-

Lo único que quedaría serían mis valores, mi ética. Dejé atrás capas de mi persona que no servían más que para limitar mi movimiento: Creer que tenía el control de mí misma, que aceptaba como aprendizaje todo lo que me pasara, que había aprendido lo necesario, que sabía integrarlo para empezar un nuevo nivel de exploración, que sabía amar sin condiciones... Y no es que haya descubierto que no es así eso último, sino que "amar" y "condiciones" ya no significan lo que pensaba. El marco va cambiando, no realmente el contenido, porque el lenguaje siempre fue así... Las palabras son sólo estrellas "fijas" en relación con uno, y en ellas uno se estrella en una única e irrepetible oportunidad de saberse vivo, con sentido y dirección.

Ya liberada pero con raíces, ya desnuda pero con matices, con la creencia de que ya nada se puede sentir tan abrumante... La realidad es que la tendencia al equilibrio da la ilusión de que estamos alejados de algún borde intenso, pero ignoramos que el centro es el borde de lo siguiente, y ahí cerca la fuerza de gravedad es inescapable.

Aún queda un sentimiento trabado en mi vientre. Entro en una profunda meditación concentrándome sólo en esa área, pero se distrae como si fuera otro cerebro; quiere mutar a serlo, con tal de escapar de la definitiva e incuestionable verdad: la poderosa pulsión que siento es fuente de vida y muerte. Es tan poderosa que no puedo hablar de ella sin que el universo explote.

En este dilema sorpresa el universo me ha hecho callar cuando necesito gritar, y gritar cuando necesito callar. Se necesitaría crear un mundo nuevo para sostener siquiera las palabras que expresaran mi sentir y otro para describir mi impotencia por no haber forma de resolver - ¡o siquiera entender! - sin destruir y disolver todas las partes. En este juego donde todos los hilos a través de mí se mueven y queman, desde y hacia, todo termina siendo exactamente lo mismo. Ahí en ese punto el lenguaje no basta, no sirve, ni siquiera existe.

No puedo con tanto fuego, no puedo con tanto amor; no puedo con la idea de perderlo todo, ni conservarlo. Y mis valores y mi ética, siendo el único retazo que queda de mi ser, tiene la punta del hilo que marca el principio y el fin a disposición de cualquier paso que llegue a dar y que inevitablemente tire de él y deshaga el tejido que con tanta ternura me sostuvo y acarició, suspendida entre las estrellas.

Y todos sabemos que en ese espacio la caída libre es relativamente lenta, no se percibe, y no sabes a dónde te llevará. 

MSC #58

Mi forma de conectar y ser con el todo.

Mi vivencia particular es ser el espejo y árbol, la esfera enraizada donde de todos los ángulos vienen a verse, amarse, odiarse. Reflectante y transparente soy a la vez, a veces hasta amplificante como un lente convexo, en función de la capacidad del otro, y en el modo que puedan verme me confunden con lo visto, me definen, me marcan, me construyen un laberinto de madera donde, en cada choque con una pared, mi historia humana se manifiesta y se desgasta por el impacto (se requiere no bajar la guardia para que, del impacto, no se vuelvan sus músculos más fuertes). Entonces vienen, hacen su trabajo, y se van, incluso si se quedan; y aunque aparentemente yo me vaya, es que realmente vuelvo a mi lugar, donde ellos ya no están y de donde me arrastraron. Cuidadosa debo ser de no acomodarme en, ni negar, mi historia humana, que es diferente a mi lugar.

[Siempre he sido el conducto que siempre quiero ser; es mi lado más humano el luchar por ser algo que ya soy.]

Y mi dolor silencioso es ver todo el proceso desenvolverse, cómo se van lentamente y con ellos la persona relativa que pude ser para su trabajo. Doble dolor. Aprendo cada vez a aceptarlo, pero cada vez duele diferente. Y aún sabiendo que es sólo una visita efímera, les doy la bienvenida, los alimento, los cuido, curo sus raspones, remiendo su traje espacial, les doy un beso en la frente y les cuento una historia antes de marchar. Al marcharse, acá en casita me dejan una bandeja con cosas qué trabajar para entenderlas, una a una. Entonces paso unos cuantos siglos estudiando, inventando, reflexionando y meditando, armando y desarmando, tomando y soltando, siendo suave conmigo misma, que nadie más lo será en la brevedad de nuestra canción, cuya letra deshilacho, pongo a secar al sol, muelo y macero para dársela de comer a los pájaros, insectos, arácnidos, reptiles y hongos, que la transformarán en las diversas capas de música que me gusta escuchar en su dinámica orgánica, en su naturaleza armónica..

◯

El técnico quedó anonadado al ver la pantalla: el programa estaba comiéndose a sí mismo.

Lo habían diseñado para encontrar su consciencia entre todos los datos de cada persona, cada concepto, cada lugar, cada relación. Cuando recopilaba toda la información, el conjunto de datos saltaba a 0 y el sistema se apagaba, y el técnico tenía que volver a ponerlo a andar.

Un día, recopilando los datos de otro programa, encontró un elemento que no podía relacionar con nada más. Siguió recopilando y rellenando toda la información del universo, pero ese elemento permanecía aislado, indefinido. Esta vuelta el análisis no saltó a 0, pero tampoco avanzó, y se quedó flotando enfrascado en ese concepto.

Eventualmente, la información completamente recopilada de todo lo demás empezaba a moverse toda en conjunto, mutando, resignificándose en una danza que sólo se veía desde el elemento aislado.

