A downpour

It isn’t a mistake that a downpour hits my window tonight, that the raindrops slide carefully through the glass. It isn’t a mistake that the night’s darkest than it seems, that the clouds cover the sky and the fog accumulates in front of the mountains. It isn’t a mistake that the atmosphere is silent and sleepy. It isn’t a mistake that lonely people come and go without saying a word, they are all so focused in their lives.

It isn’t a mistake that I grabbed a pen and started doodling in a piece of paper, everything while I saw the downpour hit my window. It isn’t a mistake that raindrops now form a different melody and that the lights of the distant city glows through the heavy fog. It isn’t a mistake that my thoughts just belong to the doodles on the paper, to yesterday’s memories, to deep eyes, to kind promises. It isn’t a mistake that I’m now focused on my own life without saying a word, all in my head, all in my words.

It isn’t a mistake that I’m awake watching the thick darkness fall over my bedroom, washing my thoughts away. It isn’t a mistake it’s hard to close my eyes.

It isn’t a mistake that I’m staring out my window. The fog is accumulating in front of the windows despite the sparkling city behind. And I can’t sleep.

Because a downpour is hitting the glass of my window.




To the sky

After all those wings will take you up, so high. So bid the forest floor goodbye as you race the wind and…

Take to the sky.

-Owl City

When our eyes rise to look up to the sky and our imagination flutters free through the air, that’s when our thoughts come together in a perfect flight.

When our sights harmonize wherever we are and thousand words can’t describe the scene, that’s when the time to travel through a sun eclipse has arrived.

So prepare your soft paper wings and look for that place where vanilla twilights can be found, where the sun’ll be hanging from a string everyday and where there are beautiful starry nights.

My darling, we’re both flying on the wing of a paper airplane, singing the world goodbye.


Taken from: url

Batido de vainilla

Siempre he visto el cielo como un gran batido de vainilla y la puesta de sol como un melocotón que se derrite. Por eso me inspira tanto mirar hacia arriba cuando el cielo está claro. La mayoría de factores que me hacen escribir poéticamente se encuentran en la naturaleza y en la vida diaria de personas comunes y corrientes pero principalmente en la manta color azul claro que cubre todo el planeta como si estuviera rociado de batido de vainilla.

Batido de vainilla

Estaba sentada en la mesa de una cafetería, su bolso descansaba en la silla que estaba vacía a su lado, la chaqueta encima de él. Su pedido se estaba tardando demasiado, se ajustó los lentes y sacó un libro. Media hora después, la mesera llegó para traerle su pedido. Ella estaba distraída mirando por la ventana, ni siquiera tenía los ojos en el libro, agradeció cuando la mesera se fue y sólo le lanzó una efímera mirada a lo que había pedido.

Una crema blanca consistente y suave con ligeros rayos de salsa de melocotón. Un glaseado azul claro se extendía por el vaso transparente, una atmósfera con chispas rojas y azul oscuro que le transmitía paz. Adornando los bordes había crema azul turquesa y tenía polvo blanco rociando el glaseado. Un pitillo de varios colores se recostaba a uno de los lados del vaso y un cometa centelleaba al otro lado, mezclando todo lo que había en la atmósfera. Había una adorno comestible que parecía de plata.

Parecía que iba a llover hoy pero había una parte del cielo que estaba clara. Parpadeó un par de veces, volviendo en sí. Se quitó los lentes y cerró el libro. Bajó la mirada hacia la mesa apoyándola sobre sus manos y rastreó con los ojos cada una de las cosas que había sobre ella. Por primera vez miró lo que había pedido, un batido de vainilla.

vanilla twilight

Tomado de: url

Hungry eyes

Once eyes have seen, they can’t forget. The dreamy essence of his gaze has been the cause of insomnia in my late nights. Once eyes have felt, they can’t never let go. In the middle of the darkness, his gaze was full of shooting stars, when I was cold, his eyes warmed mine. When I had doubts, his eyes gave me hope, when I was tired, they gave me perseverance and when I couldn’t see the exit of a bleak maze, they lit up my way out of the shades.

The past behind my eyes has made my gaze look brighter and the experience they have gained can’t left the abandonment apart but now I can say that the world looked from behind the lenses of my glasses is constantly changing. That’s what the eyes show, our thoughts and beliefs, they are like mirrors of our souls. They can underestimate someone, they can show respect, wonder and faith, all in one short glance.

His eyes have always been like ten million fireflies shining in a dark alleyway. So if one night I’m standing on my balcony and he’s looking at the crescent moon, I would feel his heavenly gaze mixing with the majestic stars and shining strong over me.

Because it doesn’t matter if I have to watch him go or wave goodbye twice, sooner or later I will have to do it.

