Wolf's Out

Días de fuego

Sonríes, nos sonreímos, sin dejarnos de mirar y entonces nuestras penas se desvanecen, nuestra razón desaparece, nuestros corazones se calientan, nos acercamos y no dejamos de sonreír, nos sonreímos mutuamente como unos locos, nos miramos y todo a nuestro alrededor se vuelve más tenue, el ruido cambia a un silencio temporal en el que sólo escucho tu corazón y sólo veo tu cara, te paso los dedos por los labios y después entre tu pelo, cruzo caminos a través de él, caminos que ya habían sido trazados, como si mis dedos tuvieran su propia memoria. Nuestros ojos se miran y se acercan, nuestras miradas se encajan una a la otra como si estuvieran conectadas por una cuerda que se vuelve más chica. Las bocas se encuentra e inician a luchar entre ellas, con pequeños roces entre sus labios, como si siguieran una coreografía planeada y se juntan, se muerden suavemente dejando pequeños instantes entre los cuales  pequeños suspiros van y vienen intercambiando el calor que llevamos dentro. Mis manos se deslizan en tu cuerpo al igual que las tuyas en el mío en armonía  y tu pelo cae sobre mi cara como una suave ventisca de primavera en la que siento su olor dulce. Nuestro calor se vuelve uno, se enciende y siento como tu piel arde cuando roza la mía.

Dejamos los imperfectos y las penas arder entre las flamas que nacen cuando nos besamos, como si estuvieran llenas de fuegos artificiales que no dejan de volar en todas direcciones. El “tú”y  el “yo” se vuelve un nosotros y aquello que somos queda en pausa para dejar paso a aquella llamarada en la que nuestros almas se convierten.


Te veo, me ves y las llamas siguen, pero nosotros no las seguimos, las dejamos estar en el fondo de nuestros ojos sin dejarlas explotar, ya que nuestro fuego al prenderse quema todo y no deja espacio a quienes somos, tan sólo a aquello en lo que nos convertimos y una vez extintas nos dejan con las cenizas de lo que momentáneamente podemos ser, mas no aquello que permanentemente somos.


Journal: Sommarlov

Stockholm, July 2017


Once the sun rises above the sky for the entire day and night, the atmosphere fulls with happiness visible in the peoples eyes as they hang out with their pals in the once closed out sections of bars and restaurants. We all find a good excuse to be outside and feel the sunshine touch our skin, which after months of waiting is warm.  Summer was exiting all my life, but not as this time, not in the same way.  The winter in Scandinavia made every single degree over 10 celcius like a miracle and so we celebrated them with booze and early hang outs.

A dear friend of ours invited me and my friend Rodrigo to a uptight party in Lidingö: Preppy area full of nice houses and fancy SUV’s. Every opportunity to mix with however it came we took it and as usual we agreed to join. A long metro ride followed by a confusion on which bus line to hop on took us after an unnecessary trip to the called house where the party was taking place. The only non swedish were us and probably the only men besides another shy guy friend of the host, something unusually convenient as a part of enjoying the summer was to get laid as much as possible before the endless winter came again.

The day went by and in between the alcohol, the Swedish games and two or three joints we found ourselves dancing to latino music, which conveniently we played as the girls wanted to dance. All the girls were over average good looking and friendly, seemed like that ideal picture of the swedish summer in front of our faces. We were relentless, passionate, and in a silly way over chivalrous just to land at kiss or a number whom will never reply back.

The night went on and the remaining group decided to hit the a club in the city and we agreed to join, as the usual. From that trip a huge black out remains as the amount of drugs and alcohol were pretty high in our system, yet I still remember a small blonde which her name I don’t recall guiding me to the entrance of the club as I was stuck in a trance of dizziness. An old building near Mariatorget was our destination, which during my daily walks I have never noticed. Techno, people wearing white Adidas shoes, and the usual hipsterish crowd of Södermalm were inside. I regain my senses with the beats of a song I recalled from a time I don´t remember and rushed to drink some water. After a glass or two I turned around to look for my friends and there she was. She was wearing a white dress with a Levi´s denim jacket over. Her hair was light brown and her blue eyes were staring at me while I looked at her perfect smile. Her name was the female version of mine and she was a professional ballet dancer. I didn’t want to confess that she was probably one of the most beautiful women I have seen in my life, but it was easy revealed by my stupid smile and my poor use of words. We kissed after an endless discussion of why 50’s rock’n’roll should become hip again. The rest of the night and my friends became less important the longer I looked at her perfect lips smile.

