{"id":11,"date":"2026-07-07T15:46:38","date_gmt":"2026-07-07T13:46:38","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/humannotes.org\/contenido\/arche\/"},"modified":"2026-09-16T19:24:25","modified_gmt":"2026-09-16T17:24:25","slug":"arche","status":"publish","type":"contenido","link":"https:\/\/humannotes.org\/en\/contenido\/arche\/","title":{"rendered":"Incision."},"content":{"rendered":"

It is born from anger and tears. From the non-conformity that burns you up inside. From the anguish that tightens your chest at four in the morning. From the helplessness of wanting to hug the person you sleep with and discovering that you can't even turn over in bed. From the brutal fear of losing what you love and the need to keep living with all possible intensity, even if it hurts.<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I don't choose between the tremor and the intensity. I don't choose between crying and an erection. I don't choose between wanting to hug and wanting to tell someone to fuck off. I take it all. It also stems from desire. From the laughter that makes your stomach hurt and tears well up. From the love that screws you over and saves you. From the urge to fuck. From getting a little drunk even though you know you'll pay for it tomorrow. From making a fool of yourself. From speaking out of turn when everyone expects you to ask for permission. From proving to yourself that you're not done for yet. From loving your parents even though sometimes you feel like screaming at them. Your sister, your nieces and nephews, your aunts and uncles. From keeping trying to make your people laugh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I hate and I do not change<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

I hate having Parkinson's. I hate it when my body stops obeying me and turns me into a spectator of itself. And yet, I wouldn't trade this body for anyone else's. Without the bad days, the good ones wouldn't taste nearly as sweet. As I tell my friends: keep your chin up. And when my left hand shakes too much, well, I'll jerk them off and at least someone will have a good time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Some people mourn the death of a loved one and, a few hours later, find themselves laughing with a friend. Some people, after accompanying their dog to euthanasia, return home and discover that they still have desire as well. She even sends me a video of herself touching her pussy in the tub. Not because she loved any less. Because she is still alive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Emotions don't wait in line. They trample all over each other. One day I write with anger. The next, with the urge to kiss the first person who walks by. Sometimes I get it right. Sometimes I screw up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It's got to be cool<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

A great friend of mine used to say something I've never forgotten. He's no longer here. He took his own life one night when none of us saw it coming. He was strong and weak, sad and hilarious, clear-headed and absent-minded. He summed up all that complexity in a single phrase: you have to be cool.

People have forgotten how to be cool. I keep swimming out to sea, without saving energy for the way back. I prefer that to staying on the shore playing the hypocrite. The one who doesn't feel. The indifferent one. The one who lives without passion. I want to spend it all. I didn't come to manage this life. I came to spend it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I am still changing<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

I have no idea who I am. And I don't think I ever will. I hope that in a few years someone reads all of this and tells me: this is what you were. Let someone else summarize me. I am still changing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And with all the affection and sincerity in the world: fuck you, dear and beloved ones.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This was written with a knife in one hand and tears in the other. Anger is sharpened. Tears are left untouched.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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