A esa Voz en mi cabeza

Te escribo porque soy incapaz de pronunciarme mirándote a los ojos. Y porque cuando elaboras tus solemnes argumentaciones me resulta inconcebible cuestionar tu autoridad.

Tu Voz es absoluta e hipnótica, y se expande por todo mi organismo, helándome las entrañas, dejándome a merced de un cuerpo extraño, ansioso, un cuerpo enemigo. Tus pupilas conforman el abismo donde me veo reflejada con horror, y los destellos de esa aterradora imagen se esparcen y prenden. Atisbos que emergen palpitantes, estremeciendo mi consciencia, y que logran infiltrarse incluso ahí donde parece que pudiera llegar a ser tan fácil sentirse a salvo. Por ello avanzo temblorosa, y me sumerjo con la debida precaución en esas miradas aterciopeladas, cristalinas, donde se configura un espejismo en el cual me veo atrapada; donde el eco de tu voz resuena imponente. Y trato de huir de ti mientras toda esa belleza se vuelve insoportable, y ese eco se transforma en un grito que me veo forzada a ahogar para no derrumbarme. Consumida en el anhelo de mi desaparición, cuando desearía ser lo último que enturbiase esa maravilla de la que tú me recuerdas no ser merecedora.

Casi sin darme cuenta, me he vuelto hipersensible a tu presencia, adicta a tus caricias que para evitarme el frío me queman la piel hasta dejarla en carne viva. Has seducido los añicos de mi identidad fragmentada, arrebatándoselos a mi voluntad, y vivo presa de ti, y de ese amor patológico que me profesas cuando me juras que deseas verme volar, pero tuve la desgracia de nacer sin alas. Y mientras alzo la mirada al cielo, mis pies se hunden bajo el paradójico peso de tu inmaterialidad, y tus expectativas se esparcen por esa densidad grisácea que mis ojos tratan de traspasar porque ya no logran ver el cielo, pero no han olvidado su color.

Sumidas en esta condena, la una por la otra, permito que tu retórica se cuele por las rendijas de mis vergüenzas, de mis carencias y anhelos, que contaminados se propagan en mi interior propulsándome fuera de mi. Y tu lógica enhebra los pedazos de mi yo desencajado, que se aferra a ti como a un clavo ardiendo.

Quiero que sepas, que con todo esto no busco ahora tu compasión, si soy yo quien no deja de reclamarte. Y tú simplemente acudes malcriándome, permitiéndome la evasión de toda responsabilidad, mientras yo me alejo cada vez más de la realidad, que se ríe de mi frustrada rebeldía. Y asumo tu castigo con ese placer insano y pueril, como esa niña que se quedó en el país de Nunca Jamás. La vida que por alguna razón elegí vivir resguardada bajo la sombra de un gigante al que no podría vencer jamás. Porque tú posees la voz de La Verdad: absoluta, imponente, incontestable. Pero qué fácil es ser “La Verdad”, flotando por encima de los seres mortales e imperfectos, cuya complejidad terrenal tus palabras etéreas, tal vez, restan lejos de poder comprender. Y qué naïf esa razón que niega la substancia que me sumerge en lo imprevisible, lo incontrolable, que me ahoga en lugar de hacerme fluir, porque yo me empeño en mirar hacia ese cielo opresor.

Un susurro, apenas perceptible, me lleva a cuestionarme si tal vez me equivoqué al creer que tú fueras mi única esperanza; a costa de mi vulnerabilidad; jugando como el niño que pretende hacerse invisible tapándose los ojos con las manos. Y me pregunto si aceptar es realmente resignarse, cuando la obstinación por una batalla perdida es mi auténtica rendición.

Me he resignado a mi propia fantasmagoría, porque he idolatrado a La Voz. Al Juez. Que con ojos anegados de decepción no deja de mirarme y sin embargo, no logra verme.