I wasn’t never the biggest fan of ballet, but for the rest of the summer I was present in almost all her performances, the same ways her body was in my bed and her face in my paintings until we departed ways for different lands.

Journal: November, darkness , and snow.

Stockholm, November 2016

The first snowy days of the year were already approaching and the darkness that comes with them. The city not only changed its appearance, but its inhabitants attitude dramatically changed for a more stiff and depressing reaction towards daily life. Complains about the weather, hardly structured routines and unwillingness to be spontaneous were some of the newly injected characteristics into the minds of everyone. The winter, besides being a season of the year, was also a newly discovered mentality for me and it bugged me. Many swedes I met abroad spoke about it, yet I never fully understood it until this point and in a way I was both scared and fascinated how it highly influenced their lives, yet I couldn’t really accept that it will be the same for me.

It was predicted that the record snowstorms were coming to Scandinavia and people asked me if I have seen snow before in my life, as if every single part of Mexico was a paradise like Playa del Carmen. The white cover of the winter slowly started to appear in every roof and street and the temperature dropped with it. The snow flakes became more of a common view from my window, which showed how beautiful and annoying the winter days can be at the same time.

I found myself drinking more, more confused and yet  in a very odd way was fascinated by this new change.  My days passed by as usual and the tiredness also invaded my insides for each day the sunlight diminished.  For every day my routines became full of planned activities in order to avoid being alone in my apartment looking at the window to see the sunset before 4 p.m.

Journal: Halloween with poor designed costumes

Stockholm, October 2016

I used to be really exited about Halloween back home for the simple fact that people actually were exited about it. Everybody took their fair amount of time and money to come up with a cool costume or at least end up hooking for a sexy version of any profession.  I met with a friend and decided to hit a club which for their Facebook page appeared to take it more seriously.  We got some paint and ended up pulling off semi decent face painted mask. The club was pretty classy with good music, fair sized dance-floor and a bunch of good looking girls, but the amount of people actually wearing a costume was disappointing. Things weren’t the same as home, which deeply reminded how things wouldn’t be the same, and all my excitement was poured with the overpriced gin and tonics I drank.

The night went on and my drunken self forced himself to have fun and dance, as nostalgic fire burned me from inside out, which for being just three months away was ridiculous. Was I that of a cry baby? Did I actually moved all the way just to complain for the lack of sexy policewomen and sexy-nurses on a Halloween night? I put myself together and started walking to the bar to kill my uneasiness with a tequila shot. Just about when I was about to give up and go home, a dear friend of mine managed to get invited to a table full of middle-aged men drinking expensive champagne and smuggled me into the V.I.P. area, where we drank Don Perignon for free and I ended up meeting a girl with the same paint-mask as me with whom I ended up in bed later that night.

As I woke up and looked myself at the mirror to a semi-blurred skull paint and red hangover eyes, I realized how unsure of my future I really was and maybe that was the main reason I deeply wished for a nice Halloween, to feel that life didn’t changed as much as I believed.. but it did and the only way dealing with it was accepting it and move on for the things to come. I walked down the street in a shameful display of my half destroyed Halloween costume with my Ray-Ban Club-master glasses on, yet easy with my inner conclusion. A kid cried when he saw me at the metro as I left the station close to my house.

Journal: Independence day

Stockholm, September 16th 2016

It had been 3 weeks since I moved to Stockholm and everything seemed positive around me. I really liked my classes, had a bunch of new friends, got a nice apartment, met a bunch of new girls. Even though my original plans had to change, they weren’t really dependent on me, everything was going in a good direction.

It was a Friday and after speaking with a couple of Mexicans I knew, we decided to have a small party. This time the good tequila, the fireworks and the red, green and white flags would be absent; but we still would found a way to celebrate it with heavy drinking and home made spicy food. People started to show as the party went on with latino beats and heartbroken mariachi songs, which for being 10,000 km away felt a little like home. The party ended a little earlier and I ended up half drunk in a techno club with some people of my class. No paint on my face, no tequila bottle on hand.. but Viva Mexico all the way.

¿Cuál camino?