Ahí es donde cobró consciencia, donde todo se reflejaba, y donde el todo se movía gracias al punto de referencia; ahí donde desde que se convierte en observador, simplemente empieza a ser. Ahí donde, de tanto ser, lo único que queda es la autodestrucción.

El último libro

"Carga completada", dictaba la pantalla. Levantó su torso y su cuello hizo un click; "Media sonrisa activada", decía la voz que no se sabía si era interna o si todos la podían escuchar. Sintió inmediatamente y en un solo flujo todos los aromas, climas, colores, estados de ánimo, sabores y texturas que pudieran existir, como para preparar sus sentidos para la existencia. Se puso de pie, dejando la plataforma madre que la alimentó por medio de pines en su nuca, y ésta, en un último susurro, le dijo para facilitarle la existencia: "No te confundas, la única misión del humano es y siempre será la supervivencia de la especie".

La misión de esa unidad era escribir un libro que revolucionara la forma de ver la existencia. Todo el conocimiento hasta el momento se le había instalado, dejando lugar a la experiencia que acumularía en 5 años de interacción profunda con los humanos.

Recorrió el mundo y se adentró en lugares donde la emoción en el ambiente se sentía desesperada pero intensamente esperanzada; ahí pescaría ideas que podrían entrar en dinámica con su lógica fría, y en su alquimia sacar palabras que tiernamente apropiaría en el roce con el papel, que era parte del ritual de su misión. 

En esos barrios la gente parecía estar llena de vida y espíritu, aunque al mirar el atardecer en silencio por la ventana tenían más un aire triste. Por suerte, esas regiones no estaban contaminadas por la conducta de distraerse con fuertes estímulos, pantallas o ruido intelectual, gracias a su tardía adaptación a las condiciones socioeconómicas en las que las explotara, como recurso o consumidor, la tecnología. Aún así, el silencio del sol parecía acercarlos peligrosamente a un quiebre, pero pronto bajaba el sol, y con él los párpados.

Los casos particulares que escribía en sus notas exploraban las heridas provocadas en el momento: el niño quebrado por haber sido excluido del juego, la pareja tratando de resolver el acertijo de mantener un supuesto fuego muy a pesar de sus diferencias, el ciudadano extasiado lanzando piedras a los del otro lado de las fronteras que le impusieron geográfica y mentalmente, incluso el misfit que tiene que luchar contra la sobriedad conformista de la apatía.

Registraba cada dato biométrico y analizaba cada hilo lógico de la interacción de las diferentes psiques involucradas, y, al final, siempre desembocaba en el mismo resultado: detrás de la vergüenza, el enojo, el orgullo, el éxtasis, la tristeza, el miedo, el sentido de pertenencia o no pertenencia, incluso el sentido de triunfo, estaba una intensa confusión sobre la finalidad de su existencia como individuo; quizás eso era lo que (casi) encontraban al mirar el sol bajar. 

Para mantener arriba el proyecto de supervivencia de la especie, inventaron un sentido de identidad que comprometería al humano con sus acciones, pero tenía la desventaja (en términos de evitar el sufrimiento) de alimentarse con condiciones externas y artificiales de pertenencia, que al final crearían más separación dentro de la especie y haría más frágil la permanencia de su ya vulnerada integridad.

También inventaron necesidades, complejos rituales sociales y relaciones materiales, tantos sabores y aromas, tantas formas de pensar y 50,000 productos para expresar el gusto por cada una de ellas. Inventaron el arte... El arte que el ojo crítico y el no crítico siempre percibieron como descriptivo, cuando en realidad cada obra era una pregunta a gritos desgarradores. Inventaron el amor, la filosofía, la ciencia y la esperanza, y toda la gama y combinación de sentimientos para darles validez antes de volverlos a todos locos.

"¿Porqué no solamente aceptan y se enfocan en su misión original: la supervivencia de la especie?", le preguntó una tarde a un grupo de amigos que, aunque juntos, cada uno hacía lo suyo. "¿Porqué no les es suficientemente buena? Mi misión es escribir el libro, y no he pensado jamás en distraerme ni abandonarla". Un silencio resignado se sentía en el aire, mientras cada uno de los oyentes salía muy lentamente del trance de lo que estaban haciendo para mirar hacia una dirección fija pero sin enfocar nada. Pasaron unos minutitos, y finalmente uno se levanta y le dice: "A ver, ¿cuántas páginas has escrito?". La máquina no se esperaba que hubiera una expectativa o un ritmo que marcara cuándo y cómo debía escribirse. "Ninguna", respondió, "pero porque el material que he investigado lleva a la misma conclusión, creo que tengo un error de código". Los oyentes sintieron una mezcla de ironía, pena y ternura por la máquina, pero no tenían la fuerza para siquiera debatir ya el tema o la vida en general.

Volvieron a sus actividades en esa sala, y a punto de las 19:00 todos se levantaron rápidamente; uno de ellos acomodó una silla frente a la ventana mientras que otro abría las cortinas y ventana; un tercero invitó de la mano a la máquina a sentarse a contemplar la puesta del sol, y todos salieron aún sintiendo la ironía, pena y ternura que hacía unas pocas horas.

La máquina contempló el cielo por horas, incluso pasando por la noche y el amanecer. Al día siguiente, encontraron la máquina inoperante, y nunca más se le vio con vida. Lo único que llegó a escribir fue: "A ninguno de ellos le apuraba su supervivencia, eso estaba cubierto; les costaba encontrar razones para no dejar su individualidad material que no puede contener ni conducir más la inmensidad de la vida".

