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 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.

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.

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.

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.

The letter I never sent

Dear you (or dearest, or beloved you):

It is time for this letter to reach your hands, your eyes, or any sense that allows you to absorb as much as I try to convey in this letter.

Much has happened since I last heard from you. Whether it was two months ago or twenty years ago in Earth time, the different paths that are travelled in each act, step and error, can turn just one day into an entire eternity.

I write this letter to you with a unique and universal intention.

What I never said (and/or what I never let you say) became dozens (sometimes hundreds) of paths called "what if...?". Not only because of the possible (probably more conciliatory) way out that these paths would have offered; but also because in many of them you would still be here, in my life, perhaps by my side... or perhaps I would still be on your radar.

However, as I write this letter I also think about whether those "what ifs" would have also meant that who I am now, would not exist in the form that I have (you know, a different crystal in the kaleidoscope and a small turn of a couple of degrees fundamentally changes the large scale). And maybe it is thanks to you - and/or maybe it is thanks to your absence - that I am now who I am... maybe removing you (without saying or letting you say) was key so that in this present, my kaleidoscope with its shapes and colours as they are today, finds me at a point I never dreamed of being.

What would happen if, in this set of crystals, I met you again? What would happen if, in this set of crystals, I met you for the first time? Would I have understood from the beginning that you had to leave my life as soon as possible? Would you have understood it? Would you have perhaps made that decision much earlier than me?

Does it matter?

Probably not.

And yet here I am, tracing paths of what could -or could not- have been if our paths had not separated the way they did.

Every wound, every difference, every toxicity, every comment and even every blow, led me by reason or force to question my ways, my decisions and my reactions. More or less awake, I learned that the only way to survive is to question even the ground I walk on. And that was the road that brings me here and now, to this extremely complex and fractal specific moment, to write this letter to you.

Above all,

Thank you.

I would not have done it without you.

Dear you (or dearest, or beloved you), we may never meet face to face again. I may no longer exist on your radar and that's okay, I'm glad you've moved forward in the direction Life had for you (I'm even happier if this direction has brought you joy). You are still in mine, undoubtedly because something unresolved kept beating between my ears and my heart. That is why I've written this letter.

Perhaps,

as a kind of ritual or spell,

writing it will allow me to untie a thousand knots at once to continue on my journey.

I will then carry, without this knot of you, still something of you in me:

Your memory,

Your influence,

and perhaps even,

your pain (and mine).

All of the above, I guarantee you, 

transmuted into different forms of love.

Receive from me the most cordial greeting in the way you prefer.

And my deepest gratitude for having been part of my life.

S.

A loving goodbye.

Journeys.

Journeys begin, and journeys end.

Many of them will never begin, 

but all of them will end

(the journey of this specific writing,

the journey we start with the ones we've chosen to love,

and absolutely and definitely, the journey that brings me here, to write these lines, while I breathe and beat on the other side of the screen).

Many journeys I ended with so much pain that I decided to cause it too. 

Many others were so unbearable, that I soothed the pain with just enough venom to keep me alive and unfeeling.

And more times than I can admit, they even left me with a temporal void that throbbed insipidly inside my chest, while my body made all possible efforts to keep me alive and rebuild my heart.

Hearts, 

loves, 

losses, 

tears over books and words, 

and sometimes over numbers 

(dates and algebra).

What I never expected aeons ago was to meet the loves I'm losing now while this new, resilient, reshaped and a hundred times revived heart faces the pain 

without escaping it, 

without hurting back, 

And without needing anything but water to keep it flowing and floating, among the tears of joy, love, sadness, melancholy and hope that the end of this journey brings.

Why now? Why this way? Why this moment?

(...Why not?) 

Perhaps because this time, when I chose to love you (and learn from you, grow with you, and face my demons and triggers through you), I did it knowing that the price to pay would be this pain by the end of the journey

(but of all people, you were worth it).

I give myself entirely, completely, to the love and pain I feel now.
The lesson this time will be feeling the sweet pain and the sour happiness that the certainty of an end (like no other phenomenon in the world) gives.

Without knowing how long it would last, I began this journey of loving you how I now know I can. 

And the end arrived and held our hands telling us the biggest lesson: 

The healing power of a loving goodbye.

I love you. 

I'll always remember you.

Thank you, infinitely, for this journey.

S.

Take a bow

Hoy llueve. 

Conduzco por la carretera con especial cuidado mientras escucho una canción que me recuerda a ti.

La lluvia también me lleva a un recuerdo, uno que me despedía de ti con la sensación de que no te volvería a ver. También entonces, tras decirte adiós, conducía sobre una húmeda y resbaladiza carretera.

Escuchaba yo entonces, una y otra vez, "Take a bow", como si en su verso, "say goodbye" pudiera encontrar una pista que me ayudara a descifrar qué diablos había pasado tras el último beso que me diste.

Subí a mi auto en medio de la garúa (tal como lo hice hoy antes de subir), tras una noche de dulce, apasionado y triste amor, todo junto. Desnuda sobre la cama, te besaba y me acunaba en tus brazos mientras intentaba contener mis lágrimas. Finalmente, no pude.

Me miraste asustado pensando que algo había pasado.

La noticia de tu inminente partida había pasado. Y por alguna forma extraña de inocencia o ingenuidad (y aunque te conocí sabiendo que habría un adiós), no podía procesar que te fueras.

Sacudo el recuerdo de mi cabeza para mitigar mi piel erizada. No quiero ceder a la emoción. Pongo el aire caliente al tiempo que sigue sonando la canción.

Mis lágrimas fueron incontenibles y entendiste qué pasaba. Me dijiste "Esto es hermoso". No pude entender qué podía ser hermoso de la escena sino hasta que lo verbalizaste: "Me siento amado".

