No longer there, I look back and invent the reasons why there was the only place to become me, la escritora. As I move East, my attachment to Mexico City is weaved by gratitude:
Put simply, that’s all I want to do. A privilege, a dream, a luxury, a far fetched idea made reality by pure conviction and stubbornness. Here, the mid-afternoon rainfall that purifies my lungs is unwritten poetry, the urban marvels and wonders nestled at every corner is untapped inspiration, the moonlight and silence and noise is inspiration for prose and ode alike.
Here, lives courage, defiance, struggle and the resistance of people and movements that must and will always make themselves present. Here, for me, journalism is as important as the personal essay because they are one in the same. Survival, resistance, love, and homage. What inspires me irremediably and that I know I must write for myself and for others.
Here, inspiration and love seeps into my pores, fills my stomach, perfumes my hair, salts my michelada, and lets be frank, even pays for my cab ride.
This inspiration is as old and decaying as the baked lake bed beneath my feet. It is also new and flourishing…