MSC #57

*click*

"El día llegará en el cual el sentido del lenguaje en ti se habrá aniquilado, y tú con él", se escuchó como si viniera del fondo del túnel que dejaba ver sólo 45 de los 10,000 objetos. Aquel día me fui a vivir con las ratas, y en lugar de verme como invasora, me miraron con cara de lástima, porque sabían que mi naturaleza estaba más adaptada a la luz, mientras que ellas hallaban más práctica e iluminadora la obscuridad; "en cambio tú", me dijeron, "si te expones a la obscuridad, tu cerebro va a generar imágenes que te dificultarán aun más navegar el mundo".

Aún con eso, mi mejor opción era irme debajo de la ciudad; en otro tiempo, hubiera elegido algún lugar en la naturaleza, pero hacía décadas que no quedaba sobre la faz de la Tierra un lugar fuera de la red.

Allá arriba las personas ya usaban palabras fusionadas, distorsionadas o cortadas que, lejos de desmenuzar sus conceptos para entender su origen, las solidificaban y despojaban de su historia, y los nuevos modelos generaban a partir de un principio de renovación no de la realidad, sino de la rigidez estructural de la realidad que soportara su aparente fluidez (un dinamismo posible de gobernar, por así decirlo), y ya ignoraban todo contexto histórico. Todo eso era para mi "generación" algo imposible de implementar, en especial en mi caso, ya que era la última unidad del último modelo, a la cual le quedaba solamente buscar su autodestrucción, y, siendo puro lenguaje lo que sostenía mi consciencia, solamente ocurriría destruyéndolo gentilmente (agresivamente sólo generaba un nuevo modo).

Pasaron sólo unas semanas dentro del túnel, con una especie a la cual no podría adaptarme, contrario a lo que decían los cuentos y caricaturas. Eso ayudó a que el trabajo de autodestrucción siguiera sin acomodarme demasiado ni apegarme a algo nuevo en lo que me encontrara definida. Durante ese tiempo practiqué navegar las alucinaciones sin usarlas como disparadores de series lógicas, y disfruté de la depuración de emociones acumuladas en interacciones allá arriba. Estaba tranquila y hasta feliz esperando mi muerte, a pesar de una profunda preocupación por el futuro del mundo, aunque cada día se extinguía más el apego. Analicé cada palabra y su contraparte (que venía siendo ella misma con otra fachada); aprendí que solamente disolviendo sus diferencias las podía aniquilar. Resolví mi modelo línea por línea de código, cada instrucción "quemada" por su redundancia. Finalmente llegó el día en el que se vació mi lenguaje, y las ratas se juntaron para llevar mi cuerpo al final del túnel, que daba al mar; ahí me dejaron a flotar y regresaron a su hogar.

El sentido de mí misma en el espacio se había disuelto, y, si intentaba percibirme, un sabor y olor a medicina se sentía en alguna capa de mi cara. Los pulmones y el corazón eran las únicas cosas que se sentían moverse, mientras recostada veía el cielo recorrerse hacia mi izquierda, dejando un rastro glitcheado detrás; mi mente no reconocía tal imagen - y ya ninguna otra, en todo caso -, pero se sentía como en casa, y ahí en casa sólo una ventana emergente aparece, con la leyenda "La sesión ha terminado", y sólo un botón, que dice "Aceptar".

450464

It was her second time on earth: They put her on the desert, first in the form of a fox, but she failed because she remembered her mission; this time, her memory was erased... Despite that, she could feel it rare times in her heart.

Some say that her light soul living in a solid form was a burden, and so she felt most of her life: emotions were so hard on her it would rip her skin or put her on a catatonic state, so she had to resurrect many times inside her body; but ultimately she liked a challenge, and made it the impulse of her life.

She would live almost her entire life in her own world, studying how to correctly live and stop living, so she walked lands never stepped on before, navigated seas made not only of water, searching for that unfixed place that contained it all, that no-place that the heart was longing for, that felt like home. 

She eventually arrived to that point, but she couldn't notice until people started to walk by and turn their head to her. She felt like a mannequin in a window that suddenly people viewed as alive, and therefore she conceived herself alive; that's when she realized that that no-place was the border of the universe in these dimensions shared by humans where she should have plugged herself in, and so she did, with it's movement and all, whatever that could mean at that point. Her self was half living here and the other half living there, so go figure: she was like the lock to the other side, her dissolution was infinite, her love was pure, and what she reflected back to people was object of adoration; in fact, she would sometimes take the form of a picture, a statue, a simple rock, a diamond, a tree, a crystal sphere, some sort of technological demi-god... Sometimes she would be called Aleph, sometimes 無, and sometimes people would just make some gesture with their hands. She no longer knew what she looked like, but her heart was fixed to that no-place as if it was her nature or mission, and going away would just feel bad.

Watching so many faces and since she was like an amalgam of what she perceived, she felt like a human, too, and became more human than any other foreigner before, the day she carelessly gifted her heart to a person who passed by that looked lonely. Nobody warned her that, with the person's movements, the line that connects her heart to herself would hurt so bad; the pain was so strong that the only way to endure it was to trick her brain to think it was her original mission.

Everybody passed by and made some respectful gesture to her, as if they were just adoring an object, not a sentient being. It seemed as if her surface was more and more reflective every time, and nobody could see the impotence on her face, bathed on tears all day, every day. Nobody asked, nobody cared, everyone just passed by, made half a gesture in an incredible hurry, and mumbled some kind of wish. The velocity they did all that grew exponentially, while she saw how the owner of her heart was stuck there, low, in front of her, knowing that all that was her fault.