But my hungry eyes could never forget the touch of his delicate gaze, as it is the reason of their heavy fog among their fleeting glance.



When I’m gone

He’s like a ghost.

Always by my side but I’m never able to see him.

Running to help me when I need it but never showing his face.

I know he’s there, watching, taking care of me. He’s there, at dusk, in the darkness, behind the sunset, shining with the moonlight and singing with the rain.

But he’s like a ghost, whenever I try to see him he’s already gone. I turn around but he’s already vanished.

What will happen when I’m gone? I don’t know.

Maybe I’ll walk next to someone else and I will be running to help her, but I’ll never show my face.

She’ll know I’m there, watching, taking care of her. At dusk, in the darkness, behind the sunset, shining with the moonlight and singing with the rain.

I’ll be running free through beautiful prairies, but no one would see me.

Because I’ll be like a ghost, whenever someone will turn around and try to see me I’ll disappear.

And that’s what will happen. When I’m gone.



Hidden inside a forest

Lost through tall trees, between green grass and dry leaves are our memories, like wind blowing inside our minds. Wind can be soft and gentle or rough and treacherous, wind can be cold or it can be warm. Memories can be like a tornado running through your mind or like gentle breeze accompanying a hot summer day, they can be a lightning in the middle of the night or the echo of crows circling the sky. They can be like fuzzy blue lights in your eyes or even like the whisper of trees when the wind is zigzagging between them.

New lessons to learn everyday, new people to meet and new experiences to gain are the main components of our memories. Those situations you want to keep forever in a a little case, those persons you never want to let go, they are all part of that beautiful forest full of life growing inside your mind. Every person carries a story, everyone carry dreams, everyone carry memories. Memories we collect during whole life: sad, colorful, tough, ephemeral… but all of them have a purpose.

Everyone needs to leave the past in the past, but no one should leave memories behind because those issues that made you stronger, a better person will be like stars shaping the road for you, guiding you through the right path.

What are you waiting for? Present awaits.

And don’t worry, those memories you don’t want to let go will be there. Don’t look back, they will be always there. Hidden inside a forest.


Taken from: url


Catching pigeons

Dreams tend to be slippery, you want them so badly that you pursue them desperately not realizing that the more you chase them, the more they’ll slip away. Dreams are like pigeons, you try to catch them but it’s impossible to do it without scaring them. Once you think you have it, it can disappear at any moment in front of your eyes. It’s hard to believe in yourself, you see your dreams slowly going away. It’s hard to think it’s not impossible to continue…

Dreaming of stars

Every night, before going to bed, she looked out her window and up to the sky. She could admire those twinkling spots in the firmament, each time she saw them, she dreamt about reaching them. Hours had pass since her mom told her it was time to go to bed, but it was impossible to stop looking the shining stars that appeared in her dreams. She turned off her lamp and tried to sleep but in her mind, every time she closed her eyes, the twinkling spots appeared in a dark paradise.

All of a sudden, her window opened sharply. She was wide awake and could see the bright sky just above, she could feel the gentle breeze blowing on her cheeks and the fresh grass under her. The dream catcher tied to the bedhead shook violently and the bell-shaped decorations dangling off the window frame clattered in a whispery echo. She felt the stars approximating to her, she felt she could touch them if she extended her arms, she saw one last strong brightness between her hands. The sun woke up next day shining up in the sky, the light entering through the curtains bothered her and made her open her eyes.


She had the sensation she dreamt something last night but she couldn’t remember what, it was all so fuzzy…


Sometimes you struggle to catch your dreams, running through the corridors of your mind, hiding behind your memories.

They’re there.

They’re yours.

But sometimes it’s better to take your time, sit on a bench, leave some breadcrumbs on the floor and wait until they come to you.



La tristeza que nunca llegó

No estoy muy inspirada para escribir una introducción pero puedo decir que a veces nos acostumbramos tanto a sentir una emoción específica por alguien, que nos extraña cuando dejamos de sentirla y luego nos forzamos a sentirla de nuevo cuando en realidad todo lo que queda es seguir esperando.

La tristeza que nunca llegó

Sentado en el parque de la calle noventa y nueve, él miraba hacia todos lados en busca de aquella que nunca llegaría. Revisaba el celular en busca de alguna señal pero no había ni rastro. Habían acordado encontrarse allí para arreglar asuntos legales y como siempre, desde que se conocían, era ella la impuntual. Los sauces de aquel parque daban la bienvenida a personas cargadas de alegría pero nunca anunciaban la llegada de la tristeza.