Nos encontramos perdidos, con suspiros largos al escuchar el despertador y pedir que las próximas 10 horas se pasen volando y así poder volver a soñar con lugares lejanos, situaciones que creamos en nuestra cabeza o simplemente en un vacío carente del ruido que nos tormenta cuando estamos atrapados en nuestros autos y cubículos.

Vivimos en un limbo en el que nuestra juventud cada momento se siente más lejos y ese fenómeno tan espeluznante llamado madurar se acerca más de prisa. ¿ Así tendremos que vivir hasta el final? Poco a poco nos damos cuenta como gira el mundo y aceptamos ,como los otros millones en él, nuestro destino de seres creados para producir en un sistema diseñado para consumir, igual nunca falta uno que otro loco que quiere ser diferente y terminado tirado en una esquina o en una comunidad de esas hippies que viven en el bosque.

No vine porque estuviera buscando desesperadamente otra de vida. Cuando la gente me pregunta porque decidí mudarme a Estocolmo, siempre pienso en una respuesta convincente que no me haga sonar como un tercer mundista desesperado ni como un malinchista de esos que te encuentras en facebook. Cada vez que esta conversación se repite sigue una especie de diálogo previamente bien planeado: Hago que cada argumento tenga una congruencia para que haga parecer que las razones por las que dejé la mitad de mi vida atrás parezcan razonables. Que por el nivel de vida, que por las oportunidades de trabajo, que porque me gustan las rubias o porque la ciudad es ni muy grande ni muy chica. Dependiendo de las personas, cada respuesta es escrita en nuestro diálogo previamente a inciarlo. La verdad es que a veces yo no tengo idea de porque me fui tan lejos, porque al principio parecía una idea romántica en la que podría perderme y encontrar el amor de mi vida en una calle de un trayecto aletoriamente elegido en el centro de alguna ciudad Europea como le pasó a Horacio Oliveira (que desgraciadamente no fue aleatorio y fue de momentito) o a lo mejor tan sólo quería volverme tan cosmopolita como al lugar que me moviera y poder cambiar las botas de vaquero y las camisas Wrangler por unos botínes Gant y una gabardina color de camello.

De tu Diablo Guardián

” La intensidad de una pasión se mide por la soledad que la procede” – Xavier Velasco

Nunca había sido capaz de experimentar aquel estándar que Velasco estableció. Después de una cantidad considerable de relaciones largas y otras un poco más pasajeras, parece ser que me topé con mi propia Violeta. Hermosa, independiente, impredecible e inolvidable y , al igual que a Pig, se encajó en mi corazón como los tornillos expansivos que se usan en el hormigón.

For you and me

The feelings of this letter have been buried in my pile of unsent letters for a long time, but for unexpected encounters, I decided that making it public is a way to letting it go somehow.

To you,

I decided to leave you now. I’ll leave like  a satellite launching into the endless space to never return, but I will always be thinking about you. I will be spending it all missing everything we never had. Thinking about all the things my brain imagined and created, while you were in another place.

I’ll be dreaming about that bridge we never built, the step we never jumped, and all the prettier things that we never said. All those things we could have become will be kept in the corner of my dreams.

I will always think about the sweetest verses I wrote you, about the nights you were between my arms and the times I kissed you under the endless sky.

I loved you and sometimes you loved me too. How could I not loved your long hair or your infinite yes? How could could I not loved your smile?

My heart looks for you, in the silence of the night, in the emptiness of my bed, and in the loneliness of my room.

The brightness from the city lights covers the same places, yet we aren’t the same neither we are there.

I am leaving you, but you will always be in the inside and outside of me. Your sent in my nostrils, the softness of your skin in my fingertips, and your smile in my brain edges.  You aren’t a candle I can snuff, neither a pack of empty cigarettes I can toss. You are maybe more like that book that you can always read again, like that lucky jacket you always want to wear.

Eternity will come and I will follow it, but you my love I don’t know where you will be, but for sure a piece of you will be with me.

Journal: Vampirisim

Stockholm, February 2018

A void deep in my heart ,for which I haven’t found a total explanation, craves for feeding like a caged tiger who hasn’t had a meal in days. A hunger that invades my mind and corrupts my thoughts like a virus. The numbness created by it , mixes with my hormones injecting me with a dose of uneasiness that pushes slowly from my late nights into my days.