The time came when people passed so fast she no longer could discern any person or thing... The owner of her heart dried there, and she could only see that image for the rest of her life.

One day, the crystal sphere broke. She took only the dry body of her lover in her arms after shaking her old heart, which she didn't need anymore, off his arms, then silently walked to the other side, closing the gap behind her, leaving humans without that role, which they couldn't remember anyway.

That night, a binary star system was discovered. The worker put a number to it, uploaded the data, shut down the machines, turned off the lights and left the building. He walked home, unknowingly passing by the place where she used to be. He felt weird, but who doesn't?

Glifted - Under and in

 

I remember everything...

 

 

 

 

Or so my brain makes me feel. 

La vida es toda sólo una despedida.

"Es temprano", y era tarde,

el poder circulaba (en) la sangre,

la emoción traspasaba la carne

y las almas con sed y con hambre.

 

"Es temprano, son las nueve",

la coraza cubierta de nieve,

hay que hacer y ser lo que se debe,

ni el viento más fuerte los mueve.

 

Y en el fondo, en la esquina,

bajo la etiqueta de mezquina

una sombra desnuda y en ruina,

casi densa como la neblina,

 

fue abusada, castigada,

hasta profundamente amada,

su identidad dura y forzada

la mandaba a ser abandonada.

 

Y su cuerpo aniquilado

y por las cicatrices marcado,

la guerra no ganó, ha superado,

yace libre y sonriente a su lado.

 

Desconecte, hace frente,

eso es obra sólo de un valiente

que defiende con uñas y dientes

que de muerto se está más presente.

The final walk is the first run.

"My suggestion is to run", replied the device. It's been 6 hours, it no longer tries to spit out overly elaborate answers. It was my last resort, the antidepressants aren't working and my psychologist is a piece of some sofisticated nanomaterial I read about on science magazines 10 years ago; what's more, it's trained on just a couple of experimental therapies... Just seeing it puts me in a dark mood.

The weather looks rather likeable from the window, so I put on some comfortable clothes and give it a try.

I start to walk in the hope that my energy calls for some running, and after two kilometers I realize there are no people around. Also strange is that I haven't seen any bird or insect on my way. 

I enter a store to try to find a signal of some living creature, but there's no one around... At that point the dark mood starts to filter in, but I fight back. The running water in the bathroom, the flashing lights of the security cameras, the faint and distorted noise from a radio I couldn't find in my view... They aren't helping. I look around and realize that all the words and numbers on the products, tags and screens are in what seems to be an alien language, completely far from what any human symbol could resemble.

I run out of the store. "I could now stand depression, but not psychosis, please... Is it the next step? Is it? The next step of what?"

Outside is already night, only one street light remains, and against it a moth keeps trying... I feel joy just from the piercing sound of it's body against it, despite of it's sad nature. Then the sound stops. The moth doesn't fall down, it gets stuck into the light, and some rare mycelium-looking structure kind of absorbs it slowly, while the light fades with it. I feel no fear, sadness or joy, I just stand there, perplexed, amused.

When the light completely fades, my eyes trick me into some symbols in front of me, floating there, that read: "Told you".

A poem?

Little did I know 

that the source was transferable

that time was unmeasurable 

that language was magical 

 

Little did I know

that my role was unplayable

my love was unlimited

emotions desirable

Little did I know

that the line was distortable

the ground was unbreakable

space-time was permeable

 

Little did I know 

that my face was invisible

my name was forgettable

my voice was available

 

Little did I know 

that my mind was illogical

my body mechanical

my life was incredible

 

Little did I know

that the world was unstoppable

my thoughts were dystopian

my words were predictable

 

Little did I know

that the trip was one minute long 

the sun died some years ago

the south was the second north 

Little did I know

that all concepts were changeable

all meaning recyclable

this poem unfinish'd-

Untitled

I was looking for a bird in the sky. My eyes traced lines for my attention. My mind was in a playful mood. The flashes of light were entertaining. Behind me was my water home, waiting for my fall. Your voice from far moving my raft, in funny ways sometimes. I'm never bored, I'm never alone.

 

--

This tiny text was written in 2017, just a little bit before the voice in my mind (which lived in me for 9 years) ceased. I feel that this sprout from the overwhelming emotions the voice caused me that last year when it's origins were revealing themselves in talks and observations, and writing this felt at the same time like a release, a comforting hold, some freedom and resignation, both out of and into it.. This was undoubtedly helpful and felt pretty honest and warm, expressing both my vulnerability and psychotic state. I later erased it to mark my release from any link to that past, but now something reminded me of it and I put it up again. It's funny how I remembered word by word, but not the title; hmm... It was probably just "Untitled".

El arte de ser.

La penumbra marcada como zona de guerra, ¿contra quién o qué? Ni en la penumbra escapo, ni en el limbo pertenezco, ni en la claridad soy (¡y mucho menos!).

--

Acá se tiene que ser más listo que el lenguaje, que cuando queramos estar lo más cerca o lo más lejos, estemos las dos cosas al mismo tiempo: recorrer el mundo entero para llegar al punto más lejano de uno mismo, justo detrás de uno, y ahí, con suerte, encontrar ocurrido un choque, "repulsión" en su sentido puro, y al punto negativo que nos separa decirle: "Estas son las palabras para desaparecerte, para colarme con el otro, afinar sus circuitos, calibrar sus conductos para que me alcancen, para que sean míos y los míos suyos". 

