Keep reading: 1. Anger in writing, 2. Anger in paintings, 3. Anger in music. “Anger is a powerful emotion that can create precious things…. The blacksmith and the poet are all moved by it, we all loose sleep over it, anger is like love in the same way hurricanes are like wind.”

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I am such a sensible, responsible woman that I take my pain and fold it into tiny bity pieces until I can chew it so it’s no bother. Look! It has escaped from my grip again and ruined everything. Jobs, relationships. If only I could let it go. Yes, yes you can (types furiously).

Imagine you spill wine on a sweater. An irreparable, crimson stain where your heart is. You’ve washed it, the dry-cleaner tried too, but professional help doesn’t always do it. You’ve tried any sweet-smelling chemical that could clean it without ruining it ant it doesn’t work. Would you still wear it?

You don’t owe your pain anything

This is a simple, brief truth that I dive into in some of my other articles, if you’d like to take a peek. Take your pain, and open the door for it, because it has been begging you to get out. Don’t try to understand it. Or turn it into something beautiful. Stop over-intellectualizing your suffering, and you will be free.

If you’re a creative person this is particularly difficult. Who am I if I can’t make sense and beauty out of this? The artist is an alchemist who turns emotions — good or bad— , into prose, paint, film or song. All emotions must be transformed, yes, but some experiences are not meant to be transformed by you, they’re meant transform you. And you’re delaying that magic by overthinking, and pacing, and talking about it. No “closure” needed. The lesson has been learned, and you have been changed. You don’t need to understand it.

It really is that damn phone

I will spare both of us the inner workings of self-sabotage and why we doomscroll, (which substack has heard enough of), and I will get right into what worked for me to stop it. This way if you don’t intend on stopping I will save my breath. If you do, here’s one of my favorite and most effective strange rituals.

A few months ago I started journaling again. And since I made a point of not writing about sad things, I soon ran out of things to write about. I was already doing creative writing during the day. I just needed some writing that could pair well with my morning coffee and not distill the entirety of my then very melancholic thoughts.

So I gave myself an assignment. Upon waking up, I will write a brief review or resume of whatever episode or movie I watched the night before (during this period of time I watched a lot of TV at night). These nights soon transitioned into long periods of doomscrolling. Hours of it. So one morning, I literally forced myself to write about what I had doom-scrolled through the night before. Surprise, surprise, I didn’t remember any of it. It had all been dozens and dozens of six-second-long tiktok videos designed for a short attention span that will never think about them again. No thoughts provoked, just time wasted.

That very night I started reading instead, or at least watched a movie, even if late. Only to have something of substance to write about during my morning journaling session, which then was like a paramount toothpick that kept all of my mental health from collapsing. Side effect — I rarely doomscrolled anymore.

If you’re not crazy, it doesn’t work

Your thoughts are your reality. I will also spare you the manifestation monologue we’ve all heard. But in this I am a firm believer.

Manifesting works not because the universe magically rearranges itself, but because the moment you choose to believe in a possibility, you begin making decisions that align with it. Every intentional thought, action, and habit strengthens new neural pathways through neuroplasticity, gradually reshaping how you see yourself and the opportunities around you. When your mind learns to expect growth instead of limitation, your choices become more courageous, your focus becomes sharper, and what once felt impossible begins to feel attainable. In that way, manifestation is less about wishing for a different life and more about becoming the person who creates it.

Food is more important than you think

You’re not in trouble, I’m not your almond substack-writer. But now that we’re talking about neuroplasticity and how important it is that your brain is making the best decisions for you. Are you making the best decisions for it? For your body? Many slumps I had turned out to be nothing but poor nutrition and, shocker, the better you eat the better you actually feel.

One of the best advice I have for anybody, especially as a young woman navigating life on her own, is to take care of yourself as if you were a child under your care. Imagine your nine year old self, each time you don’t want to do something for her. Would you not fold her clothes, brush her hair? Would you make her skip meals so she can be smaller, or would you take care of her?

Quality food, if possible, is also important and does make a difference.

Break one rule and you’re in trouble. Break several and you will be free.

Is this life not mine for me to do with it as I see fit? Am I in trouble?

I find “trouble” to be such a vague, self inflicted sentiment and rarely an actual predicament we’re in. Don’t be so hard on yourself, stop picking up other’s slack, and break a few rules. I don’t just mean actual rules. I mean the invisible ones you’ve tied yourself to.

“I must be something to everybody”, “I must follow this specific path to success”, “I must be productive in this way”. Mi amor! all you have to be is yourself. You have to take your time, live where you want to live and do what you want to do. Keep in mind, this advice does not come from someone with infinite resources or influential parents or a solid foundation of any kind. I tell you this because I found out living on my terms was much less costly than living on somebody else’s.

Will I ever get tired of writing these essays? No. I’m thrilled to read more of you commenting on here, and I have a few surprises coming! So whether you found me on tiktok or right here, welcome, and thank you kindly for reading! Let me know if my idea to start a YouTube channel where I can be a bit more chatty on recommendations, creativity, art and becoming (because aren’t we all), appeals to you!!

Maddenly and truly yours,

Nicté xx

I can speak fondly of many past things but I still don’t like to think about them.

I left my blues in the winter, like I promised I would. I’m remembering I’m in charge, and I need not suffer, and that in the end we are the cure for the illness we invent. There is something inherently tough about letting go of the past. It feels poetic and cool. It is not always necessary to over-intellectualize and micro-analyze our past, sometimes truly what we need is to leave it where it is. I’ll tell you the story of how I learned this.

