Meeting with Tezcatlipoca

I have played your game and I am satisfied

In the masquerade of eternal night

I did not take off the pink mask,

you said the night would lead me to the waltz.

I played the game as we agreed:

I dance across the land wearing the black high-hills

you let me look through the black mirror

I am your feet, you become the light.

I am not what you think I am,

I knew I had to moderate my opinions from the start

you were not going to tolerate my blasphemies

I anticipated you wouldn't play otherwise.

Let it be clear; this was a 'fair' game

it was inherently based on reciprocity

I used you, you used me

there were no hidden promises nor unfulfilled expectations.

After four years your feet were swollen

after 52 months my eyes were blinded

the black light merged with the rocky floor

I was frustrated and you were bored.

We sat down together on the red couch

and gave up in order to make voodoo dolls

I joked about my dreams of changing the world

you laughed about your idea of selling my soul.

I confessed that I do envy them for having what I gave up

you suggested that I should cut the crap between us

when our contract is over it would be only me and the sun

wake up Mariele, your essay still has to be done before dawn. 

El Porvenir de mis Recuerdos

Suddenly the fog appears, invading the leave-less threes. 

 Last Farsi class, research for that big essay,

$30,000 short for the "project of my life", presentation on the last class

I did not even know there was going to be a final exam.

Do you tell people the truth of how did things happen if this is going to ruin their memories?

 Am I romanticizing my memories as an excuse to get back to you?

Is your memory blurring the decisions we are taking?

When did we stop memorizing each other's words and started focus on something else?

 This once self-imposed Alzheimer took control over my memories

at first I was sure it was me who was classifying the ones I wanted to see,

your eyes, their voice, their smiles, the napkin, that subway line, the train ride, 

her face, our stars, my two books and the purple shoes.

It all ended when I started to over-analyse what do those memories mean

I alienated so many memories so they would not hurt, so I would not miss you 

and somehow here I am not only forgetting them but also myself.

The oppressed rising up against the oppressor, 

the oppressor managing to silence the oppressed... 

we all know how does the story end. 

"You must a very bright person" No, I am just bored. 

Toma de fotos, incesantes flashes, sillas vacias, y una esquina sin retorno

Movimiento transnacional de personas con constante nostalgia de lo que alguna vez llamaron hogar.. et ca se passe comment si je suis une SDF?

where is my plane ticket? I don't like this electronic excuse!

Jugar sobre el tablero del cosmpolitanismo tiene sus complicaciones

¿soy yo la que lo veo muy tarde? ó ¿simplemente me olvidé de tomarlo en cuenta?

 El recuerdo de mi porvenir previsto bajo las estrellas intermintentes lejos está de acercarse a lo que le espera a mi memoria del presente cuando el porvenir se acerque al pavimento lleno de nieve.

11% out of the 200 Years of Solitude were well lived.

What do I do with the other percent that will take more in the years to come?

Do I get my USB to save the memories I need to narrate the story once again?

Oh yeah... I should just upload them that way you do not need to see my face. 

"Félicitations, Maria" For what? I was just doing my job.

Keys to the last supper... sorry last breakfast.

I actually started laughing. Maybe I shouldn't have. It was just the entire day, how could it get more bizarre? You saw me lighting yet another cigarette dressed up as a flapper girl. 

Why did you call me? You asked, and I realized I truly had no problem with being up front.

I didn't have anyone else to call, I knew you would open the door and I know your number by heart. I had been in this situation more than once, having no where to sleep is like falling off the bike or being in a car accident. Random thoughts travel across your mind (wait... my mind). 

When I didn't find my keys, I remembered the winter when I stayed in a hotel and the time I got off the first cab I took in Paris. Cab over hotel; 50-50 chances. I called you because I was sober, because I needed someone to talk about my day, someone that would stimulate my mind without making me feel like shit, I needed someone who would just ask me if everything is ok. You were the closest one to whom I could share my not-so-important undergrad student drama who has no "worries" no plans, no boyfriend, and oh yes "has not experienced real life" even after the fight even after all the pain... no... I am hiding the entire truth I just ran out of battery so I couldn't wake up my sister get in my apartment and make the usual international call... to be fair I missed our breakfasts too, but I did not fully miss you. 

You smiled at me and I guess you understood at that moment why my decisions had been like that over the past days, months... has it been a year? I hugged you as I would hug my best friend. "I am bipolar" I said as I started crying. I wish I had loved you, I am sorry if I ever hurt you, I shouldn't have kept you waiting, I just didn't know what to do with myself.

You started cooking our last breakfast date at 4am. We talked... we just talked... It is never going to be the same if you go to Paris, tu sais? I am not expecting it to be, that is why it is only for some months. Is this about the pub night? No, I wish it was just that its about everything... she said once that after a certain time of feeling constant frustration people loose themselves. I don't want to get into that point and I am two centimetres away from passing it. I am becoming depressive when I don't have anything to be depressed about... at least not that seriously yet. I am attached to Garcia Marquez' tree and I want to break those chains to develop wings and start flying away from this non-sense... I miss believing that those chains could be broken, my wings are being inhibited before they even start growing. 

The water did not turn into wine for our breakfast and I did not multiply the bread. You should sleep, you said. Awkward moment, seeing your room again felt like a new encounter to a new galaxy where I had not been. 50-50 chance tails you stay on my bed. I got the sofa, you said something about a bird. My mind was to busy thinking about self-control and the chains. You started talking about the myth of a bird sitting in the couch. "I don't get it", of course I wouldn't my body was melting in your bed. We finished our last breakfast; before my old spirit made room for the book ready to be closed. You are like la Malinche, Josephine. "No I am not, at least she did love Cortez" 

With that the door went into flames, one less chain remains, I am only 11 months away...

Merci.