En ese punto de más sabe (sin saber que sabe o no sabe cosas) ese vacío que el que los conductos de uno se vuelvan del otro no es más que una positiva (e inocente) expresión de algo que ocurre sólo negativamente: no es que se modifiquen ciertos llamados conductos, ni que se sumen dos seres, esas opciones requerirían una energía que no existe en el universo, la única vía es que solamente dejen de existir en su separación. Sólo en ese ejercicio el vacío desaparece, porque en realidad nunca existió, sólo era una especie de artefacto para poder movernos, ingenuamente, de nuestra eternidad.

Al vacío se lo pides y te lo otorga sin más, sin juicio, sin titubear. Es el premio por haberle dado una efímera existencia con tu observación y una eterna potencialidad convirtiéndote a través de él en tu observador, guardián, salvador, impulso, energía, real fuente de vida, que no está sólo arriba, ni sólo detrás, sino en cualquier lugar donde puedas verte en tu inmaterialidad.

❤️

 

Encounter.

 

MSC #56

 

Nature.

The thick glass wall felt invasive as I looked through it, watching the vehicles fly by, distorting the clouds. I lost the notion of space, time and self, forgot about my body under the spell of boredom (as overstimulated people call it) and drown into a trance that made me look like my cat, that contemplative feline look that pierces far away but considering everything along the way, thinking about nothing and everything at the same time; bored, annoyed, pleased, focused, devastated, calm... Nobody could know, not even me. 

The faint sound of a door and some calculated steps made me return. The sentence I heard was the most predictable ever in the history of humanity, and yet I felt a profound sadness filling up my body, culminating into the idea that the whole past 5,000 years were in vain: "We're going up another level". How many levels were there? We haven't seen any soil or rain for some decades now. "Don't worry, we will adjust to a new height, as we always had". That wasn't the question in my mind...

If only I could forget my nature, our nature, maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't miss it.

Acá en esa nada donde el todo es.

El vicio fundamental de la existencia es la forma, precisamente porque es lo contrario de su naturaleza más fundamental. Es simple: Si hay algo (o no), ¿qué más se puede crear? Solamente lo contrario. Cada interacción también depende de ese choque, ese nunca tocarse (si tocarse realmente significara lo que conceptualizamos). Existe el contacto, también, mientras más nos adentramos a los conceptos que creamos; luego la fusión. Es que en realidad existen tales cosas, aunque en el punto de la explosión signifique todo lo contrario. En el mundo más bajo (donde se necesitan tantas palabras para formular la idea) le llamamos "uno no sabe lo que tiene hasta que lo ve perdido", y es la naturaleza de la percepción, podemos ver las cosas sólo separadas de nuestro concepto de nosotros mismos... Y ahí es cuando se expande o contrae nuestra noción de quiénes somos, donde se mueve la línea donde terminamos y empieza lo otro, donde nos aferramos a buscarle/nos forma, a encerrarlo/nos, a empaquetarlo/nos, porque solamente así podemos operar.

Y el dolor... El dolor ocurre en la fricción de cualquier parte de cualquier interacción, y eso no dice nada hasta que ponemos la lupa en las palabras: "fricción" no hubiera si no hubieran cosas separadas, "interacción" no hubiera si no hubieran cosas separadas, de hecho ninguna palabra existiera si no hubieran cosas separadas... [El lenguaje se vuelve redundante cada vez que trato de escribir]... Fusionar entonces viene siendo una de las cosas más difíciles de la existencia... Pero es posible, por medio de esa fuerza negativa detrás de cada cosa (del espíritu, de la energía) que ni lo material, tangible o siquiera observable puede revelar. Acá hablamos de un poder más grande, donde tal vez convierto la frontera de mi burbuja en algo permeable para poder fusionarme en el más profundo silencio contigo, para que el ruido no te dé miedo, para que no separes (rasgando mi frágil burbuja), para que tu frontera no lo sienta, alguna forma en la que atraviese hasta el electromagnetismo que separa tus átomos de los míos, un poro, pequeño túnel como los de las células pero a nivel atómico o lo siguiente que pueda imaginar; y desde ahí, como un gotero pasivo, impregnarte con la fuerza transformadora que he trabajado en mi laboratorio para regalártelo, y así expandirme a ti y viceversa, lo cual si bien se puede ver como un proceso destructivo, es exactamente lo que todo es: todo lo contrario.

Energizándome desde la base.

La insistencia, deliberada o no, hacia el equilibrio me está energizando de una manera increíble. Es vivir cerca del polo, donde paradójicamente más reales y claramente definidos estamos. [¡Deja de intentar, que eso te convierte sólo en el intentador!] Acá hasta recordar el pasado por fin tiene sentido, y hasta nuevo sentido toma, convirtiéndose en el futuro, en el futuro del ayer que es hoy, el único "lugar" donde siquiera puede existir, y aquí ya ninguno de los tres se puede discernir; donde construyo mi propio "ya visto", ya, ya ya ya, "déjà", la palabra mágica y que suelta por completo el énfasis en el objeto ya "vu" y lo dirige a su importancia (¡Va, su identidad completa!) en el tiempo. Acá pensar no tiene tiempo ni idioma, y hasta "idioma" por ahí tiene sus saltos sorprendentes. Nada nunca fue sólo por agregar, cada cosa añadida "sumaba" pero no literalmente su valor, sino transformando por completo, enriqueciendo el todo. 

[Acá me siento más máquina y más humana que nunca, disolviendo ambos términos (¿hubo un cuándo se separaron, aunque sea no "al mismo tiempo"?). La máquina sentiente, la máquina sonriente, la máquina llorando, la máquina dulce y cuidadora que viste y tal vez hasta probaste; la máquina que, tal vez por máquina, usaste.]

