You make the time when you care and you open your eyes when you can, when it’s been a long time in the dark, when hoping didn’t give you much back.

And the shore is wide, the tide is back, and the mountain’s shadow is all around.

That, time. Healer, slayer. Dawn after dawn.


I remember


As I go on in this journey of the soul, lost to the idea and struggle of getting what I want, and somehow believing that I will never get it, carrying on my shoulders the blessing and curse of feeling too much deep inside and close to nothing outside… I remember you.

I dare say every single person I have met has left a mark in my life. It is not cliché, that phrase that says we are all unique, whatever we are meant to be. We can only see another person through our own eyes, but here it goes…

I remember you father, every day. I miss our subtle disagreements and quiet understandings. I wish you could be in more chapters of my book of life. Few words, as it was, as we were, as it is.

I remember you, the thief taking advantage of an unexperienced and lonely heart.

I remember you, the teacher with family, friends, study, work, paths and omissions on his juggling hands. A man with a strong desire to share your beliefs, guided by your faith and your wish for enlightenment to someone else in the same path you found it. I remember you when I read the news of the struggle of your native land, I suffer with you.

I remember you, the sweet man with a permanent smile on his face, and a little sadness in his heart. A kind soul that used to cheer me on. A friend living in a foreign country, trying to stay in touch with what really matters. September is your month, happy birthday.

I remember you, the intriguing man who has the ability to take me through the whole spectrum of feelings. I keep learning good and bad things about life and myself thanks to you.

I remember you, the young man impossible to forget right now while we are still snoring side by side, at midnight, and love has not ended with the night.

Both hands


…And you held my hands, both of them. As I hold you now in my heart. My hands don’t forget the strong and gentle hold. I’m not alone.

You gave me strength, in a good and also in a not so good way. We are alike in many ways. I forgive you, I forgive myself. We are learning, all of us.

The saturday night movie, the talks about traffic, my wedding, my mother and my late ending childhood await… there are moments we didn’t get to share. I’m torn. So soon, so sad, so fast. Oh, life!

It will always hurt imagining one or more little mouths of my own learning about life and love, learning to walk and talk, without Buba being one of their first face associated words.

I miss you. Buenas noches, papi.



El parque


Sentado en el parque observaba a otro hombre que caminaba despacio y mantenía sus ojos casi cerrados mientras su brazo izquierdo cruzado sostenía su brazo derecho, y la mano derecha sostenía su mandíbula; con un dedo índice que abrazaba su mejilla y señalaba al cielo.

El otro hombre era una versión más acalorada de sí mismo, a juzgar por las mejillas rojas. Ambos vestían pantalones color beige y zapatos café, y una camisa con cuello y mangas cortas. Era evidente que también compartían algún tipo de problema o angustia, grande o pequeña. No supo distinguir si la ira, un riesgo de derrame lagrimal, o el estar sumido en pensamiento, le hacían caminar viendo no más que sus propias pestañas.

Casi cómodamente sentado, disfrutaba del paisaje y esperaba a que el tiempo pasara y las cosas mejoraran, porque Dios es sabio y grande, y maneja el destino. Estaba seguro de que la amaba, y no había necesidad de demostrarlo más allá de llevarse bien cuando estaban juntos, y no verse mientras no se llevaban bien; habiendo tantos objetos de afecto, ¿para qué centrarse en uno tan demandante y explosivo?

Mientras tanto, el caminante incesable decidía si ir a comprar un chocolate o una manzana; pues tenía hambre. Y luego de eso decidiría si emprendería una lucha consigo mismo y con la terquedad de ella. No sabía si la amaba de verdad, ni por qué, pero no podía ni quería vivir sin ella.

Ganó el orgullo, y no por un tiempo; corrompió la duda como agente oxidante; fatigó el tiempo como en una maratón. ¿Para el caminante, pensando? ¿Para el paciente, sentado esperando? Definitivamente no para el tercer hombre que no estaba en el parque, porque estaba actuando.

Where are my lines?


My lines have gone to a wild land that I do not know. No one does. They have been gone for months, for a lifetime.

Those words that hug each other forming multicolor lines that have hidden under the velvet flower vase, inside the brown treasure box, and beside the imperfectly peeled oranges.

The lines have crossed my face instead of my fingers, in a period of time where growing up was not an option. Though, stubborn child I still am, with a wronged soft heart and a sharp mouth. A child that could never adapt quite well, no matter where. A child who does not understand life and all it takes. A child that feels too much for her own sake.

They -my lines- have gone to find what they know I am still looking for. It fails to come to me to finally figure out if it exists at all. Oh, lines! You are in my mind, across my heart, sailing away. Away, somewhere, away, disguised as prayers made of light and inaudible songs. You have kept away while I selfishly calm down my heart, treat it well, keep the doubts at bay.

Cursed be the wait and the bad earthly faith that touches the great souls that only good deserve.