“Behind this sad spectacle of words unspeakably trembles the hope that you read me, that I didn’t die completely from your memory” – Julio Cortázar
“Behind this sad spectacle of words unspeakably trembles the hope that you read me, that I didn’t die completely from your memory” – Julio Cortázar
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, feels 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 Celsius like a miracle,thus we celebrated them with booze and early hang outs.
A dear friend of ours invited me and my friend Rodrigo to an uptight party in Lidingö: Preppy area full of nice houses and fancy SUV’s. Every opportunity to mix with whoever it came we took it, and we agreed to join as usual. A long ride in the metro followed by a confusing bus route took us 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 along with the cold hearts and busy schedules.
The day went by and in between the alcohol, the Swedish games and two or three joints we found ourselves dancing to latino music. All the girls were over average good looking and friendly, fiting the 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 followed, as usual. From that trip a huge black out remains as the amount of drugs and alcohol were pretty high in our system,but 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.
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.
” 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Stockholm, January 2018
There is not a clear explanation of how everything began, but I know that it has been constant and I have been unable to stop it. I fall as the water falls through the sewers in a rainy day , into a silent darkness, but unlike of the underground planned patterns water follows, I do it within my thoughts into unknown paths that existed within me.
I became unable to step back and the daily solitude makes it harder to hold to who I am. I am there, but not really there. An autopilot leads my daily routine, while my inner self struggles to gain control over the things that define me. There aren’t rights or wrongs, just unclear ideas and mixed feelings about the things and persons around me.
I get lost in the endless labyrinths my mind creates in loneliness, but unlike Theseus; I have no thread to follow back. There is no Minotaur in my labyrinth, yet I fear a reflection of myself awaits me at the center. Will it leave me there and take over? I don’t know. My constant pain is unclear and unfounded, but slowly spreads into my daily life and those around me. Do I want it to inflict it to others or do I want them to help me escape? I am not sure, yet countless times I have somehow being face-to-face to the possible truth without finding any catharsis. There is nothing to confess, yet there is also nothing to not feel guilty of. Nothing new can be extracted for my sayings and I achieve no deeper understanding of the paths within my mind. There is no regret neither acceptance , just an attempt to find out where my real conscience lays within the one I fabricated.