Can I control it? Can i cure it? Its a question that raised as it  penetrated every inch of myself and it became more and more unbearable. My real emotions change rapidly as , the litmus in those pH indicators, making it harder to find an inner peace or a way to kill it. It is not logic, it doesn’t make sense; it something that appears and disappears randomly. As if, a curse was conjured from beyond into me, hitting me like a lightning, burning into my flesh to later disappear.

As time goes by, I figured out that this unexplainable hunger feeds on others. Just like a werwolf or a vampire, it wakes up at night. As if I, in a metaphysical plane, turn into a vampire or some demonic looking being. Not a Stocker’s vampire that feeds in  human blood, rather one that feeds in people’s emotions. I find myself hunting for a prey, with a pretty  look and an charming talk through the parties, bars, and clubs . For a moment, I stop being me and a side of me, who seduces and deceives, emerges to catch victims to satiate this hunger.

I have ignored it as time passed, yet let it feed on the ones close to me. I thought it was my horniness, but as I grew older the more I took girls to bed and the more game I played; the more I realized the hunger wasn’t gone and the closer my lovers got to me the more it feed on them. Eventually, it will eat all their love and later their pain  and leave me only with loneliness.

I accept it now and every night, as I look myself in the mirror, I force it to go back to sleep, since that void inside my heart cannot be filled with others love or pain, but by means from within myself.  The hunger hunts me, but my heart tries to stop it in hope of finding answers, in hope of finding who I am and that one day that vampire within me that preys at night turns into dust with the lights of a brighter future.


Journal: Who drinks at Björnsträdgården?

Stockholm, October 2016

The trees’ leaves slowly changed from green to yellow-brown gradients and ,at the same time, slowly accumulated in many corners of the city. It wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t really warm and strong winds followed and clothes the people were wearing also changed. Everybody seem to jump to a greyscale combination and so did in a way their faces, with less smiles and one by one the outdoors areas of every single bar and restaurant started to close.

I wasn’t used to such a change of mood due to weather conditions. Back home people will not really change depending on how hot or cold was outside, but this wasn’t home and from the very beginning I applied to come, I knew the closer to the poles you are, the colder the people are too.

By that time I had already made a small group of friends from school. We were a little mix of locals and foreigns who weren’t up to just study the whole time and wanted to live a little our lives outside the typical student venues. We planned to go to a hip terrace at the slaughter district south of the city, since due to weather conditions would be closed soon. A friend and I thought it would be a good idea to have some drinks at a park nearby, the closer to the metro the better. We walked up Götgatan and sat down in a small park called Björnsträdgården. It had concrete stairs to people sit down in front of a nice green area with a playground and a skatepark in the background. Seemed like a pretty normal spot for people to gather!

We contacted our local friends, who were a little confused as why we decided to drink in such a place, but still the agreed to come. We didn’t really understand why they were so confused about that, why should we worry about it. Later on we were bothered by junkies asking for beer, gypsies asking for money, the girls catcalled by young North African migrants and some other weird people walking around. We moved quickly as soon my friends came. That small situation kept me thinking for a while as how in that part of town, which for me seemed to be quite decent turned into such a place as soon as the sun started to go down.

Wasn’t that I really didn’t new my neighborhood as good as I thought, but somehow it made those invisible visible to my eyes as I walked every day to the metro. It somehow gave a depressing vibe to the surroundings, but somehow people ignored it. It was somehow interesting to see how the hip and pretty coexisted with the misfits, like if every time they ran into each other they were in different dimensions and those pretty blondes wearing channel blocked from their reality the gypsy girl asking for money. There were and weren’t there and through the pass of days they became invisible to me to, like their own existence was a glitch and their pain and suffering was just far beyond our world to actually care.

Everybody kept walking with their headphones and their thoughts, everybody passed by without looking and in a metaphysical sense  they were just a shadow of something we know what it is, but at the same time we pretend we don’t know.

Later that year the city invested in a new lighting system to cover the whole area where we sat for the first time. Slowly they weren’t there any more as the community service officers started to appear more often. Their spots were no more and their suffering was retired to somewhere else, somewhere were nobody can see, where it  isn’t unpleasant to the eye and people can concentrate a little more in their instagram notifications and their tinder dates and not in the sound made by some coins in a Pressbyrån coffee cup.