lunes, 13 de febrero de 2017


Recuerdo el traje. 
Me lo había comprado en una tienda de departamento por doce dólares. 
Recuerdo el coraje. 
La rabia que lo hizo partirlo en dos porque le lleve la contraria. 
Recuerdo la costurera. 
Que lo reparó sin cobrarme cuando le conté lo que ocurrió. 

<<Fue mi padre. 
No se tomó sus pastillas y regresó a casa molesto. 
Por el dinero. Por el tráfico. Por existir. 
Sabía que tenía mis ánimos de la semana en el baile. 
Le molestó mi presencia. 
Y lo destrozó. >>

miércoles, 18 de enero de 2017

Sobbing in the L train

When was the last time you sat with yourself without intention?

No screen to scroll
No task to be completed
No choice

Just sat with yourself, and nothing but that in mind
Let out a sigh
And let go of it all

Like back in the day when nobody was being chased
by notifications of existence,
As if we were only someone in the distance watching it all unfold?

domingo, 7 de agosto de 2016

About death

I only think I'm dying because I've never felt more alive and aware of what being alive is. And we are dying. Every second of every day. Only now that I've fully understood and grasped what this fleeting phenomenon of  consciousness owned by a vessel that eventually gives out is. I'm a machine with pieces and parts working together to keep me alive and I'm supposed to reproduce.

However, the system humans live in is far more complex than that. Our mental state and behavior is catalyzed by bureaucratic entities that hold the privileged in power and everybody else as pieces of the chess game that brings money and even more power to them. It's all a made up story. People that buy into the story seem to be unaware of what being alive means.

Not only as humans, but as a part of a biosphere that birthed us with the cycle of death and resurgence. It starts with a cell and ends in ashes. All in a rock that is floating through empty space. My consciousness is building dreams, expectations and an image on what this all is on borrowed time. Without something to hold on to the ultimate reality of our own insignificance sinks in; and suddenly it's hard to trust a machine, an automated vessel, to carry me through this journey.

viernes, 5 de agosto de 2016

Two years ago

This is a journal entry written while abroad in Italy two years ago..
I don't think it will ever stop being relevant.

"I may be all grown, but there are wounds I'm left to heal. Slowly, I'm catching up to them, and though the scars left behind are said to only make me stronger, they hurt every time it rains. However, when it's sunny, I can enjoy to take a look; in awe of everything I have overcome. I feel lucky and life starts making sense.

I don't remember everything I've been able to handle, maybe it's memory doing me a favor. I'm a mess, but I'm a mess in progress. I'm dealing with things on my own that I wouldn't wish on anyone. I might say I'm actually doing pretty fine. I'm a survivor.

In the past days I've been challenged, but I've kept pushing my limits, ones that to this day, I haven't reached. The journey in which one understands the definition of being lost and imperfect is long and rocky, and I don't think it ever ends. I'm figuring things out as I go; and that is okay with me."

July 5, 2014


viernes, 29 de julio de 2016

¿A quién?

¿quién escapa la culpa?
te sigue, te grita..
retumba en mis oídos como campana de iglesia.
se apodera de mi narrativa y cuenta el cuento que le conviene.
me convence a como de lugar..
¿cómo me escapo a mi misma?
de mi hipervigilancia que no me deja ser en vez de estar
de mis miedos que no me permiten vivir
de mis hábitos que me tropiezan conmigo misma.
¿cómo logro dejar ir?
cortar las ataduras con lo innecesario,
apagar el ruido de una buena vez
matar la inquetud que se forma en mi pecho
y soltar el suspiro que entró hace tanto,
cortante y sin aviso.
verbalizar la inquietud no resuelve nada,
porque la inquietud vive dentro de mi.
¿y la inquietud que vive adentro, cómo se escapa?
¿a quién le hago todas estas preguntas?

sábado, 16 de abril de 2016

A letter to 17 year old me.

