Antes de estar sola, antes de la gente de quien debo protegerme, antes de la gente en quien busco refugio, antes de ganar, antes de perder, antes de sentir que me defraudo a mí misma, antes de sentir que me supero, antes de la nieve y de la luz y de la vida que la sociedad me exige y de la vida que mi espíritu desea, y antes de lo que no logro y de lo que sí veo, y antes de él y antes de todos ellos, soy de ella. Ella siente mi latido de vida aunque yo no esté, pequeña y más grande que el mundo.


the wound speaks

I’m remembering the day you broke my heart, it seems like it was yesterday, it seems like it is now. I wish I could follow up on my own thread of thoughts, and I can’t: this moment I love you more than life, the next minute I want to run, far and fast, for my life. Who are you? My slave, my puppy, my surrogate father, my angel baby at my breast, my demon lover who wants to feed me his body and give me life with the prerrogative to lock me up in a cell like a pet woman to adore and to whom you can administer pleasure and pain, life and death? Complex. Your compact body holds my pleasure, my need, and … what combustions of emotion unknown to me? In your arms I turn into a furious river and I want pain, the pain to be alive, the pain to be so part of you and yet so infinitely alone. At this juncture of my life I am this body I loathe and love, I expose and protect, this ambivalent thing without a root. I see myself as your torture victim and yet I come without you even calling. I create the scenarios, I the punishments and the rewards. When did I become such a lone thing, that no amount of love can reach me? When did I become so sad, so sick? I speak about your body and in my heart I know that what I’m hiding from is from looking at your face, your gaze. Is it easier to create a monster than to look at what I have: a man. Only a man. Someone with needs and wants and a desire to be held and loved. And maybe it would be infinitely less painful, but I .. am so … frightened.



Cada vez que te escribo

te reinvento

para poder seguirte amando.



—Es muy difícil.
—El amor. ¿Cómo amar sin poseer? ¿Cómo dejar que te quieran sin que te falte el aire? Amar es un pretexto para adueñarse del otro, para volverlo tu esclavo, para transformar su vida en tu vida. ¿Cómo amar sin pedir nada a cambio, sin necesitar nada a cambio?
—Si no hubiera pasado el tiempo, sentiría que me estás haciendo un reproche. Pero en realidad creo que estás asustado. Y si estás asustado es porque algo fuerte te está pasando. Casi siempre, el error que cometemos es pensar sólo en lo que nos pasa a nosotros. Nos parece tan importante eso que sentimos que nada de lo del otro puede ser tan importante como eso que sentimos. Y esa contradicción suele ser trágica.

—De "El lado oscuro del corazón"


por qué recuerdo

Who says that time heals all wounds? It would be better to say that time heals everything except wounds. With time the hurt of separation loses its real limits, with time the desired body will soon disappear, and if the desired body has already ceased to exist for the other then what remains is a wound, disembodied.
—Chris Maker, Sans Soleil