MAY 30

I got an email from my mom. She tells me things there are fine and asks about my plans. I wrote back to tell her everything is good, I’m traveling around Europe. My sister also wrote, somewhat worried, all I told her was that everything was taken care of. I haven’t opened more emails. I have 220 unopened messages in my inbox. Having disappeared from the world is beautiful. I like the idea that everything can just keep going.M and I went to a show in Madrid. I enjoyed going out but quickly got nauseous and had to return early. M is incredibly generous. He wanted me to meet his parents, but I refused.

JUNE 2

The women from the foundation say I’m depressed, that I should go out more, but I like being shut up like this. Of course, sometimes everything weighs on me, especially my body with a balloon inflating in my belly. I picture objects in my body, I don’t want to picture a being. I dreamed I gave birth to a white balloon that came out of my vagina, a bright white balloon, beautiful. I felt so much admiration for the beauty of the balloon, but above all for the moment when the edge of the white balloon emerged from my red vagina, it was a lovely image. I also dreamed, what a weird thing, that I had a baby, but that he was the size of my hand and as I looked at him he got smaller and smaller until he disappeared in the palm of my hand. I tried to find him, but it was impossible, he’d transformed into a tiny birthmark in the very center of my hand. A wart.

JUNE 4

I think I always wanted to be outside the world and now, in this confinement, everything makes sense. I draw. They’re abstract drawings, though sooner or later a face or eyes or legs loom out. I also cook. M doesn’t cook, he spends the day writing, and I feel like I need to do something for him, so I cook every day. All the men I’ve known touched a sort of maternal fiber in me. Maybe that’s why this baby doesn’t awaken anything in me. I don’t feel like I love it. Nor do I feel that it’s a boy or a girl, just stones, I have a belly full of stones. I sometimes imagine it’s a fish. I imagine I have a fishbowl. I imagine I have a bag of bread. I imagine I am a pile of worms. I imagine it’s dirt, a belly full of dirt, that’s my favorite image.

JUNE 22

It’s M’s birthday. He went out with his friends. I imagine it’s difficult for him to bring them home, but he doesn’t say anything. My belly is now evident. This morning I decided to look at myself in the mirror again, naked. I haven’t dared do it lately, but today I did. I have stretch marks spreading up my thighs. My legs are wide like my grandmother’s. My breasts have also started to grow. They feel heavy. I’ve always wanted big breasts. I can only sleep on my back. My feet are always hot. Last night I got up and stuck my feet in the fridge. M was still writing and sat down to keep me company, we stayed there until dawn talking. It was a long conversation about his life and his last romantic relationship with a Peruvian woman. We both ended up laughing a lot because he’s able to imitate her and makes fun of her like he makes fun of everyone, including me. He told me he’s in love with me, that he’s doing all this so that when it finally passes, we can fuck in peace. I don’t believe he’s in love with me, but I am sure he wants me and that for him, love is, above all, visceral, unconditional, tireless support.