In my quest to maintain a promiscuous philosophy when it comes to faith, I try to learn and try many things spiritually, not necessarily hoping to connect to one specifically, but admiring each in their own beautiful ideology. With that being said, I sometimes go to church, and sometimes I end up in rooms with women hovering crystals over me. And it’s nice. Last time I booked one of these sessions (free, by the way) was not too long ago because, for the last few months, with very little interruption, I’d been miserable.

In this period of time I learned many things. Some recipes, some boxing, and that I’m not alone. I also tried my first piano lesson and Sunday mass. I tried keeping pretty plants alive, and booked a solo trip. I was doing just about anything. At one point it felt like I was jumping through hoops just for a peaceful moment, and such thing never seemed to come around. Meditation, writing, or indulging was helpful, but I still felt like I was runninng from something that wanted to claw its way back to me at any cost.

“You are waiting for closure.” The woman told me (we’ll call her Teresa), holding two amethysts on each side of my head. I nod yes, with a cheesy little tear falling down my cheek. She then told me something that changed my life, as dumb as it may sound to you, reading this with your own issues and beliefs. Teresa said: “Do you know that you can let go of this without closure, and be free?“

She made me see that I was stranded waiting for something that might never happen, and that I was free to move on without it. That closure indeed was not a key I needed to open the cage. There was no cage. “Gratitude cleanses all things.” she said. This sounded oddly familiar to what I had been hearing in church. But how could I be grateful for my sorrow, what had I learned from it?

“You changed through it.” she reminded me.

“What if I don’t like who I became?”

“You don’t dislike her, you mourn the old you.”

“Now I’m weary.”

“Smarter.”

“Sad.”

“Grieving.” She said “Give it time…”

In that moment I remembered I had free will, as I looked up at her old dream catcher and her Tony Soprano mug sitting right below, tea probably getting dusty. There was nothing on earth I couldnt do if I stopped waiting for “closure”, for “the right moment”. And I’m sure the effect she had on me was the product of her own experience and not necessarily crystal therapy, but I was glad I didn’t cancel the session. Very glad.

I don’t want to sound like I know everything, I indeed know nothing. Yet for the first time in a while it really does feel like I’m on the right path. It ocurred to me this morning that I fear nothing. I don’t fear the future and I’m not haunted by the past. I don’t fear people, I don’t fear myself. Y si para algo soy buena, es para salir adelante. I don’t fear showing up authentically anymore. Simply as myself.

Be attached to nothing and awed by everything. How else are we supposed to go through life, really? in suffering, surely. And I’m not really an optimist. A fairly pessimistic person is telling you this.

In the end, the peace I wanted wanted me more, but I turned away from it looking back into the past. Ugh! the past. The only thing that is intangible and yet so very heavy. The golden, dark, consequential yet irrelevant past. Not to get too soapy. But let a girl with a Substack get soapy. This was a short story, maybe sounds too easy. She just remembered she can move on! well yes, maybe you’ve forgotten too. That’s why I’m here, that’s why we write. In case anyone anywhere needs to hear what we have to say. So let this Substack article be amethysts I hover over you with a little funny chant, hoping to help. And tell me, what is the one thing you can do, but you forgot?

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“Along with social media becoming an increasingly divisive space, what was once an escape from reality and a way to find a community and friendship has become the space many of us are trying to escape.” —Rosie Oko, fashion historian

Reality check

This aspiration, however, is flawed. Today, the insufficiency of third spaces and the reality that businesses and entrepreneurs must have a social media presence to thrive make the idea of being “offline” almost a distant, wishful dream. Being unreachable has become aspirational.

With the growing cost of living, the prevalence of social media and the residual social-distancing mentality from the pandemic years, third places, or locations designed for socialization, have largely disappeared. — Devika Rao, The Week US

Elle, 2023

This is where we’re at. As we begin to romanticize slow, offline living, adorned with luxury loungewear and 4-hour morning routines, we assert our privileged status in an era when even celebrities cannot afford not to have a social media presence. We also condemn the excessive use of it as platforms like our beloved Substack, the user-crowned anti-doom-scrolling site, has doubled its paid subscriptions in roughly two years, which INCREV co describes as a “Meteoric rise”.

If the analog movement has taken place in moodboards and online trends, who is really offline? or, a better question, who can afford to?

The rise of the influencer brought us the term”mysterious source of income,” as we started to wonder how the people we watched through our screens actually afford not only the time to film and edit their content, but the lifestyle they were showcasing.

We’re having the same conversation now, in a slightly different frame. The goal now is to have a high-paying, remote, elusive job that allows you to live your life, leaving people wondering what you even do for a living. For your source of income to be so detached from your persona that it allows you to have matcha after Pilates at 10 am and people commenting, “Is she ever at work?”

@sophiacamero_ @sophiacamero_ ♬ original sound - collegedropoutlover911

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This is both a testament to the success of the slow-living movement as aspirational and to the overall discontent Gen Z has towards regular 9-to-5 jobs. We want to strive away from a soul-sucking work-home-scroll cycle and, while we’re at it, romanticize it.

Rebellion or re-branding?

Now that the iPod and paperback prices have gone up, BookTok influences entire careers and film projects, and the resurgence of gothic classics like Wuthering Heights, Frankenstein, and Nosferatu is upon us, but all of this through social media trends, is analog culture functioning as a new visual shorthand for depth?

“A Life Online is Performative by nature.” Hannah Glenn

@hannahglennhannahglennThis week’s essay about being performative, on substack 🪿#videoessay #substack #writing

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“I have not read the classics, Nicté. I work from Monday to Saturday” — dearest friend of mine.