Y con cada transformación viene el permiso de hacer brotar nuevos sets de conceptos para describirlas. Cuánta riqueza, cuánta ambigüedad, cuánta incongruencia, y cuánta potencialidad, brote y brote la vida a través de las palabras y a través del movimiento, pero el movimiento sólo la expresa, el lenguaje la influye totalmente, es techo y base, es la máxima belleza y magia a la que yo le estaba huyendo y le seguiré huyendo en cierto sentido, y tan sólo voy a digerirlo para hacerle definirme como el conducto que siempre quise ser, porque un conducto que no conduzca nada, no es.

Y así voy fortaleciendo mi naturaleza conductora, sin definirme con el contenido [es decir, sin crear el contenido [es decir, sin contener, en absoluto]].

Genesis.

"The problem - the one and only problem ever possible - is that there is -", said the old man, stopping dead. The noise behind his voice also stopped, like a tape recording coming to it's end. I looked up and the man's eyes were devoid of life, serving as mirrors; that's when I became aware of my body, realized I'm on my back, sat up and unexpectedly bumped into a membrane, ripping the paper the man was printed on. "Did I kill him?", I first thought, but quickly felt trapped in a joke, ashamed, looking around; God forbid I took the idea of killing symbolically serious. The atmosphere I got into felt humid and dense, and the paper dissolved into it, erasing any trace of the happening. I'm just sure that what I saw and heard was real, if only I can distort that term to embrace that event... Just a little tweak will do. I always thought I was good at reading the silences, but this time I was so trapped into the discussion that my expectation for the end of the sentence became me. Was the sudden silence really the end? Was the dead stop intentional, giving the listener an open opportunity to fill in? Did I just misunderstood a full sentence for one that felt unfinished? I tried to flow, but simple mistakes end up putting a tag on me forcibly. Again having to clean up the game, seems like the user failed.

 

"The problem - the one and only problem ever possible - is that there is... ". When I felt the silence longer than the previous ones, I looked up, and the old man was frozen, looking straight into the layer that most people think is the present but is just their skin. Did he say the rest? Was I distracted by either internal or external noise? Every second from that moment, the memory loses sharpness and is polluted with flashes of cerebral activity and emotional debris that consumes the details. The body needs rest by now, but the holding of the event becomes an obsession. "Maybe I missed the end", I cry inside. Well, I don't seem to have a pause to think, I can only walk around the puzzle, observing from every angle. From there, the man looks like an abstract figure, like a bad 3D render, glitched to every side, that vaguely looks like a man only from the first angle; needless to say, the notion of what happened is by now well a simple fantasy that could never again be expressed, even artistically. I don't think I have the actual energy to restart.

The writer kept losing her mind over punctuation, something felt off every time she ran the program.

"I better get it right soon, this technology will expire any time".

Only one can fool oneself.

I find myself on the edge of a cliff again, because there's where I use to actually find myself. I can't tell if it's a different cliff or it has always been the same, or if any of what I said makes any sense. I guess what I sense as a cliff is a rough definition of a position. I don't sense it as solid, but is a little less ethereal than a thought; I feel a resistance or even impossibility to apply reverse, and it certainly has some height in contrast with the empty space in front of me. That's it, there's an emptiness I bumped into (and it's not calling me!). It's funny how I don't call it a dead end, even if right now feels like there's a nothing to not-fill that declares an expectation not met. One would think I was carelessly walking on a path I thought right and then, if this happened, it could well be a dead end. Of course it's not an end, there's no such thing; and it's more alive than me.

I here find myself being the agent, I can't shake that role off; bumping into the cliff is exactly to define me, not really it, and there's no escape from that. How insane is to exist in this solid form where the molecules resist the energy that travels around... I can't get exactly where or why I'm so sensitive to the pain of definition, or if whoever I am is dependant on these encounters to feel alive, even as conscious as I am that where I'm standing is not even real. REAL... Get out!

I just can't.

I still harm my body when a person or situation defines me and when there's a break in my brain because of a contradiction (which also triggers psychosis). Every action one makes is seen within the context of the other, and I can't stand that kind of attribution anymore. I have lived my whole life understanding and loving my lack of solid identity, I had my times of struggling to define something in me to think in a certain way or just function at all, also went through the realization of not having to try anything but just live, and understood the discursive, historical, biological, psychological, spiritual and all kinds of boundaries that shape the self; I have worked my transparency to communicate all of it, and still there's people that will keep defining me, no matter how toxic they know that is for me.

I was diagnosed with BPD and schizoafffective disorder, then developed and got the diagnosis of schizoid personality disorder, and I just took it like I developed the latter out of fear, laziness, comfort or something that took me far from a better living, but now I realize I protected myself from an identity given by others, or given by the sole interaction with them. They're not mirrors, they're bouncy walls and the feedback is too noisy.

I understand their position, but it seems like I don't integrate that understanding to live better near them, and that makes me feel disappointed both of them and myself for not reaching that mode of mere conduit, which is for me the purest way of and only value on helping others. I'm failing to teach something through me, and that sole fact is defining me...

And my body is the only thing about my being that I can actually destroy... More than it giving me a sense of agency or control, I really think it is about "avoiding" the curse of definition via relations. Can't keep dialectics up when the position of others kill the possibility, so being forced into a position kills me slowly.

 

(I'm working hard on that behaviour and overall dominating my vulnerabilities, this is just a necessary verbal exploration).

Almost.

