Ahoguío.

There’s one thing nobody taught me when I started writing: how easy it is to fall into a state of suffocation (ahoguío).

From the very beginning, I was a fatalistic writer, so asceticism was mine from the start. And before I lost you, I decided to present an endogenous explanation here, in my space. This is my Sunday mental release.

When I resort to the use of suffocation, I don’t do it as a superficial whim, but in the sharpest sense. And once you start, you can’t stop, even if that sounds extreme. Your fingers and mind, which don’t seem to work in tandem, begin to intertwine through the abstract subconscious and your own morals. Putting yourself in a place of exposure, empathy/apathy, and arriving at a conclusion without falling into clichés is, for me and given my fledgling experience, a cyclical battle—both mental and physical.

Now imagine working from my position, that of discouragement. I wasn’t sad all the time, but I began by writing crudely about how I was withering, with verbosity and trying to be coherent. After living like that for so long, writing became a necessity. I wasn’t doing it for leisure anymore, and I became demanding; I wasn’t looking for more methods or more feelings, and repetition became synonymous with a cage, where I kept ending up. I worked my mind, my beliefs, and my fingers began to wear out—just like the sadness that dictated my essence.

What do you do when you’re lost and can’t bring yourself to write?

You stop, you keep going, I don’t know—and I’m still trying to find out.