Some of it is performative. Some of it is an inevitable cultural shift. The dystopian world we imagined ten or twenty years ago is not so distant anymore; it has actually pretty much arrived. Suddenly, logging off seems by far the least scary option. While going off-grid and living a slow yet suburban life secured by a cozy remote job is a privilege more than a rebellion, this trend does not seem completely superficial to me. As we embrace y2k trends —this time around, a bit more accurately—, and go analog here and there, we might be approaching a less polished, more authentic online space as well.

We see look-alike contests and pen-pals, CD’s making a comeback and the world stepping up to defend ballet and opera from Timothée Chalamet. Not all is lost. Even as we continue to consume media as aspirational and as it blurs the lines between reality and marketing, the very advances that can make the world feel somewhat frightening at times also make remote work increasingly common and accessible each day. And slow life might actually be on the horizon, for those who want it.

Recommended reads:

Lera Boroditsky investigated Sex, Syntax and Semantics in 2002, specifically on Grammatical Gender and Memory to suggest that native speakers of a language with masculine and feminine nouns were biased by gender perception. To do this experiment, Boroditsky, Schmidt and Phillips asked a group of native Spanish speakers and a group of native German speakers to write down the first three adjectives that came to mind to describe each object in a list. The purpose was to find out, since half of the objects on the list were grammatically gendered feminine in Spanish and masculine in German, and the other half were grammatically gendered masculine in Spanish and feminine in German, if the subconscious context of the participants’ native language would affect the perception of the objects on the list.

“The word ‘bridge’, is feminine in German and masculine in Spanish. German speakers described bridges as beautiful, elegant, peaceful, pretty, and slender, while Spanish speakers said they were big, long, strong, sturdy, and towering.” 1

If thoughts in our native language store information such as gender bias, what else do they hold onto? Many bilingual people say they find it awkward, cringy, or uncomfortable to say “I love you” in their first language. “It just feels too serious”. Same meaning, same recipient, why does the message feel so hard to convey? Why do I get a strange lump in my throat when I try to admit “I’m sorry” in Spanish? like I’m hardwired for pride only in my native language. In English, I can apologize when I’m wrong and pay all my dues with grace, but Spanish holds all my memories, including the ones I’ve forgotten. The ones that whisper in my ear, “They’re wrong, you’re right.”

English is light, safely distant, and hazy. My native language sees right through me; it’s intricate and dirty, an ant farm under a bright, warm lamp. I know every corner, but I’m also observed, raw, and awkward there. This barrier makes me painfully aware of my emotional shortcomings, and also extremely curious about other people’s. What are the things you cannot say in the language that raised you? What utterances feel cringy or just out of reach? And what does that say about you?

If swearing, lying, and saying I love you feel easier in a foreign language because there’s an emotional connection buffer, are these conversations also less meaningful? The answer is no. Speaking another language proficiently feels like having multiple personalities. A slightly different version of you that you could miss if you blink. Really, it is just you, very often without the subconscious social and individual conditioning you gained as a child.

“Early language develops at the same time as emotional regulation systems. It is thus plausible that utterances that are learned early become tightly connected with the brain’s emotional system.” Catherine Caldwell-Harris, Associate Professor of Psychology at Boston University 2

Language is embedded into our daily life; the words we speak are as paramount as our lungs, and they’re just as ours. Each of us walks around with a tailored repertoire of flaws and quirks that make us who we are, and language, even subconsciously, keeps the score.

Emphasis and expression

In films and often in real life, we see foreign characters, proficient in English, switch to their native language to cuss someone out, or say something and show they really mean it.

So this phenomenon is not a bad thing, and not just about cringe; like most human things, it simply is. A small and interesting space for emotional and even subconscious communication. Emotional resonance is deeper when expressed in a first language. Though it may make some things difficult to say out loud and face that part of ourselves, it also gives us an advantage to convey some things irrefutably: as darkly, seriously, or honestly as possible.

“If first languages are reservoirs of emotion, second languages can be rivers undammed, freeing their speakers to ride different currents.” — Love in Translation by Lauren Collins, The New Yorker, August 2016

This distance actually opens up a creative path. I find it easier to write freely in English, though it can always use some polishing, and the perfect choice of words is hard to find sometimes. This language to me is somewhat inhibited. Words flow unencumbered by emotion, but fully capturing my sometimes wide range of them. However, if I write just for myself, and I need to get something off my chest, I always write in Spanish.

Even if you prefer to express your love with the warm distance of “te quiero”instead of “te amo”, the option to do it is fully at your reach. Our parameters for what feels too serious are as sensible as our opinions on bridges, so take them with a grain of salt. Through borders, languages and entire lives lived, we communicate with each other with more than just words. Humans have been praying, lying, swearing and moaning since the beginning of time. The important thing is to say what we mean.

1. 4.6 Grammatical Gender and Object Descriptions

2. Bloom L., Beckwith R. (1989). Talking with feeling: integrating affective and linguistic expression in early language development. Cogn. Emotion 3, 315–342 10.1080/02699938908412711

Cover Image: Hiroyuki Samada and Laurie Marsac photographed by Lyu Hanabusa, 1992

You could just do it, right? sounds quite easy. To do it uninspired, scared or unprepared. While you’re thinking about it, someone else who is less equipped than you is doing it. If I entertain that idea, I almost feel competitive, I almost feel inspired.

It has to come from you.