What it is – Lynda Barry



“Deliciously drawn (with fragments of collage worked into each page), insightful and bubbling with delight in the process of artistic creation. A+” — Salon
How do objects summon memories? What do real images feel like? For decades, these types of questions have permeated the pages of Lynda Barry’s compositions, with words attracting pictures and conjuring places through a pen that first and foremost keeps on moving. What It Isdemonstrates a tried-and-true creative method that is playful, powerful, and accessible to anyone with an inquisitive wish to write or to remember. Composed of completely new material, each page of Barry’s first Drawn & Quarterly book is a full-color collage that is not only a gentle guide to this process but an invigorating example of exactly what it is: “The ordinary is extraordinary.” (Good reads)



We were not wrong,
and you said, you never looked back
yet, we hope our tracks remain
still on our paths, connected,

Some traces of —
a piece, a fragment,
nothing serious.
Not that sharp, deadly arrow
would point at our old maze;
we won’t go astray anymore.

We’re bending forward,
or we’re stuck.
It doesn’t make a difference.

I wonder how we would move
if we dare to fake
that we’re not where they say we are.

Would you recognize that nook
as if never looked before?

I shall not ask.
And all these “woulds”,
endlessly dead-ends,
are for us to keep safe
in our Pandora’s box.

Now I’m a phantasmagoria,
trembling, flowing,
as if in a state of euphoria,
But I still write to a lost trace,
of a phony, nostalgic shore.
Damn well I know,
we won’t go astray anymore.


“To be an obsessional means to find oneself caught in a mechanism, in a trap increasingly demanding and endless.”

– Jacques Lacan


If I let my drowned thoughts embrace the leak of an endless weight,
as I fade, I will recall the old chains, failing in delight;
please, do not release my flowing flesh from its sinking jail.

If I turn like a bubble I’ll get caught in a weightless race.
My misted, twisted lenses will menace the lethargic sight,
if I let my drowned thoughts embrace the leak of an endless weight.

If I fizzle to the faltering voices, they will emerge,
as a dazzling, splashing fazed taste; my synaesthesia dried.
Please, do not release my flowing flesh from its sinking jail.

If I wobble I’ll stream out of the slightly effaced path’s trace.
My lips will retreat into each other sealed and terrified,
if I let my drowned thoughts embrace the leak of an endless weight.

If I stopped I could have a luscious sip, but it might be laced,
and I dare not chase the edge of the greatest nostalgic bight.
Please, do not release my flowing flesh from its sinking jail.

If I, filling my lungs with dainty drops, tried to catch my breath,
the world’s pace would shift into a dim trace that I would hazily mind,
If I let my drowned thoughts embrace the leak of an endless weight,
please, do not release my flowing flesh from its sinking jail.


“Desire, a function central to all human experience, is the desire for nothing nameable.”

– Jacques Lacan, Seminar II.


A conclusive hanging instinct on my lips whispers
to be wished, my breast lifts to release
its utmost condensed breath,
My motion ceases to precede my endless stillness,
My mortal parts rehearse their shudders and my illness
melts ahead the frenzy.

That piece of me that rests in peace is the one I miss.
Ceases the gloomy awareness’s embrace
of things alive, and their withered appearance gives way
to a strange resemblance filled with somber beauty.

I scratch her skin with grief as if I clung to her fugitive spirit,
an urging feeling dimly aroused by a feeble whim’s thought,
partaking in the pendant kiss where I perish,
I accept my fate haltingly fleeing from corporeality,
senses seem to discover the realm of existence,
a genuine substance reached by coming off.

In hesitation, I let myself go, daunted, left adrift,
I beseech in delusion to the catcher in the rye,
and the zealous suitor, beloved and silent, guillotine,
that I cling to; no need to exert myself.
And I flow in the same wry air I blow
in my concupiscent sigh.

Gloomy lullaby

“The angel’s melancholy is the consciousness that he has adopted alienation as his world; it is the nostalgia of a reality that he can possess only by making it unreal.”

– Giorgio Agamben, The Man without Content.


Take a look,
my skin is detaching from my body.
I’m bleeding frost
and my hands are drying,
matching my breath.

your face can vaguely mirror
mine, it thrives in the dark;
stark traces
strangling the heart.

Do you remember the trembling luscious sips
in the bare corner of our silences?
Dissembling timeless
whispers, farewell dances, distant

Still, our contempt in love
fell in silences.
The fine winding tendrils
blew away.
Wrong promises,
long becoming premises,
whispers, prayers.