A letter to 17 year old me. 

Hi, Andrea, or now you everybody calls you Monique. By now, I mean back then. It’s three years later, a whole 36 months of numbing cuts, moments, pivotal instants in the cardiac arrest that will be your life. If I had gotten a chance to live all that I did knowing at least half of what I know now, maybe I wouldn’t have cried myself to sleep for so many nights. With these words I hope you feel as I softly caress you to sleep all those tears. First thing I should say? It’s okay. You’re okay. Everything turns out to be okay. Since then, you have learned that love is complicated, erratic, and not black and white at all. In reality, you learned that life in particular happens very much in the gray areas. You experienced freedom, crushing heartbreaks; you mourned somebody close to you. Emotions took you on a roller coaster on which to be very honest, you weren’t mostly in control of. Casualties, life, your parents, your friends, neighbors, and every point of conversation in life you’ve crossed were also a part of this. You are so brave. You crossed oceans for love, gave your last pennies away to anybody who needed it more than you, gave yourself but also did a pretty damn good job at standing up every time you fell. No, you are not in Harvard, or any Ivy League for that matter, but you’ll learn that there’s some bullshit you shouldn’t sacrifice to be a part of the in crowd. You’re already it. Pursuing your profession will be hard, and you’ll doubt it, but don’t give up. The multi-layered discrimination this broken society has attributed to your labels, have nothing to do with your capability to do what you love. You’ve finally understood why you feel, see, hear, and taste the world all at once.  You made our dreams come true… You’ve sung in front of crowds, you’ve made it to ISEF. You did it for you and your mom. You’ve let friends go, not because they were never your friends, but because you’re different people now. We’ve, you’ve, I guess I’ve molted. Like the tears that I know you hold back, you need to learn to let go. Everything will be all right, hugs are the cure for most of the pain that you feel, don’t underestimate the power of intended skin interactions. It doesn’t matter how hard I try to foreshadow thru words all I could think about to make it easier for you, life writes itself. You’ll catch on, instant after instant of accidents, choices, curves and dead ends, that there isn’t a dead end until we’re dead.

This is your life it won’t stop. We’ve gotten better at acknowledging that all we can do is stop and glance every now and then. 


viernes, 18 de marzo de 2016

Debajo de mi cama: Hija de los locos

Estaba sentada, encubierta  en varias sábanas escribiendo debajo de su cama un viernes al medio día.

Son las doce del medio día y yo estoy pretendiendo que el abismo del universo comienza cuando el espacio debajo de esta cama acaba. Siempre pasa, siempre pasa lo mismo. En un día cualquiera, paso al menos 12 horas siendo productiva, eficiente, responsable, madura, comprensiva, y presente. No es queja la observación, sencillamente hacer una lista de las categorías en las que mi vida se divida cada 24 horas.

Me levanto usualmente antes de que el sol salga, con una lista hecha desde la noche anterior de las primeras 5 cosas a realizar en un día, con aproximadamente 45 minutos de espacio para la higiene, nutrición y e incentivo para procrastrinar en la cama. Tomo dos clases y trabajo por una hora así que ya se fueron tres.

(Me tomé cinco minutos leyendo en el celular para calmar un poco el pulso porque acabo de fumar. Si, ahora fumo.)

 Entonces estoy escribiendo, en los 7 minutos que me quedan perdiendo tiempo antes de que tenga que ponerme de pie, porque tengo que almorzar, estudiar y prepararme para ir al trabajo. Hoy no iré al gimnasio, pero ayer corrí dos millas y me tomó 25 minutos, pero por 25 minutos solo tuve que mirar un árbol.

Tengo dos agendas, y un total de tres listas por día, y soy presidenta de dos organizaciones, y los martes en la noche le dedico tres horas a un grupo de 11 hombres tocando piano y cantando en tarima.

El tiempo que me queda libre, lo paso ansiosa, debajo de mi cama, queriendo sentirme segura.