There has to be some belief in self-grandeur, delusion, or even divine intervention if you truly want to think big-picture. To be great is to be selfish; the dreamer dreams of oneself. This is not necessarily a bad thing. If you don’t believe you’re it, who will? You have to begin by truly believing you have something to say that the world needs to hear. This is independent from exposure, fame, or social status; it is merely knowing that you have what it takes.

There’s a show-business folk tale of Michael Jackson you’ve probably heard, about how he would call his team in the middle of the night with a new hit song idea that came to him in a dream, insisting they had to get to the studio immediately, or else, “God would give the idea to Prince.”

If ideas are a god-given moment of enlightenment, and fate or fortune favor the bold who step up and execute them, whether they are hit songs, entrepreneurial endeavors, or the next great modern classic, this mentality gives you a purpose. It is a call to action. The message becomes the focal point, and you become the chosen vessel to express it. Only you can hear it (for now), like King David’s secret chord. The question is: will you seize the opportunity, or leave it to the next in line?

Lie and cheat

You could use some trickery and achieve success, but that’s not what I mean. I mean, can you trick yourself into it?

There are several types of motivation. Intrinsic motivation: that inner calling to do something out of love for it. These are your hobbies, your passions, what moves you. Then you have Extrinsic motivation, which the University of Pennsylvania quotes as: rewards, recognition, and external pressures. An external pressure can be anything from societal norms and beauty standards to a freight train coming right atcha. (psst, you can make this one up, and your brain will never tell)

Why not move calmly, but with the calculated urgency of someone who needs to untie themselves from the train tracks? think fast, act.

Last but not least: Introjected motivation: internal pressure without true ownership.

Referenced in self-determination theory, introjected motivation blends external and internal sources of motivation in a unique way that may feel intrinsic but is actually externally driven.

Think big

This goes hand in hand with motivation and the higher purpose we already discussed. Keeping your eye on a bigger goal will make you less stressed about minutiae. I had the idea before, but couldn’t put it into words until I watched Marty Supreme recently. Something Josh Safdie is extremely talented in is making the audience feel the external or internal pressure the character is facing (watch Uncut Gems or Good Time, if you don’t believe me). In his latest work, we watch Marty do just about anything to get to his goal, with little to no hesitation, regardless of the price to pay.

There is something that simply unlocks within you when you have that big-picture mentality that can even border on the unhealthy, erasing from your field of vision the small details that would stop most. And failure? well… like he said.

Play it your way.

Have fun with it. It’s your process, and it deserves a moment of your time for you to sit and decide what you want it to look like, not through someone else’s lens but your own. Don’t underestimate yourself or put yourself in boxes, thinking that it will be a black and white process, because the hues of any kind of creation are vast. Why not make it fun?

A recommended reading:

.

Validation is a vanity metric, toss it.

Perfectionism will hinder your progress, toss it.

I struggle with a paralyzing mindset, at times. The conditions must be perfect, the idea must be sharp and fully formed, otherwise carelessly discarded, but that is not art. Do. Re do. Revamp. One must come to terms with the fact that your art cannot be, in its finished form, as you imagined it. Otherwise it’d be just a thought.

Only a thought is perfect. Once it comes to reality it stops being perfect and it becomes art.

Mimic the idea, don’t try to materialize it.

As we established, only a thought is perfect, so I find it a more easy-going process to treat that first vision as an inspiration, more than a rough draft or an outline. “The first draft is you telling yourself the story”— advice by Terry Pratchett.

I like to think my imagination could go great lengths without the restrictions of my own questioning, and strangely, the more vaguely I begin to create, the sharper the idea becomes.

Ultimately, you don’t need to find inspiration; you just need to feed it. The story you want to tell (in whatever form you feel called to) is already somewhere in there, isn’t it? That idea, that vision, that feeling. Forget about creating it, crafting it. Start interpreting it. And –this goes to myself as well–, don’t get too caught up with the details, though I know this is easier said than done.

I’ll put it this way. Think of your magnum opus as just someone’s favorite thing. A favorite novel, a favorite film, column, painting. It feels like you’re birthing something, for sure, when you’re crafting it, but in the end all you want is for it to touch someone’s life —at least, I can say so for myself—, and for them, it will be perfect.

Toni Morrison — ‘I wrote my first novel because I wanted to read it.’

Whatever story you want to tell, it has to be that one story you itch to read, hear, watch. That feeling no song can quite convey, that vision no painting can quite portray. You’re the one meant to create it. It has been easier for me to think of it that way, at least. Detaching from that creator anxiety.

The Adler method

Adler’s approach nourishes the idea that the more we are able to be empathetic with the world the more we can use it as a vessel to tell our stories. She thought that being interested and engaged in culture, history, politics, languages, and society were all ways for an actor to elevate their performance.

“Growth as an actor and growth as a human being are synonyms.”

It’s the same for writers. All kinds of artists are merely storytellers. I think the box of our experiences and our life and our way of seeing the world is too small. If you’re an artist, sometimes you need to borrow from the outside.

“I knew I wanted to be creative and one day I just started writing. I wrote a sentence—‘On hot sticky days in Southern Louisiana the fire ants swarmed.’ I said, That’s a good sentence. I’d never been to Louisiana. I’d never seen a fire ant.”

—Walter Mosley, Paris Review

“What changed?”

For the storytellers who suffer from blank page syndrome, I adamantly recommend reading ‘The Science of Storytelling’ by Will Storr. Filled with a myriad of great writing advice and interesting facts about how our brains process and are naturally drawn to stories, whether it’s the ones we tell ourselves or the ones we see on the street and on the big screen.