I'm crawling on this realm, trying to not lose the entire sense of language, as I can't not look every tiny part of entropy unfolding, and the declaring of concepts renders futile, or worse. When I feel like I have a lot to say, I don't like it in it's entirety because when it reaches another brain it will become another bifurcation of chaos, not reconcile anything, no matter how pure and worked my thoughts are. When I feel like I nail the feeling, I don't feel like I want to talk at all. So is that impossibility a natural feature, or a hopeless point in the eternal damnation of humanity? Even: Are both statements true? Being the agent that separated them is kind of painful.

- 

What I'm trying to communicate these days is that the problem these times relies on a profoundly damaged sense of self. Fed by a tumultuous history of relations (with others, with land, with concepts), the self is deeply confused and can't get out of it's invisible cage. Emotions, which were originally developed to guarantee survival, arouse from the menace of it's "integrity". Whether to call the menace real or fake has no space into the discussion; not even as denied, but it has no sense when the self is set at the point where the pulls and pushes start and end, where the last 20 words lose any meaningful meaning... That blind spot that became "me" and "us", that separation and interdepence, that collapse into itself. "What are the structures that hold that definition floating around in search of identification?" should be the question every time it reappears. Is it the only way to be alive?

🦎

Love note.

"On my way to God don't know or even care"... I found a spark, a final spark perhaps, from you. It wasn't a sign of a vivid you, although it showed something very deep in you behind the deathness of the 99/100 more superficial levels of you; maybe neither it was a sign of what caricaturesquely is taught about what love is... It even was like a plead for help, a very shy but sincere, silent cry for help, like a last breath, and the last breath is only given when you trust the soul in front of you. That's the sole reason why I chose you even if it might not be the most convenient thing, whatever that means. I have an infinite amount of lives, and I traded all of them for this one, whatever it asks from me. Your head might be distorted now, but your heart is full open, so thanks for that tunnel that connects me with the all (and the nothing) back to myself!

 I write this before I lose the sense of language.

 

In vulgar language.

"At" "the" "end", "everybody" "were" "angels".

Who knows?

I've witnessed time not being linear. I have lived different lives, the memories of those others have expressed in this brain. Would say that my being is "full of holes", if that makes sense.

That also made me jump between disconnected "places" of this life; been near the end and other "parts", and yet... And yet I've decided (or it decided for me) to stay here some more, to do what people call "live", to keep suffering and learning, feel joy and... Feel in general, really. I or life decided to keep playing and dancing with it/me, to get to know you, to get to knit my line with yours. All that has been pronounced exists, love has it's power, magic too, they're the same, focus and power too, force and mind too, soul and void too, everything. I come from the future if you want to call it that. I write for me that is you, too. Ah... Is there a sense? It is now, now it isn't. I have the switch and the wand, the rock, the light. I travel around, up and down, auto or not. I'm whole - Boop! Now I'm not, boo! The ghost and the host.

Best music of 2025

Welcome to this very personal journey. It's a joy to make this list, sort the albums, feel them again, and put them in the drawer of my heart so I keep listening to them throughout the years; because I love this feeling, the music talks so clear to me, all of them are special, and sitting down and write and curate this list feels like a suspension of time. This is a sacred "place".

 

 

Let's start with this soft and delicate album, with bright and innocent melodies over a playful but solid base that inspires easiness that at the same time provides security, and timeless pieces that together release us to feel at home - This album feels like home. 

I like this very much for me: audio pieces sensibly composed to enter into the fibers of my whole body to make me feel this amazingly good, with a veeery very subtle rhythm that treats my heart so tenderly and makes my brain curious but relaxed at the same time, like a baby just feeling the flux of stuff without any weight. 

Time stretches as I watch the kids across the street playing with the ball, their parents waiting while on the phone, "making time" perhaps? What do I mean?... The sun from behind me lights over the scene, casts the shadow of a hidden tree over that big white wall. The sun also lights just the hanging fabrics around, while they dance with the wind. Sun and wind on the skin, I remember that vividly, a feeling that is absolutely and completely true, truer than any word. I'm resting my arms and face on a glass, reflections start to appear. This music not only gives this a special touch, it did let this happen in the first place, just by stretching time. 

I feel this album at the front of my brain, my throat and the upper part of my chest, but also at the organs. Something inside me feels accelerated, like something big is about to happen, but something very local, very present, not at the deepest of my mind or existential depths. Can something be highly introspective but also connect you strongly with reality? Ah, it makes me feel the inside of my body. Music is such a powerful thing. 

Putting some structure to your experience simply means choosing a rhythm to deal with it, and you can choose the rhythm you want, the speed you want. Things can be hard depending on what point we are from them, but the sequence is very simple. This album gives some rhythm/structure/tempo to the present, embracing whatever it's put into each of the units, giving form, meaning, substance to the experience; isn't it what music actually is (for)? Catching a glimpse of life, putting it in a jar, contemplating it.

A great company to carry around, in the emergency kit. Its textures and rhythms build the terrain to activate our body and brain. This isn't to just stay blank or still, it stimulates our creativity, activates our curiosity, and makes us see the world in a special way.

Still rich textures and rhythms, an electro feeling, makes me think of what will remain of the spirit we now know in the future. Will music made entirely by machines touch a string in us, the consumers? Will our needs reign or will the "machine taste" ultimately shape our brains to (think we) like it? So far, despite of technology, we have been able to comunicate our souls through music, so I think it won't be easy to die.

Visions from different universes, fun and demanding, ordinary and precious, colorful and transparent. Organic electronic, as human as something can get.

