Jim. 16. Mexico City. Bilingual writing blog

I'm better with a pen
©

Escribes como si te ahogaras.

Tomando palabras a bocanadas para no dejarlas ir nunca, dejando a tus pulmones chuparles lo que sea que posean de oxígeno, escupiéndolas abruptamente para tomar otras y repetir.

Escribes como si te ahogaras

Agitas los brazos desesperadamente tratando de sostenerte, tus piernas moviéndose en espasmos. Sin darse cuenta que sin moverte te mantienes a flote.

Escribes como si te ahogaras

No aprovechas el aire ni las palabras, asiendo el vacío y nunca alcanzando. Nunca evitando que las emociones te compriman la garganta, las fauces de la emoción acumulada disfrutando la sangre fresca de la aorta mientras se cierran y se cierran, tus visión cada vez más decorada de puntos brillantes mientras pierdes la conciencia

Sin llegar a ningún lado, sin subir lo suficiente y sin rendirse para siempre, sin hundirse y ver la luz una vez más.

Escribes como si te ahogaras.

Sin propósito, excepto para salvar tu vida.


Pero no te das cuenta, niño, que te ahogas en un vaso de agua. (20.10.14)

  en español    poesía    graphemes in line  

Everything exhausts me lately, I’ve became somewhat of a narcoleptic.
It becomes an unbearable heaviness in my eyelids and a growing emptiness in my chest. Not heavy enough to stay or light enough to float away.
There is some enjoyment as I switch planes from the dream to the act then to the memory and to the dream again. The small idiosyncrasies particular to each make for a reasonable entertainment in their discovery. Sadly, this is a short lived joy as we are bound by those same specific characteristics, dragged into the rigid structure of possibility or impossibility just when we start to feel we glimpsed into what makes each great.

I am so exhausted tonight. I feel impossible and contradictory and you’re the only person I trust enough to bring me back. In so, I elaborate a ruse, a distraction for my consciousness, and my half-dreams and half-hopes come to make a whole image of you simply sitting next to me in the dark.

I want to thank you, to apease you, and so I lean for a kiss. Words failed me too often today as I felt my skin raw, my feelings still vibrating alongside the music. Ecstatic and out of control, I barely noticed the fear that crept up my throat as I sang my heart out to the cold night after the rain, to the stars and its light drowned by the stage, to the problems I want to shed and leave behind.

Out of myself, I keep on dreaming. Fantazising. Extrapolating. Rationalizing based on dream logic, appearing and disappearing in and out the room as the city slept around me and I was still leaning to one side, eyes half closed, window half open, the wind reminding me of how abstract reality is in its concreteness, bringing the dreams back to earth, opening my eyes to find nothing. I rush and tumble into bed, imagining you. Hoping for a day tomorrow where I am not scared of feeling, where I am not scared of failing. How unsure are we of ourselves to fear openness so much? Closing ourselves shut but to each other, drifting through ignoring the pain.

You’re not here but I know you. You’re not here and so I miss you.

Hoppefully, I am too asleep to remember. Hopefully I won’t ever forget it.


  graphemes in line    in english    prose    scanviahill    i posted it....  

I’m always more eloquent on the verge of deep sleep.
The intersection between planes of consciousness, endless vacuum waiting to be filled, unbound by immediacy. A creative space of irreality, where words are still words but also colours and dreams. A true glimpse of abstraction and meaning as a metaphor.
Slipping in and out of life, having a bird’s view and looking through the cracks in space.

There is nothingness as something and that’s what I need to let go.


You open the shower and the water is boiling. Out of every small hole comes out more steam than water as it calcinates your nerves when it reaches your skin.

It leaves your skin raw, you say, you feel, you hope, applying more friction as if tearing off all your outer layer would be enough to tear off the lies and the mistakes from it.

You’ve hated your physical imperfections before but they made you unique. Now, they just mark you as cursed.

Your flayed being is as open as you get and you still can’t trust others enough. You just parade around, skin tearing, the bold redness of muscle and blood spilling and drawing every eye in the room as if in ridicule. You’re not in pain because you fear it but you feel everything to never become empty.

There’s not enough water, not enough steam, not enough organic matter in your whole being that could be enough to tear you apart and help you start over. Not enough doings or undoings.

There’s not enough of you for anyone to save.


  body horror cw    self harm cw    maybe?    graphemes in line    prose  

I’m listening to heartbreak songs,
as if you could ever break mine.

(Only I have ever hated myself enough)

I hear the strings reach the crescendo,
yell out words you know too well.

(The window is splattered by the rain, I say to keep the tears flowing)

What is it like to feel whole?
I just knew emptiness until I felt raw power:
It’s loneliness amplified.

Maybe the vibration will be enough someday.
Enough to fill your image of me.
Enough, barely enough, not nearly enough


To fill this void on my chest.  {early evening lamplight thoughts}

It’s nostalgia
for a life not yet lived.

For midnight skylines
and full moons.

For loving ideas
more than I could lovers.

Instant polaroids, noon picnics.

Loud laughs, louder crying.

No stagnation.
No calm waters.

Breathing in my feelings
to wear my writing on my sleeve.

Shaping constellations with words
and your hands’ silhouette.