“Every story you’ll ever hear amounts to ‘something changed’”

He explains that our brains are wired to detect change, which, for storytellers, means: ‘change is an opportunity’.

“This is what storytellers do. They create moments of unexpected change that seize the attention of their protagonists and, by extension, their readers and viewers. Those who’ve tried to unravel the secrets of story have long known about the significance of change. Aristotle argued that ‘peripeteia’, a dramatic turning point, is one of the most powerful moments in drama.”

He goes on to reference a few pieces of work that excelled at packing these changeful moments into their very first sentence, like:

‘The snow in the mountains was melting and Bunny had been dead for several weeks before we came to understand the gravity of our situation.’ — The Secret History by Donna Tartt

“Mother died today. Or yesterday. I don’t know.” — The Outsider by Albert Camus

“It is the saddest night, for I am leaving and not coming back.” — Hanif Kureishi’s Intimacy

I want to highlight that the most important part of the process is just starting. Though I have not discovered the cure for procrastination or paralyzing perfectionism, here are my two cents on it:

Laziness is not the opposite of discipline; doubt is. You are not lazy; you just don’t believe in yourself enough. Here’s the thing, you should. Discipline comes naturally after you decide: "Actually, of course I can do this.”

Special note: thank you dearly for reading and supporting, it means the world to me! I’ll make sure to have many more articles like this to come, but I’m all ears for anything you’d like to read on Carmín Amor xx

Spencer, 2021

Dir. Pablo Larraín, historical psychological drama portraying Princess Diana’s existential crisis during the Christmas of 1991, as she considers divorcing Prince Charles and leaving the British royal family.

Phantom Thread, 2021

Dir. Paul Thomas Anderson, set in 1950s London, Reynolds Woodcock is a renowned dressmaker whose fastidious life is disrupted by a young, strong-willed woman, Alma, who becomes his muse.

Catch Me If You Can, 2002

Barely 17 yet, Frank Abagnale is a skilled forger who has passed as a doctor, lawyer and pilot. FBI agent Carl becomes obsessed with tracking down the con man, who only revels in the pursuit.

Goodfellas, 1990

Dir. Martin Scorsese, the story of Henry Hill and his life in the mafia, covering his relationship with his wife Karen and his mob partners Jimmy Conway and Tommy DeVito.

Metropolitan 1990

Dir. Whit Stillman, a group of young upper-class Manhattanites are blithely passing through the gala debutante season, when an unusual outsider joins them and stirs them up.

It’s a Wonderful Life, 1946

Dir. Frank Capra, An angel is sent from Heaven to help a desperately frustrated businessman see the value of his own life.

And, drumroll, please…

The Holdovers, 2023

Dir. Alexander Payne, in 1970, a history teacher at a New England boarding school remains on campus during Christmas break to supervise held over students, and ends up forming an unlikely bond with a brainy but damaged troublemaker.

Many more Christmas chic to come, so make sure to subscribe to follow along xx

Hombre de cemento.

No hay sol, ni luna, ni profetas cuando estás tú. Hay viento salvaje, seguro desgaste; la lluvia moldeando las rocas, el silbido provocando el temblor. Hay mucho movimiento, hay luz y calor, pero no hay sol, ni luna ni estrellas cuando estás a mi alrededor.

Hombre de cemento, ni el cincel ni el remordimiento entran a tu interior. Ya no te quiero, tienes negro el pecho, tienes sombra de carbón, y aunque la apacigües sabes que te persigue; tú no tienes corazón. Y ni los vientos, ni los mares, mis lágrimas, o mi dolor cambian tus maneras; nunca cambias tu decisión.

Tan poca vida, tan seco mar. Te mueres de sed, pero no quieres caminar. Mírame, el quetzal, la tarde. Si te descuidas, ya no me vas a encontrar.

Mira que me dueles, y no te dejo de pensar,

pero soy hija de mi padre, no te volveré a buscar.

Día de muertos.

Este 2 de noviembre trato de contarte algo, pero siento que ya lo sabes todo.

Una vela de gardenia para pensarte, un recuerdo para atesorárte, un pajarito verde para nunca olvidarte.

Un recuerdo dulce eres, y hueles a verano, tu suave mano guía mi hombro, y me aleja de lo que no me quiere. Disculpa si no siempre te he escuchado, si no siempre me dueles. Soy joven, aunque no tanto como tú recuerdes. Pero recomiéndame un libro, cántame una canción. Dame consejo cuando me duela el corazón. Yo aquí te espero, con café y un edredón.

Naranja dulce,
Limón partido,
Dame un abrazo
Que yo te pido.
Si fueran santos mis juramentos,
En otros tiempos se olvidarán.

Author’s note:

I tried to translate these, and it felt like someone else wrote them entirely. However, I do want to leave a translated version for you below if you’d like to read along. Thank you dearly for reading Carmín Amor.

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Hombre de cemento, Man made of clay.

There is no sun, no moon, no prophets when you are here. There is wild wind, indisputable damage; the rain molding the rocks, the whistling causing the earthquake. There is much movement, there is light and heat, but there is no sun, no moon, no stars when you are around me.

Man made of clay, neither the chisel nor your remorse can ever pierce your soul. I don’t love you anymore; your chest is black and your shadow is made of coal.
And though you try to appease it, you know it haunts you; you have no heart. Neither the winds, nor the seas, nor my pain changes your ways; you never change your mind.

So little life, such a dry sea. You are dying of thirst, but you refuse to walk for water. Look at me, the quetzal, the sunset. If you look the other way, you will no longer find me.

