La complejidad de las cosas

I usually become afraid of places, people, myself. I stopped writing because the feeling of failure was

paralyzing and then, not writing at all became my new paralyzer. As such, I stopped trusting because

of the pain it meant to be vulnerable, but then the lack of belief became my new pain inflicter.

But the biggest complexity of all was my fear of love, I stopped loving because it killed me not to be loved by

someone specifically, and so I tried for a while not to bring people over, to the inside of my mind and as an act

of resistance, I would carelessly erase every trace of them, I would make them silent just to not get obsessed

with their voices, I would cut out their heads and replace them with meaningless images of empty minds. I

stopped loving because the deepness inside me is and has always been a big-time swallower and I would

have to prevent you from getting lost in it. I stopped loving because it was the safest thing to do for everyone

involved.

So now here I am. Standing in the edge of nothing, looking at the eyes of no one, ignoring the time passing

between texts, and friendships and encounters and I hardly believe is worth it.

What else is there to love? Count me in, I wanna taste de blood of your scars with the tip of my tongue, what

else is there to trust, I'll open my chest for you to reach me and place your hand near my heart for you to feel

every living heartbeat. what else is there to write? I'll fill pages of pages, a forest of papers marked with your

name. I'll be my own god in every story.

¿Cómo es la vida de un escritor que no escribe?

Pasarán los días pegados al celular, los días de no hacer nada, los días consumidos por la ansiedad, los días

de deslizarte lentamente en las paredes para caer desplomado al piso debido a la complejidad de las cosas,

los días de olvidar que en tus manos está el escape de todo y de todos, pasarán los días de escribir palabras

que pertenecerán a otros, de enorme trabajo, de responsabilidades adquiridas y de un universo de

pensamientos que nunca encontrarán salida si no los escribes.  

Una vez más he olvidado que soy escritora y aunque me he convertido sin querer en otras cosas, cualquier

intento de escapar de lo que soy solo me traerá de vuelta a donde estoy.