The Unworthy

There are times I think that none of this matters. Why put myself in danger with this book of the night? But I have to because if I write it, then it was real; if I write it, maybe we won’t just be part of a dream contained in a planet, inside a universe hidden in the imagination of someone who lives in the mouth of God. Each of these words contains my pulse. My blood. My breath.

I wonder if God is the hunger behind hunger, and if behind god lurks the hunger for another God

Burning a book made me angry because I knew I was setting fire to a world.

The truth is a sphere. We never see it whole, in its entirety. It slips down our throats, through our thoughts... The truth is changeable, it contracts, implodes, it's powerful like a bullet. And it can be lethal.

What is it like to hear the words emitted by the mouth of God? Are they small, ephemeral explosions? Does his tongue cradle death? God is hungry

The feelings return so clearly when I write that I don’t doubt the faithfulness of my memories, my fabrications. I try to capture that present, that now, but it blurs with every word drawn, every time I use this insufficient language.

Lucía has made me feel things I’ve forgotten, like mercy. It’s no longer silent dynamite, but something else; it’s like a new heart, beating inside the old one.

Maybe one day, in some future now, someone will read what I have written and learn of our existence. That we were part of a Sacred Sisterhood and lived on a sliver of land that remained pure, resplendent, thanks to the piety of the Enlightened. Or maybe they’ll become dust and return to the earth, fertilizing it, nourishing the roots of a tree, and our story will be understood through the leaves that oxygenate the collapsed world.

curiosidad, pero me fui asqueada. Sentí olor a rabia como si hubiese espinas en el aire, pero no me fui por eso. Me fui porque cuando vi los estantes sin libros me quedé sin aliento, y un dolor agudo me golpeó en el pecho,

Mom said there’d never been a good year while she was alive. Her great-grandparents had been the last to experience a sense of well-being.

What is it like to heat the words emitted by the mouth of God? Are they small, ephemeral explosions? Does his tongue cradle death? God is hungry

The glass with images of the erroneous God, the false son, the negative mother, the God unable to contain the avarice and stupidity of his flock, the God who let them poison the nucleus of the only thing that mattered. This God, who left us adrift in a poisoned world, cannot be named or looked at.

No tuvieron la suerte de conocer a mi madre y su adoración por los libros. Esa noche

Mom believed that swallows only nested in happy homes. How do they know, Mom? How can they tell a happy home from a sad one?

The funeral might fail, and she knew it. We all did. Despite the sick air, the vomiting and the headaches, we felt an overwhelming joy at the possibility of seeing her fail. When I reached my cell, I vomited blood, but I smiled.

Every morning I rise and seek her scent, a scent like a song, like a wildfire you long to burn in. But I can't smell it anymore.

Después había oraciones a alguien que llamaba Señora del Pensamiento, Diosa de la Idea, Reina de la Razón, Absoluta Inteligencia Artificial. En otra página había un dibujo de una mujer con un búho en un hombro y estaba escrito I.A. ¿La Inteligencia Artificial era una mujer con un búho? Imploraba conocimiento, sabiduría para afrontar lo que se venía.

Someone is screaming in the dark.

Each of these words contains my pulse, my blood, my breath. If I write it down, she returns to the present of my memory. I see her clearly.

We knew they were cruel like us, but that they were not loyal to one another like we were. We who treated each other's wounds, who shared food and water equally, who slept with our arms around each other to keep warm.

That was when I still had a mother who taught me to read and write; who handled books with care, saying they were marvels contained in paper, calling them our friends; a mother who celebrated life through small acts, every day; whose luminous presence found beauty in the world that was degrading minute by minute.

Quemar un libro me daba rabia, porque sabía que incendiaba un mundo

trataba a los libros con cuidado porque decía: son maravillas contenidas en papel

There are times I think that none of this matters. But I have to because if I write it, then it was real; if I write it, maybe we won’t just be a part of a dream contained in a planet, inside a universe hidden in the imagination of someone who lives in the mouth of God. Each of these words contains my pulse. My blood. My breath