How do you lose what you’ve never had?


Nostalgia for the idyllic city of my teenage dreams (via telchines)

Disappear before we forget about you.


a six word story so you’ll live forever in my memory

La libertad del vacío 

La que te hace querer llorar a las 2 de la mañana, rodeado de sombras que alguna vez tuvieron forma de fantasmas y que ahora bastan con ser comunes para aterrarte cualquier otra noche.

Tienes tantas cosas por hacer que se extienden hasta el fin de tu tiempo pero, aunque te rendiste al sueño entre la pila de papeles garabateados y envolturas de cosas que pasan por comida, algo te mantuvo consciente y creció hasta que terminaste sin dormir y sin despertar, viendo al techo y a las estrellas fosforescentes que pegaste cuando alguien todavía creía en ti.

Read More


  graphemes in line    en español    prosa  

And you ponder how the fuck you fell in love as you sip the bitter coffee that, if anyone asks, is great, thank you and no, you don’t need sugar or milk because sweetness feels foreign on your tongue and you have a hermit crab complex of slipping further into yourself if someone starts getting too close to you as has happened way too often now, or if they poke you with a stick.

So in that self-obsession, you ponder about cores and abstraction and about your aversion to oversimplification or simplicity in itself but sometimes you can’t help but get to it as you deconstruct your rights and wrongs over and over and over, creating different parts of yourself that took each and every one of those choices and seeing every single part of them change because of that one choice of leaving early that morning or of taking the bus when you could’ve walked home and see the sky loose its depth because goddamn, are there too many buildings around you and anyone else would feel small but you feel in control between them, even if you miss the sunset and how the blue seems to break into other ten different colours but at least you’re here alone and that’s how you’ve always preferred being, or so you tell yourself.

But it’s not as easy and abstraction becomes an elaborate lie about basic simplicity to turn your back to reality but reality’s a bitch and it will come and slap you in the face if it needs to, probably because this coffee is so fucking bad and you’re drinking it anyways, pondering how, when they call love “simple”, it is a lie and they are all liars almost as big as you are and how they deny themselves to the innumerable shades of it with everyone they might meet just like you choose to deny yourself of the sky everyday but one, when you went to the roof and stayed there for hours singing and crying about how you felt so lost and how you’re not a crab but a goddamn person and how you don’t feel like one and how you would choose not to feel.

"Hey. Were you waiting long?"

Not feeling a thing would be simple.

"Nah, it’s fine."

At least it’s a lie you can also live with.


  graphemes in line    prose    in english  

Son meses los que vivo con palabras prestadas. Se vuelve una mezcla de admiración hacia su calidad y frustración absoluta con la falta de material. O, más bien, con la falta de creatividad y/o inspiración.

Seamos sinceros, a nadie le interesa leer sobre un constante sentimiento de desesperanza dado que ésta siempre es estacionaria. Si no es lo suficientemente terrible, se vuelve rutinaria. Tocas fondo y todos saben que no puedes caer más bajo. La apatía es hasta bienvenida. Ya no tienes nada que perder.

Aún así, supongo, es imposible dejar de oír historias. Buenas o malas, influye más en su cualidad de permanencia qué tan involucrado estés en ellas y con eso, que tanto te puedas desapegar.

Para eso sirve escribir, me han dicho.

Yo qué sé de que me sirve, la verdad.

No sé de que les sirva a ellos tampoco. Un pueblo en la montaña, que llora con nostalgia sus bosques y sus arroyos pero que enfrenta con el entusiasmo adquirido en el consumismo a las gigantes carcazas que se alzan frente a ellos creando estrellas en líneas paralelas.

Esa ventaja geográfica, sin embargo, que poseen frente a una cantidad innumerable de otros pueblos perdidos que no tienen la fortuna de estar bajo el ala de la creciente metrópolis, no impide que se desarrolle lo que yo desde fuera puedo nombrar como la constante “recolección de vidas”, tratando de desapegarme del morbo que tal nombre puede generar.

Ésta recolección se refiere simplemente al hábito de rondar tanto literal como figurativamente y saber el estado de la gente con las que has compartido un espacio definido (ya sea calle o el pueblo entero) desde que puedes o quieres recordar. Lentamente almacenar en la memoria las generaciones que, atadas originalmente a ese lugar, se siguen desarrollando y creciendo.

Justo cuando crees que estás a punto de desbordar, que son demasiadas las penas y alegrías que circulan tu casa, donde también viven tus hijos y sus hijos y tal vez los hijos de éstos cuando llegue el momento..

Y en ese remolino de recuerdos, se muere Arturo.
Un ataque cardiaco, te dice Bárbara, aunque su madre detrás de ella lo niega con la cabeza, más triste y sobria de lo que jamás la viste en vida.
No le preguntas más a ninguna. Los muertos no hablan si no son mentiras y los fantasmas no existen.

Y en el mapa de tu memoria se va apagando la familia que vivía al terminar la calle.
Aún así, no puedes, podrías, podrás olvidarlos.
Incluso con tus hijos y tus nietos y los hijos de tus nietos,
no tienes porqué.

Ellos también vivieron allí.


  graphemes in line    prosa    en español