Mis oídos zumbaron. Yo aún no sabía. Lo sentía y latía dentro de mí, pero no tenía un nombre.

Ahora lo tenía. Era amor.

Te estaba amando. Pasó que, sin buscarlo, mi pecho florecia a tus rayos. Y a ti te parecía hermoso.

No dormí bien esa noche. Siempre que dormimos juntos, el contacto de nuestra piel era necesario y apacible, pero yo no podía sentir el calor de tu piel esa noche. Dolía de una forma que, tal como mi amor, tampoco lograba definir. Busqué mi propio espacio, mientras, y entre sueños, me buscabas y volvías a tocarme. Repetí el rito hasta que quedé al borde de la cama y tú abrazándome, siempre dormido. Me resigné y dejé que doliera, dejé que las lágrimas cayeran y  dejé que el sueño me alcanzara en medio de ese escenario. No era fácil, pero era la última vez que sentía también tu desnudez, así que cerré mis ojos y disfruté y sufrí de tu piel hasta que concilié el sueño.

...Días después, me confesaste que, en tu propio camino de regreso, lloraste también mi eventual ausencia.

Lo que yo no te confesé es que aquella mañana de lluvia, tal como ahora, los limpiaparabrisas de mi auto funcionaban perfectamente bien... y aun así fueron incapaces de detener mis lágrimas.

A meta approximation to a Schrödinger's heartbreak.

For a long time, I thought about writing down your effect on me, and the recurrent image was the effect of the Moon over the sea, or Tides. 

Now, when there's no left time, nor anything else to win or lose, the image becomes not only on hand, but also the most beautiful, and bittersweet, way to represent the circumstances.

My dear Eclipse:

This will be the letter of Schrödinger: I might or might not send it, and if I do, it might or might not arrive the way and shape it is now. At the moment, I just write down my thoughts and feelings, hoping to release them through the tension that has built up inside me with time.

This time without you hasn't been easy; the moment I met you and decided to make you part of my life for as long as it lasted, came for me with the full commitment to create a place for you in my heart. For me, one becomes unique the minute they say something that brings them light so I can see their phases... And that is how you appeared in my life, with light and uniqueness. Having you around wasn't only easy, it was also an immense opportunity to learn from you and me, gravity and waves. Moreover, your mere presence meant, in many ways, more than you can now imagine. 

That being said, yours is not a space I can replace or empty, not now, not ever: it is and will be there with endearment and care. Also, for now, with new pain; having left you behind was beyond doubt a painful and hard decision, not only because the idea of doing it before your appearance felt like missing something that I didn't have in the first place, but also because part of me, deep within, didn't want to and opposed it for a while.

For the way I did it, I deeply apologize. That part hurts me the most because I know it hurt you. Is there anything you could or should have done differently? I cannot put myself or you into that position, because interactions themselves are enough to change us and potentially trigger us. Hoping for you to do something differently would've meant for you, changing your own crescent path in nature; and for me, to focus on factors that I can't control rather than the only ones I can, such as who I am, what I can do about it, what deep currents and storms are still there and why, or even if I deserve to grow as a force of nature with your orbit around. I am sorry right now if these words and waves come across as disturbing or selfish, I think part of me knows that part of you might have questions (or not), and overall, all of me knows that you didn't deserve the way I quit.  

I feel profoundly honoured for the cycle we spent together. I feel thankful for your waning light, for being a mirror more times than I can count, for your gentle ways, for your deep respect, for your ancient knowledge, for the force you brought out of me, and for caring... I could transparently feel it. I am also thankful for your shadows because they made you real and not simply an illusion or a mask.

I'll keep thinking and feeling you until the pain gets released enough to keep the essential beauty that involves what we experienced. As I have already said, the place you have in my heart is deep, loving, and yours. 

Yours, too,

Tide.

The mirror of our pain

On my inner journey, maybe the biggest highlight has been to discover how, in the middle of the darkness that takes over us when we feel mad or angry, there's a deeper layer that we're trying to protect: Our pain and sorrow.

It can be carefully, thanks to the right people around and a heart willing to learn, that one can be able to see this within themselves, by wondering why are we mad, and especially, what is the pain and vulnerability that we are protecting through that shield.

Opening up is never, never an easy process. On the contrary: Sometimes it is so hard, that we rather deflect onto other people and situations for what happens to us than hold accountability for our feelings, actions and reactions (maybe, because doing this last thing is assuming that there are wounds open and sometimes, these are too painful to even look at).

The good thing if you do? You will start the most amazing and transforming journey of your life, and will be able to go on with fewer burdens that weigh you down.

The bad thing? It will certainly hurt. 

Emotions are hard, but that's why they make you strong. 

...And it will always be better to face our demons than to hide from them.

"We are what we do, especially 

what we do to change what we are..."

The imaginary man.

Once, I fell in love with an imaginary man.

He had a beautiful imaginary smile.

And used to look at me with his imaginary eyes.

His imaginary hands

touched my naked skin.

His imaginary lips

whispered an imaginary love.

My imaginary man

was perfect in my eyes.

My imaginary man

fell in love with an imaginary me.

Some day, my imaginary man,

I will meet a real man,

with a real love

for this real and flawless woman.

But that real man won't have

(not even the half)

the heart that my imaginary man 

dropped to the trash can;

that heart that clings like a vine

to continue flourishing.

My imaginary man

didn't see in the dark

(but he saw nothing but darkness in me).

My imaginary man

was just in my head (everyone says).

But they don't understand 

that my imaginary man

(the one I loved just because he's in my mind),

is the same real man that I will never stop loving.

My imaginary man

will never understand how much I loved him.

Or maybe

(just maybe)

he's so imaginary, 

that even though he understands it,

he never really cared.