I won’t give you answers.
Not even certainty.
This page is not a map.
It’s a letter with no return address.
A fogged mirror.
A runway with no script.

I’m writing this to summon chaos.
But not aesthetic chaos.
Not chaos for headlines.
I mean the real kind.
The one made of flesh and heat,
that tears through everything you thought you had figured out
and leaves you naked in front of yourself.
No mask. No shield. No fake smile.
Just you. And what’s left.
The kind that throws you down,
and if you pay attention,
teaches you how to fall like a fucking queen.

You won’t find instructions here.
But maybe—just maybe—
you’ll find something else:
permission.
To glitch.
To get weird.
To shapeshift.
To dance in the middle of the fucking fire.

Kaos is not a crisis.
It’s my language.
My compass.
My stage.
This written performance
is how I keep talking to her.

Walk in with no expectations.
But keep your senses sharp.
Maybe you’ll leave with more questions.
Or higher heels.

Both sound pretty right to me.

— Joel

7th Avenue: A Runway Without Permission

It was February 14th, and 7th Avenue cracked open
like a scar that glows under moonlight.

Adrián had blue fire in his hair.
I wore a tropical coat stitched with all my past selves.
No spotlights needed—
the city’s chaos lit us up from the inside.

“Faggots!” someone yelled from a corner.
And I smiled.
Because sometimes that word isn’t a knife.
Sometimes, it’s a spotlight.
A crooked kind of welcome.
A fucked-up kind of recognition.

I thought of my sisters in Clichí—
Paris trans girls who called me maricón with laughter and lipstick.
They taught me that insults can shapeshift.
What once tried to kill you
can become your armor.
Your headline.
Your fucking banner.

Around us, the city pulsed like a fever dream:
lulo vendors on loop,
cyclists dodging bodies with divine choreography,
an astronaut selling arepas like intergalactic tickets to somewhere better.

And then it rained.
Because Bogotá always rains when something real is about to happen.
Rain here doesn’t ruin the moment.
It is the moment.

We hid under a torn awning.
The fabric dripped ghosts.
Adrián looked at me.
Didn’t smile. Didn’t need to. Just said:

“Chaos shows up.
In Bogotá, in New York, in your chest.
Sometimes as a storm.
Sometimes as a door slamming shut when you needed it wide open.
And sometimes... as a truth you can’t outrun anymore.”

That’s when it hit me.

We had always been walking this runway.
Even before we dared to call it that.
Even with shaky legs.
Because this was never about being seen.
This was about refusing to disappear.

7th Avenue wasn’t a street.
It was a spell.
A wound turned into light.
A dance floor made of stubborn joy.

And if you fall—and you will—
fall with rage.
Fall with memory.
Fall like someone who’s been silenced too long and just found their fucking mic.

Then get up.
Because you will.
And when you do—
don’t just stand.
Burn.
Shine.
Let them know you were on the ground
and that you rose with fire in your breath
and a flag on your back—
not to wave it,
but to remind yourself
that pain can clothe you too.

Because this isn’t just a city.
Or a story.
Or a cute queer piece.

It’s a fucking declaration.
Of life.
Of desire.
Of Kaos.