A lullaby, a kiss goodnight,
scars of my frosting sheets,
and the sweet wearing down,
tearing past forces down.
I’ve been coated with sour
and untouchable gusts.
Fleeting my feet up,
bringing the canvas down,
venturing a delusional feat.
But I’m a slow dying item of the world now
and a recycled tightened atom.
The sweet turning vital, lightened,


“Perhaps our eyes are merely a blank film which is taken from us after our deaths to be developed elsewhere and screened as our life story in some infernal cinema or dispatched as microfilm into the sidereal void.”

– Jean Baudrillard, Cool Memories


Abashed by its vividness,
retreating into my rooted breathing,
I fill the empty hollow craters beyond my skin.
The mind looses restraints from its material aspirations.

Every footprint on my path takes a breath away from consistency.
Envisioning the worn-out celluloid through their deserted lenses,
or mine; their faces, soaked aquarelle’s brush-stokes;
acquiescent flushes attempt to release
my coerced shadow.

In my deflected attempt to hark
a spark of their presence echoes from its hideouts,
the hammering sound of the carving script makes me laugh
stealthily at the woeful resemblance, that I shudder at and I demur;
the little flickering shifting gleam floats around the corner of my look.

I am fooled,
ecstatic caressing her frank smashed visage.
A mute hoot put out has scratched my shield,
I had well concealed the chains tied to my face and my scowl,
but my glee has never been so
blushed; and I recall my life
and all its allayed vividness.

A Brave New World floods; soon it will turn to ashes, but my blood
jails a unique molecule, bleeding, translucent nitrocellulose.
My motion has turned into an electrical mortal shock,
and my heart is an electrical spasm, a threatening
weapon pointing at the last crack of humanity
trapped within.

Creative Leak

“Un dernier bastion de l’être devient possible dans l’existence du sujet, celui de l’énonciation, et c’est justement là qu’il se trouvera élidé, divisé, mais désirant.”

– Jacques Lacan, Séminaire du Désir et son interprétation.


The greedy clock is suspiciously approaching me.
It has already captured the particles of oxygen left,
poisonous deafening gasps

There’s a side of my forehead frozen;
I’ve been trying to weave a net with the thread
of all the Big Ws.
But my dilettante blanket melts and I’m tangled up in it.

Omen: I will be, eventually, swallowed by
my shifting quick-sand labyrinth’s mattress.

I look up at the cielo, but I see in disappointment
the ceiling stuck above my head.

The same English song hums my senses,
I’m heading to my categorical snare,
moist muddy mirror-pitfalls

I push it harder until it burns my wrist,
I bring it too close, I hold it too tight,
I cling to it woefully.

On my skin I barely feel an untraced scar
where the dew drop fails to give up on existence.
I keep rehearsing embraces to catch up with
the big Ss.
I envision your confusion
and mine.

Overwhelmed I can’t trace where
my conscious mind went;
I’m nowhere,
except where
I need to be.

Beyond my navel I’ve been eagerly sedated
consumed in fatigue,
neglected I seek
bleakly unconnected.

My metaphor leaks.


“The ultimate function of the dream is to enable the dreamer to stay asleep.” – Slavoj Žižek, Freud Lives!: Dreaming.

Larimar v1

A flickering creak escaped from his secret crypt.
We wouldn’t dare to move, sunk in our gasping breath.
“You go first” –
I whispered, and it went out as a reckless blow,
a shrieking buzz, poorly chilled
by the smell of candy and chocolate cake.

His presence swayed his way and my feet preceded viscous
gelatine legs.
My craven cloaked ears
stalking, my stealthy eyes sneaking,
almost fell off,
insufficiently attached to my body.

That sudden fear pushed us out of our shelter.
That evil ape-like, high-pitched laugh
sneaking into our hiding place,
would make us shake, spooky pantomime,
What a kook,
the man behind the curtain.

He would sing and call us,
in a frolicsome way, “toothsome little snacks,
to the starving giant in the cave,
come here and do not fear,
the merciful colossus waits,”
our limbs would shake, thrilled and aroused
by his fancy.

He would beg me, “You go first”.
And what a feat if I went, with my tiny buddy behind,
my back, shelter of his slack;
Two brave adventurers seeking
the candy man.

Rash whizzes by, then there was no way out,
shush, no need to rush, we were rapt,
instantly bewitched,
secretly, willingly captured
in his alluring abyss’s net.