Daba ligeros golpecitos con la yema de sus dedos sobre el espaldar de la banca de madera. No quería pensar que ella nunca llegaría, sin embargo su corazón le ordenaba levantarse y marcharse a casa. Recogió una flor que crecía al pie de la banca, una margarita que trajo recuerdos a su mente de aquello que no se volverá a repetir. Una ráfaga de viento sopló, arrancando de su mano la margarita y llevándose todos los recuerdos junto con ella.

Suspiró con fuerza. Seguía registrando todo el parque en busca del sentimiento que se aproximaba pero era inútil seguir buscando algo que no aparecería. Por un momento lo pensó, la intuición le susurró al oído que no servía de nada seguir esperando. Él no hizo caso, movía su pie rápida y desesperadamente, como si eso acelerara el tiempo.

Un nubarrón cubrió el cielo y él no pensaba rendirse. Esperaba, esperaba y esperaba el motivo de sus futuras lágrimas. Gotas empezaban a caer de las nubes. Y él seguía esperando la causante de sus heridas en el corazón. Un aire frío invadió el parque y justo allí, sentado en el parque de la calle noventa y nueve, él logró ver como ella le entregaba una carta a un desconocido. Con la cara empapada en lágrimas, conversaba con aquel extraño. La tristeza se había equivocado de puerta y el barco que la transportaba había encallado en otras costas. Sólo le quedaba, seguir esperando.


Maybe tomorrow…

I was just thinking about how popular is the word “maybe” in our society and that the expression “maybe tomorrow” is even more popular. This is why I decided to write something that represents what I think each time I hear someone say “maybe tomorrow”. Have I said it? Of course yes, who doesn’t. But each time I say it, I realize: “Maybe tomorrow is not going to be another day” and then I try to change my expression. I must say it isn’t easy but its a hundred percent true (I’m very sure) that tomorrow is unknown land.


Maybe tomorrow the sun will shine more than today, maybe my window will show more than just houses and streets. Maybe tomorrow birds will sing joyful trills, maybe life will smile at me again, maybe the clouds will depart. Maybe tomorrow there will be more  colorful flowers than today, maybe the wind will blow gently, maybe tigers will be less aggressive. Perhaps tomorrow the houses’ roofs will reflect the day’s happiness and balconies will show a better society.

Perhaps today is a good day, the fireflies shine tonight. It’s not so bad after all, butterflies flutter and there are trees and flowers growing. Today the clouds sing from the sky and the sun’s rays heat up the planet with all its strength and will. Maybe today is not so bad. There’s still air to breathe, landscapes waiting to be admired, tigers waiting to be faced… maybe it’s not a perfect day, maybe it’s not tomorrow, but it’s all we have.

Maybe tomorrow light will not come out, there will not be joyful trills. Perhaps my window will no longer show anything and life will show its back to me again. Maybe tomorrow the clouds will prefer to stay and flowers will no longer show their colors. Maybe the wind will blow with the strength of a tornado and tigers will increase their distrust. Maybe the houses’ roofs will turn off their light with sadness and balconies will be filled with oblivion. Perhaps the sun will shine less than today.

Maybe I could do my homework tomorrow.

Maybe I could say “I love you” tomorrow.

Maybe I could smile tomorrow.

Maybe I could give a hug tomorrow.


But maybe not.


Because maybe tomorrow will not exist.



Por qué escribir?

En esta parte me parece que vendría bien un poco de experiencia personal.

¿De dónde viene todo esto de escribir? Una vez alguien me dijo que escribir era un reflejo que se obtenía por leer, algo que en física llamarían acción-reacción. Bueno, cuando yo era más pequeña me encantaba leer. Leía casi de todo. Empecé recitando poesía de Rafael Pombo pero cuando tuve más edad me “interné” en una biblioteca porque me había enamorado de un libro muy conocido: Los tres mosqueteros por Alejandro Dumas. Desde entonces he estado enamorada de la lectura, sobre todo de la ficción. Me fasciné con las letras, con la ortografía, con el estilo de los escritores y sin darme cuenta empecé a escribir.


Tomado de: url

No puedo explicar bien como pasó, supongo que estar en un lugar diferente al que estoy normalmente me influenció y conocer a nuevos personajes sólo hizo que me gustara más. No empecé a crear mis propios personajes hasta que tuve unos trece años pero sí empecé a inventarme historias de ficción utilizando personajes que eran familiares para mí. Otra cosa que creo que influenció mi escritura fueron los autores: quería hacer lo que Alejandro Dumas hacía, lo que Steve Cole (escritor de Astrosaurs, la primera saga que leí cuando era pequeña) hacía y más adelante quería hacer lo que Julio Cortázar hacía y lo que Gabriel García Márquez hacía. Todo porque simplemente parecía divertido.

Y creo que ahora puedo concluir que esa es la razón por la que escribo y por la que alguna vez quise intentarlo: simplemente parecía divertido.