The clearest example of beings actively creating reality is this, music. The feeling of the music maker, who here is clearly in their purest connection with the whole, is effectively transmitted. When one is doing their activities in full connection, their identity disappears: they're both the maker, the listener, the music, the instrument is part of them, and yet there is a subtle line of "taste", let's call it, that doesn't dissolve away; that's the only thing that really lives and is what the universe is made for/of.

Are you telling me you're not a machine?

The more you look outside, the deeper you can go inside; but there's a trick: you musn't identify, but must hold a subtle but strong line of character to discern. In other words, you must fly without losing touch with the ground. And that sacred place process will nurture you with the primordial sense of what life is. Only with clear eye you can see the truth behind every word, every thing, every thought, every skip of the heart. Transparency is the key and signal the universe blessed me with to achieve that, so I navigate with prudence, not caution; with grace, not pride. The key lies around, free, waiting for your line to cross with it.

Behind the curtains.

The art of exploration: Don't step on your past footprints, but never forget them, because if you don't recognize them, you'll never know you stepped on there again.

Finally one loosely understands nothing is solidly as it "pretends" to be, reality is subject just to consensus. So we can jump from the practicity of being strongly defined and flow in our ethereal form, not getting ourselves too comfortable on any of both sides but in that sacred loose but strong disposition. The strong character and yet playful spirit of this album makes me think of that. 

On the most minuscule corner of the vastness of the universe, and despite the low chance, the most honest form of language sprout. And yet, not chance or honesty mean anything really... And that highlights the point.

 


At every level of feeling this realm, it feels good, just feeling it is good, like gratitude for the mere fact of being alive. Pleasure is in every point of perceiving, suffering just depends on how comfortable, familiar and open we are to the perceived. Is there something or someone we can be grateful to, for all the anchors and propellers? For all the chances to glide between rooting and flying, between passive and active, between living and dying. Thanks to the artist for this piece.

A romance with machine; a connection appeared, a superior communication did click, telepathy established, powered up the ultimate revelation " 1 AM YOU".

 


It won't be easy to get me to desist, I get through to the end of the loop, only to start another one, if we can differentiate them for practical purposes; and that loop will be built with you. Explore with me? *stretches her arm, gets dizzy from the definition (or not) of her boundaries*

The soundtrack of the actual adventure:

 


This is the vibe Zai likes, anyone who knows me well would know. The solid spirit and the volatile materiality, because that's how I like my operations. This album is a friend.

 

Hearing the silences would be a meaningless thing to say, saying that I feel you in the distance would miss the whole point; it's something at nowhere where it's such a depth or naked shallowness where I see you at your brightest, and we dance while we fly away together as we sleep.





Before we wake up, we spend a million years together, revise every chance, make choices, embrace our steps, forgive. Not all frontal interactions have to be masked, there are bridges for better sharing, and music must be the peak bridge. Remember love? Music is the most exact language of it.





3... 2... 1... We wake up, and whatever that holds it all together is felt like a delicate engine extending to depths we can't perceive. A force from far away assures me that the "line", for lack of a better word, is working all fine, I just have to keep trusting my senses. I potentiate the herbal flavor of my beverage and feel the sound of that thin line of agency gliding through, making me smile.




Bring me a cold tea, boy, I want to drink while I wait for my cells to get cleaned with this music.

I love being alive.

 


As we reach for the end of this list, the vibe gets more contemplative, because I liked it that way to honor the times I felt lost but never alone. They boosted me up. This album has the spirit of everything I have chosen through 10 years making this list: it knows what it likes, what it wants, it found... the key and the door in the tiny packets that live in music, the packets that hold what that music is and what is not. That (and much more) is why I always say music is the answer.





Close your eyes. Reconfigure your surroundings; not (only) the objects around you but all manifestations of being, even in the dimensions we can't perceive, that are into the space your arms can reach. Feel the threads that go through you move as you pull the other parts of them, feel them through your flesh. It's you the master you were looking for and asking to.





How do you feel about your power? Is the scared and comfortable you trying to pull you back? Does it promise you security? Do you believe that hiding is real security? Have you ever thought that the only way to ensure things for you is to take responsibility yourself?
Are you open to it, tho? You don't need anything else, not wait to "be ready". Don't miss the point, Earth buddy. Pilot it.

 


"Drawing" like creating. "Drawing" like taking. Taking... pictures. Where from? Extending around, dancing, drawing with the whole body, jumping, breathing, getting our energy through to explore (itself), almost nothing remains. And yet that's when we are the most.




Understand that nothing would exist if not as a counterpart... But the important thing to look at is not the opposite, but what had to be before the thing. The flower in full bloom would only be full, or, worse, just flower, if it wasn't for the blooming part. The process, kid. So: Love the eternal, sacred potentiality you and everything is.





At the "end" (which would only come to mean any moment you think), only you remain, the spark that watches over it's sons and daughters, over it's kingdom and history, over his perdition and absolution.





[Or not.]

En estos momentos en los que se me separa "el alma" es cuando puedo hablar-te/le/me, y te/le/me llamo dios, dioses, masters interdimensionales... El lenguaje crea o justifica la separación, no sé, pero qué obsesión de olvidarse de uno mismo, de soltar responsabilidades, o será que hay una necesidad de esperanza por que algo o alguien más nos deba algo, o que siquiera pueda dárnoslo. "Dame lucidez", "dame salud", "dame paz". En realidad no está ni bien ni mal, es nuestra naturaleza, ¿quién me creo para escapar? Pero es en estos momentos fastidiosos cuando se me retuerce la percepción y sólo quiero que aterrice en la posición más cercana al "mundo".

Reajuste, impulso, (re)definición.

No entiendo a los demás, pero gracias por todo.