blog | On the distance

We weren’t the best coders neither the best at managing a website, but for a time everybody was able to enter write something and collaborate in our endless-senseless writing. It was an annoying twitter for letting go our creativity and improve our writing skills. Somehow, it became a place to relieve secrets, tell amazing short stories, and let our feelings pour out.

One day the serves we had went down and most of the data was lost and many amazing short fragments coming from the hearts of random strangers with them. Bringing back the data was expensive and the book we planned wasn’t very successful. Eventually, we gave up and the server flashes a forbidden error.

I still refresh it sometimes, hoping that it will work out even though I was the owner of the server and I imagine some people still refresh it up to today and that we all connected with a single click and the little disappointing that it produces.

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December 12, 2018

Don’t wait

Monterrey, March 2010

Home gatherings became the preferred option, and staying home to play video games grew more appealing regardless of the favorable weather conditions. We discussed these activities more frequently than ever before, and the numerous stories we shared seemed more akin to horror fiction than reality. However, they were indeed true, as evidenced by the videos available online.

Walking the streets at night or hearing sirens while playing baseball brought feelings of powerlessness and mild sadness, but life continued. The constant news and social media rumors left us numb rather than surprised.

Every morning, heavy police presence in the neighborhood didn’t bring safety, just an expectation of something happening. Worry would pass quickly as we moved on with our lives. A classmate once said, “If it comes, we will just follow,” reflecting our shared understanding.

Near my apartment was a house with high walls and bodyguards. Rumors said it belonged to either a prosecutor or a big player in the game. Passing by daily, I wondered if they felt the same fear or even more danger. One day, all the bodyguards were gone, and the empty house had a large cloth at the entrance with text:

If you die today, would that person know that you love her?

Don’t wait. Tell her today

Despite everything, there remained a chance for love to blossom. When the piece of cloth was finally removed hours later, I couldn’t help but wonder if he had truly told her. We must embrace reality and adapt to its uncertainties, holding tight to each other and moving forward with hearts full of hope. Because hope is the only thing we had those days, that things could change for the better one day.

Narcopoetry – Monterrey 2010

As time passed, the police presence and bodyguards vacated the large residence, leaving me speculating about the outcome of the potentially tragic incident that occurred. Eventually, it became a distant memory, much like the countless sad narratives surrounding the ongoing war on drugs. From the folds of the Sierra Madre and to the riverbanks of the Rio Bravo, has been perennially marred by violence stemming from human ambition.

In the small northern towns, blood has always been shed – Los Cadetes de Linares

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September 14, 2018

The meeting room’s window

Stockholm, September 2018

I’m sitting in a meeting room, wearing a dark blue suit with a white shirt without a tie. Actions plans are discussed, a budget plan is proposed and a connection with our international partners is made. My colleagues speak and even though I am listening, my view is lost in one of the big windows. We are sitting in one of the tallest buildings of the city (which if you compre it to any industrial city is not that tall) in one of the upper floors and due to the flatness of the skyline and the lack of ugly glass skyscrapers I am able to see how the city spreads with its black metal roofs through the islands that and beyond them the archipiélago seems not to end in the distance.

A plan is made, a critical path is analysed, someone is worried about the deadlines, the schedule is changed, their voices fade as my sight is lost between the boats sailing, the blue trains going back and forth in between the islands, and the people that look like little dots. I’m sitting here, but I am not really here. I have pursued to be here, but a side of thought of be somewhere.

I comment, collaborate, propose and discuss, yet I am a preconceived version of myself. The water reflects the white clouds and the birds fly down and up the water hunting for distracted fishes, while a part of my consciusness flies with them, away from what I call my life, away from who I am supposed to be.

Hands are shaken, roles are proposed, and everybody leaves the meeting room. As I walk through the corridor I look once again into the distance behind the glass window. I’m here but I am also there, because that is how I have always been, nowhere.