Día de muertos, Day of the Dead.

This November 2nd, I’m trying to tell you something, but I feel like you already know everything.
A gardenia candle to think of you, a memory to treasure, a little green bird so I never forget you.

You are a sweet memory, and you smell like summer. Your gentle hand guides my shoulder and leads me away from what doesn’t love me. Forgive me if I haven’t always listened to you, if you don’t always haunt me. I’m young, though not as young as you remember. But recommend a book to me, sing me a song. Give me advice when my heart is aching. I’ll be waiting for you here, with coffee and a comforter.

But I truly did know the last time I saw you. The hills around the city wept a pale and golden light, creeping through pines and parking lots as you drove away. I singled out your blue baseball cap, one I’d never seen you wear before. ‘Strange,’ I thought. ‘Very. Never to be seen again, surely.’

After that day, cold embraced the city, and the hills once so golden were now made of fog, a familiar sting creeping back, urging me away. So I pack lightly, and I don’t say where, as if I’m trying to throw you off the scent. I’m sure you’ll come back a second, no, a third time, but you won’t find me here.

Some scents take me back to places left behind long ago. Chips of wood, burnt honey, mint, and clean cotton. One’s kindness is mistaken for weakness. Often, I do not have the willpower to prove anybody wrong; I find it more reasonable to remove myself from the scene, dry-eyed.

You could, too. Drape yourself in the natural perfume of new air, and leave the path you’ve paved that doesn’t serve you. Find within what you crave others to give you, and it will follow you everywhere. Look back to the places and the people that held you and nod gently at them. I might be constantly leaving but never running away, or looking back in anger. I might be constantly observing but never judging. Merely watching from the weeping willow. Merely listening to the swallow’s song. They fly south for early autumn, almost like they know that we’re now done.

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Cover art: Self-Portrait as a Cocoon, Valeria Durca, 1995

The Blacksmith

I am the blacksmith and the poet,
I am the maiden and the crone.
I am both cure and ruination,
the womb and the fatal shot.
I am the god I worship,
and the heretic I burn at the stake,
I am all the saints you keep framed in your vanity,
and the thief looking through the drawers herself.




As a God, I

As a God I sit alone and ponder
through the years, the empires and through the wars;
do I give people what they need,
or do I give them what they want?
To untie the lace of time and kiss its shoulder, I must sacrifice the very thing I want.
So as God I sit through rain and thunder 
for the debt I must repay with life.

Never has anything gone cold here,
never has anything gone awry.

As a God I learned to hide my hunger,
and that my father was never truly mine,
but if they want me to, I’ll smile and talk so softly
for the debt I must repay with life.





Eat a man

I am hungry and I need to feast
“maybe if you eat a man”
maybe if I eat a man.
Will he listen to me if he’s made of tin?
“maybe if you play pretend”
maybe if I make amends,
Father, tell me, is it in you to forgive
taking your boot off my neck?
“caterpillar, spiderweb!”
The past it is dust now, and the present is milk
“running down your summer dress,
twist the dagger, make the bed!”




pocket knife days

These days I keep a knife in my pocket,
sharp, and ready, and silver like stone.
The size of a fist, it flirts with the wrist,
the pocket knife sits and I shoulder it all.

I don’t want to turn on the lights. I don’t want to put on makeup and meet the sun. I want to keep this misery a secret, and emerge victorious some distant day, wearing white.

Birds of ill omen and other confessions, Carmín Amor, 2025

Sounds so easy and gets so messy. I have long avoided writing about love or romance, but I find myself talking about it almost relentlessly. With friends and family going through different stages of love, as a single woman, love seems to be everywhere, except where you are. Everyone in your life is dating, divorcing, traveling the world with their partners, raising kids with them, fighting, grieving. All of that holds its own beauty, but somehow I’ve always felt extremely foreign to it, watching through a window and living vicariously through others who were in the midst of it.

De-centering men or romance as a young woman is difficult, not because romance is paramount, but because it has been ingrained into your head so much that not prioritizing it feels like a resignation, a bittersweet acceptance that love is not on the cards for you, a claim that sounds nearly pathetic. But don’t be so dramatic, why not accept love without searching or aching for it?

Youth is an asset, why not employ it to master your craft? Build the foundation of your career? Truly know yourself? And maybe meet and grow a connection with someone along the way. This is not a manifesto against relationships or men. It’s a question for all: Wouldn’t life be so pleasant if we felt whole without the one? Why is the love of friends and family not as fulfilling as a romantic interest? And really, Why would time be running out?

Loving yourself is your responsibility.

Supposedly, we wrongfully search in our partners that which we lacked in our childhood. Attention, affection, consistency, understanding, patience (the list goes on). Those are things that you are supposed to give yourself as an adult, or else, you’ll form a perhaps unhealthy attachment and depend on someone else to satisfy these needs you were responsible to fulfill in the first place.

Give yourself attention: spend time with yourself, make time for things you enjoy. Give yourself consistency: take care of yourself, develop discipline and healthy habits. Understand yourself: journal, meditate, converse with yourself, invest in therapy. Be patient with yourself: give yourself time to grow into the person you want to be, be free to make mistakes.

Fulfilling these basic needs —or ‘healing your inner child’, as some say—, is actually paramount to be in a healthy relationship with someone else without hurting them or yourself. You are now the adult responsible for your inner child. Take that responsibility seriously.

Devotion to oneself. Boundaries.

