In a new attempt at fictionalised mythology, I unfold reality with the intention of constructing new narratives, the strange stories that are not being told, the myths I have needed to hear, the creation of new sources to turn to. If male history and the mechanisms of reality constructed by the Academies insist on leaving us out, us queers, us romantics, those of us who do not participate in violence, the bodies that do not go to war, the dissident and marginalised bodies, the dreamers, the hearts that are wounded by love, the tender-hearted, those of us who have chosen poetry as a possible future and the rebellion of bodies as a weapon. So, if there is no mythology for us, we will have to invent it. I have shaped a new fiction by creating Ester’s manuscript, which has been the foundation, the source, the wellspring from which the stage play was born. Below I share four excerpts from Ester’s diary that have been “preserved to this day”:  

Oh, I tremble all over with green light. I tremble and sweat as I move from the bed of day to the bed of night. I carry a fever from the kitchen to the living room and from the living room to the window. My friend Ester, who are you, for it seems your clocks have stopped? I wring out the sheets soaked with the demons of the early morning, I lay my spirit out in the garden, it takes in the scent of the particles of the countryside and I sleep wrapped in the jungle. Then I think of all the hearts I love and how my chest is too small to hold them all; then I ask the mute if I am a mermaid, and his silence speaks volumes. I go for a run in the woods; if my gaze meets that of a squirrel or a shrew, I am already satisfied. I’ll keep writing tomorrow; I’m going to make you fall in love with me, step by step. 

Lion of reason, be quiet for a moment. This morning I saw Arthur Ojosturbios scratching his beard and fighting with a fly that was determined to land on his face. I smiled. My hands went numb just watching him. I nearly lost a tooth. I see no danger in Arthur’s eyes; I see the night, I see stupidity baring its claws, the cruelty of  a child. I do not fear his eyes; I could swim in them all spring long, I could dance with them alone. I could love him by accepting his whirlwind of emptiness. I am capable of ignoring my feet, tying my ankles so as not to escape, and devouring danger with my mouth. Spirit, save me from the burning in my fingers. If, to quell my delirium, they had to tie me to the trees, I could cut off my arms; I’ll go to my death happy if I brush against the erogenous zone of bravery. Today the morning is sunny and the horse-drawn carriages go clop-clop on my forehead. Fiery life, I feel you wearing me out the more I desire you.

Yesterday I dreamt that as I died, the light came, like a thunderous dawn. As I died, I saw my sister Cloth smile; she wasn’t smiling out of happiness, but because she was able to enter into my peace. As I died, the grove in the countryside turned to hail and fell suddenly in a terrible lash. I thought of saying goodbye to my poor friend Myrtell; I repeated her name from my pillow but the voice didn’t sound like mine. My poor friend, may misfortune and the snowstorm soon bring you to me, and may you, like a delicate spirit, rest in my quartz arms. Here, always at peace. But at that moment I awoke to a warm touch, as if a man were caressing my groin. I do not yet love enough to end it. I am not leaving yet. Then I went out for a walk so that the air might take the redness from my face, and I saw Águeda passing by with her parasol along the dirt track; I wished she would fall into a puddle. Afterwards I wished I were her, that I had her hair. Why wouldn’t God give me a shifting soul capable of invading bodies without permission? Every afternoon, on walks along the dirt track, a secret orgy of desires, glances and sent spirits takes shape, which I can see from afar. And quickly I shut the door to my house and, alone, I entrust myself to the night, my erotic companion.

I didn’t know if these would be my last thousand steps. If I leave today, I’ll never again see a calandra lark, an avalanche, or the acid as it bubbles. This morning, on my way to church, I felt more transparent than usual; for days I’ve been hiding the fact that I’m missing two fingers on my left hand. It’s very likely that this afternoon, after spending time in the woods and dropping my Myrtell off at her house, I’ll disappear completely. The love I feel for everyone is turning into a sweet trance. I still find solace in writing, but I am restless. Could I become a foal again? Will there be snow? I wanted the peaks for myself, but I have now realised they are not mine. Well, I shall return in a form that needs neither a woman’s nor a man’s bones. It is already midday and I can barely see my hands. Enough. I will not live out my evanescence with anguish. I have loved li e a bear and forever. My st ble is spa ious.

• Alberto Cortés