infinite sweet, unforgettably en·joy·able rejection.

...And a new door in my heart will have your name on it.