A Plundered Museum

My memory is a plundered museum. I used to think about the different lives that I had the privilege of inhabiting and think about the imprint of those successive presents in my memory. Un museo en ruinas, I used to think. My internal collection of lived souvenirs, permanently stuck at different points in time. Like a series of museum rooms, that slowly decay and fall apart and get slowly colonized by the unfolding present.

I will write here about whatever I want, as if nobody were reading.