If we can go above and beyond for others, why not do so for yourself? Why not show up when you need it most? And most importantly: why do we allow others to push our boundaries? I’m not just talking about partners or a romantic interest. Issues setting boundaries spill into every area of your life. So be a little strict with coworkers and siblings about your rules, respect yourself enough that everyone will follow your example, and for the love of god, stop saying you’re sorry. Remember, the only reason why you don’t set healthy boundaries is because you believe love must be earned. So you should show up for yourself with such consistency and tenderness that love is not a rare thing to covet and secure.

Are we even passing the Bechdel-test??

If you recently broke up with your partner, I, personally, will let you talk about them endlessly and not judge you for it. Because I get it, and it’s exactly what you need to do.

However, I find conversations much more fulfilling when they don’t revolve around love and relationships. There are women in my life whom I only ever talk about men with, women I might not be close with, from my gym or the nail salon. Maybe because our general disappointment in relationships unites us in some strange way, but I’d much rather know about the business they started with their mom last year, or the trip to Spain they’re planning with their college friends. Not passing the bechdel test at the brink of a World War is crazy. A far-fetched business venture, a new horror film. Think of something, damn it.

Love everywhere

Though forced to face the complexities –or lack thereof– of life without romance, you’re free to find that love is everywhere. Love is in the piano keys, and in your cats. In your grandmother’s photo album and the seat your friend saves for you at the table, it’s in the mirror, in the gravestone and in the clean clothes you wear. Love is in your work, the words you write, the dreams you paint. Life is so rich and fulfilling and it does not have to include -or exclude- romantic love. Love is what you make it. Colorful and loud and complex. Oftentimes, not as hidden as we think it is, perhaps only truly visible when out of focus.

But I’m trying to make it different. To make it mean something. I’m trying to forget that the internet is dead and the world as we knew it is over. I’m trying not to think that my parents are growing older. I’m trying to ignore the fact that my career doesn’t interest me much if I imagine what AI will do to it in five years—or five months—. To think about it for too long is depressing, but again, to think about anything too long is truly depressing. To think about the world right now, to think about you.

You. To write about you without concealing you—that is, without defending you—has been difficult, too. I’m mad at you and at the same time, mad at myself. There are things I can’t write.

I’m mad at the sun and the barking dog on 24th Street; these days I am my father’s daughter. I treasure this unpleasant feeling, a dark, dark cloud I seem to covet. The only one I’m mad at is myself, the only one I reprehend. Because I always knew you would do what you did. I’m mad I let you do it.

I should bury the hatchet. Let it go. I should walk past 24th Street and not think much about you, why you do the things that you do, or the role I played in them. I should be me again.

I keep thinking that if I woke up tomorrow and you had never happened, we’d both be just fine. I would be free to think about my future without wondering about yours. And these things, like my perfume, my favorite scarf, my cheek, could go on completely foreign to you and your hands, your eyes. I have this dream where we sit next to each other and you ask me if I think you’re a bad person. I never know what to tell you. We’re the same.

Ave de mal agüero soy, ave de paso
No soy paloma blanca, soy negra como carbón
Yo sé que no te quiero, que no te extraño
Que estás enamorado, y no te doy mi corazón.

Ave de mal agüero soy, ave de paso
Irremediable mi condición
Y tú, lobo vestido de oveja
Ante mí, eres carne de cañón.

Aves de mal agüero, que vuelan demasiado cerca del sol.
No decimos lo que pensamos
Pero inevitable la conclusión,
Que cuando solos estamos
No hay ningún santo en la habitación.

Ave de mal agüero, 2025

With each passing day I know, more and more, about what I want to be. Not an artist but a master, not a muse but a lover. Not a diluted, muffled thought but a sharp breath. I’ve created a life for myself that I am proud of, and in my absence from social media I worked much, wrote little, drank not-so-moderately, and, paradoxically enough, ate very clean. I moved places and got a black cat named Hugo. I did ballet and read on the bus every day. My journals keep piling up, slowly but surely, and I walk—a lot. I walk through my early twenties with a new-found commodity that is both bold and unsure. Am I doing this right? Asking since I intend on doing it anyway. 

My loneliness has been tinted a light shade of pink, a rumination that I’m sometimes distracted by —or from?—, hard to describe: A dry pier. A shallow breath. A wish for another to hold your hand. Can loneliness be deeply rooted? Fated? Not the absence of a man or a mother, but the seething, slowly-moving monster under the bed. I have tried a complex repertoire of things to fight it with, and I could show you. Friends and therapists and downtown tarot readers, psychics, acting teachers, priests and pilates instructors will all agree on the same inevitable conclusion: Life is not that deep. Keep going. So once you realize that you are a speck of dust in a world of billions, or small in comparison to all the lives you’ve lived, or small against god, or war, or any other thing going wrong on earth, what now? That ego death came particularly easy for me, a raised catholic, but you’re still sad, so, what now?  

One of two things will happen –and luckily I can give you insight on both scenarios, since I indulged, knee deep, in both of them–: One. In a quest to alter your brain chemistry to not feel sadness, a new and shiny, gluten-free, pink-pilates, alo moves-sponsored health journey begins. This, if you manage to dodge the flying arrows of capitalism and keep it as simple and non-glamorous as possible, is your best option. Two. And this is, by far, the worst rabbit hole you can choose to go down to if you’re a straight woman in the predicament I just described: you’ll find a guy. Not a man, a guy. Your guy. Your much older guy. Please, let me move on without elaborating. Someone to hold your head, eats with you, knows you, wants you.

