My writing attempts

Madness and Night

The moon dancing in the blackish sky; imperfect. It reminds me of that beauty that I sometimes forget. My ideas jump off the window and run to reach the porcelain lady above, but they collapse. I dream awake about that madness and I ask the nothingness about your absence in those moments where silence whispers in my ear the ticking sound of the clock. I lose myself among your accord curtains, but there is where I want to be gestating with a drawn smile upon my face.



My writing attempts

“Vorágine, Part I”

The evening remained intact, the moon and the stars were leading the path. The wind brought the scent of the night, making you believe that anything impossible could happen. The small bricks on the walls had an orangish tone that gave the impression of being in another time. The table was in a private room apart from the rest. When the first bottle of wine was about to be emptied some steps were heard and the gazes turned to follow where the sound came from. Deep black eyes opened languidly. The conversation among the group went on as usual till the man started playing the shiny red accordion. The way it was being played caught one person’s attention and he made a sudden move turning his whole body almost completely towards the man and remained in silence until the songs ended, each one made him feel as if he were blood splashing everywhere when being released from an artery.


My writing attempts

Time Traveler- Part I

I travel in time. I see the movie over and over, those tears I could not catch. Everything becomes intangible like a dream. Yet I feel all since the beginning of it. I see those deep dark eyes showing me an unknown path. I see the way you walk, how your muscles tense while moving until I lose your silhouette on the horizon. On the next sunrise, I look for that thick hair of yours, lips like stones and that soothing voice pronouncing your name when my body gets closer to yours and dears to articulate a demand, your name. Our essence became a birthmark that we would never get rid of.

My writing attempts

A Never Given Note

I know that gaze, lost in the beginning, then it dears to look at my eyes and penetrates and then it dissolves again. Intensity, passion, mystery. Things around are a partial text of what it is a whole and I would like to discover; like separating petals in a flower. What’s underneath that gorgeous mask? I wonder how you would love, if you have… If you have been loved. I would like to know your failures, your success and fears, what makes you feel alive, sad, angry; what your purpose in life is. I do not know if I would talk to you, if you would talk to me. I just know that I only have this moment that I can always remember.

My writing attempts

Yesterday Night

The coffee was black as usual, almost no sugar. This time the music did not match with the idea I had in mind about what I thought it should have been played. A blurry image, chattering, dark wavy hair in front of me, lips being licked looking for moisture. “You are a mess,” I thought. We could have focused on our typical conversations, but your mouth was in denial and the words died in your lips. My attempts of changing the topic failed. It was too late to stay up all night. “I will leave soon, you don’t have to worry,” I mumbled. My eyes were burning, although that was not really important to me. I wanted the moment to last. 

What do I think of...?

Lorca’s Elf

The Angel, the Muse and the Elf; imagination, intelligence and chaos is how Federico García Lorca in his famous Elf’s Game and Theory describes those terms. The theory is about Spanish art and culture and now is instilled deeply in me to the point where I experience a cathartic moment every time I read Lorca. I want to share a quote about my favorite one, the Elf in García & García (2012) book:

The Elf works over the ballerina’s body like the wind over the sand. With magic turns a beautiful girl into a paralyzed of the moon, or makes an old broken man that begs for money by the wine stores blush like a teenager. Finds hair with a nocturnal port smell and every moment works on the arms, with expressions that are mothers of the dances of all of the times (p. 37.)

It seems that the Angel and the Muse without the Elf are flavorless. The Elf is the perfect spice, the vibrant red color in blood; the synchronized orgasm in two naked bodies; the shiniest meteor light beam; the birth of a child. Sometimes we need that something that makes the rest of the pieces fall in their place. No limits, pure energy. I could see this almost everywhere, but especially in art; for example, when a musician loses himself when playing an instrument; he is the only one that exits, along with the only entity that makes him alive, music. “This artist has Elf!”



García, L. F. & Garcia, P. M. (2012). Poesía completa, Federico García Lorca. NY: Vintage español.

My writing attempts

The Immortals

Death doesn’t exist for the immortals; they dance around the fire and burn with it; live in lightning, in the meteors, in the stars as they explode. They’re pious and sing to us, tearing us apart; they take us gently by the hands and throw us to the black hole. I know just a few; I meet them little by little on my path, but when I have them face to face, I burn in their flame. I carry their balm in my soul. What would we do without the immortals?