My guy was not single-handedly at fault for how things developed between us. Though we were a bad, sickly combination, that is to say, a perfect one, we were yet another thing that, much like the chemistry of my brain, was fated to go awry. He knew very little about me, the real me, only scratched the bits I was willing to give away, yet he was able to understand me fully. That is the dangerous power of the guy. “Something on your mind..?” he’d ask, “from one grave to another…”. 

I successfully and not so gracefully got myself in and out of all my toxic endeavors, including the guy. It did take a tremendous amount of effort; therapy seemed exhaustingly self-absorbed, my next tarot appointment was waitlisted two months away, and all my friends were going through their own thing, as one does. But I was distracted enough by excelling at having only corporate emails and seven hundred and fifty milligrams of coffee for breakfast every day Monday to Friday. So I did it, and now I feel like writing again. Life is not that deep. Keep going.

I particularly like it here. I live in an old city, here in Mexico, that has both the historical charm and a taste of fast-paced, city life. The view of the skyscrapers of the 1st district, or the two-hundred-year-old cathedrals, is available to you in the same glance. Tiny glimpses of life hide here; Barre Studio, a combination of pilates and ballet, for which Sara, the instructor —and also my roommate— gave me a free-class pass to. Gabba Gabba, an alternative downtown bar playing John Lennon’s R&B sound-alikes. Long commute bus rides to read Julia Fox’s memoir. Crying, laughing, Jeff Buckley, ice cream in bed, parties, backseats, green juice, club-spinning, modest bi-monthly paychecks, all that fun stuff. Life and the early twenties unwrapping themselves like a thick fabric, rough and rich in color and texture: itchy, mismatched, warm. 

Somehow searching for a home got me in my feelings, a very literal manifestation of that which I had been doing since the day I was born. A lullaby forms in my head about a runaway bird. A sad little song, a pointless little story. I walk around cobblestone streets downtown, in a city where life is pacific and buzzing all at the same time. And in that buzz, I am overwhelmed by the feeling of being overlooked by everything and everyone. 

Let me lay down in my bed, let me retrace my steps, let me go back in time and do some things over again. I can’t.

Instead I sit on a park bench, and write down about the apartments I just visited, trying to decide which one will be my next one.

Apartment No. 1, a small but cozy place downtown, above a jewelry shop. A café right next door. Plenty of lighting and a broken bathroom door.

Apartment No. 2, a nicer part of town, is shared with a Pomeranian and a girl named Ines, who only seems to speak in whispers.

Apartment No. 3, a lonely girl and two cats. Two water leaks. Daenya’s eyes saddened me, I could see in them that we’re alike.

Though I seem to belong somewhere far away, I enjoy strolling through my search.  Everyone walks the same cobblestones I do, but they don’t walk alone. Whenever it really matters, I walk alone. The sunny day, the music and the downtown air are meant to be shared, but I am keeping them to myself. A light caress to my arm. Love, love poured into myself.  No matter what happens, I love. I love. I love.

When you die, are you a woman? Or are you just thread? A long strand of time, and faces, of lullabies and yellow stained glass. 

When I touch you, are you a man? Or are you just breath, escaping? Fingertips, yearning? 

When I see you, you’re all tallness, gentleness, madness.

You are young and wise, you cannot help it. But contemplation is such a tiresome thing; obstructive, pervasive. Give me something new and reckless. Regrets are in order, mistakes are à propos.  

Another musing for now, how I love you x

Droopy eyes looking down, like a river going south, like our plans back in march, like the shiver down my spine. One’s heart becomes simply untied during July, that peachy month. How can it taste so bitter? If it perpetually seems so sweet, yet it incessantly ends so bad.

We’re young but weary, so we choose to sit down for the night. Pesto, after July’s longest day. We choose a table far from the city lights, and eat away, talk little, and say plenty.

We are both writing less and less, we are both confused out of our heads. It’s the early twenties, it’s the July air. 

Appearing back here with a scribble, and a hushed ‘forget me not’. Lots of love as July ends, hope all is good x

I missed writing, and I missed you! Still, I pushed this moment for a minute or two because I was dreading coming back and being vulnerable in my silly little blog. I find it so peculiar now how during this period I craved to express myself yet kept most of my creative outlets at bay, so I decided to get back into it with a short little comfort post with some recommendations for your moments of procrastination.

Documentary: The center will not hold 

The personal and professional story of Joan Didion narrated by herself while sitting in her apartment on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. Her beginnings, all of her endings and the colorful and surprisingly fame-adjacent experiences in between. I watched it while eating cereal and doing my makeup. 

Short film: The Swan, Wes Anderson

A story of cruelty and loss of innocence. Exactly what you expect from a Wes Anderson creation: a fast-paced, vivid tale that both comforts you and keeps you a little bit on your toes. 17 mins long. I watched at night to go to bed, it kept me awake. (small note for the acting nerds, Rupert Friend’s acting is commendable in this film)

Book: The Diary of Frida Kahlo: An Intimate Self-Portrait

10 years of Frida’s life through her eyes. A mostly visual insight into her mind, with almost no dates or particular order, just a compendium of her colorful and brutally honest feelings and streams of thought. Some notes, some love letters, some memories. I read it while eating sweet oranges and sitting on the floor.

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Film: Frances Ha, Greta Gerwig

I’ll say nothing, if you’re in your twenties please watch.

Something all of these recommendations had in common for me is that they are all pretty seamless to pause and resume at any given point throughout your week, so I’ll leave them here if you want to sprinkle some of them during your moments of procrastination (or your actual free time). Again, I’m very happy to be baby-stepping back into the platform, I intend to read you more often and to show up here with some more surprises!!

read you soon, 

nicté x