cuando repican duro...

Hoy, cuando le dije a una amiga que había escrito un poema, me topé con un determinante y curioso “ ¿ sobre quién?!” a modo de respuesta a mi penosa afirmación de artista amateur en plena experimentación . ¿ Cómo que sobre quién? Pensé, y de sopetón le hice saber que no era de nadie mi poema. Aunque de hecho, mi pequeño texto si tiene un protagonista, indudablemente. Es alguien a quien deseo con todo mi ser en este momento de mi vida –de hecho siempre lo he deseado, pero ahora más, mucho más- Es más, lo necesito: mi alma se nutre de su compañía, y mi mente se calma en su presencia. Hablo del silencio. El antecedente y el presente: Dado que estudié en un colegio católico, y siempre simpaticé con los rituales religiosos, crecí creyendo que irse a un corto retiro de silencio de tres días una vez al año es una práctica sana para la mente y el espíritu. En aquellos primeros años de juventud, a mis compañeras les resultaba sumamente incómoda la idea de pasar tres día

People and images: a deeply weird, slightly obsessive relationship. I’m a millennial, and like almost every single person of my generation, I spend most of the time of the day staring at the screen of my smartphone. But it happens that my sight gets tired of seeing the same thing 24/7; so every once in a while, I feel like changing the background image, once again. This happened to me yesterday, so when I was at my leisure, during a ten-minute break from work, I devoted myself to the search of the next perfect image to put on my screen. And here it is, this is the one I chose: The mental process of choosing an image is something quite intriguing to me. An image is a muted work of art, a silent piece of life, a minuscule pixel of the human experience. Although I prefer to say that it’s muted rather than silent, because muted implies that it could speak, it aims to communicate something to you, but because of its n

My country is slowly dying. At this point the whole world knows it, and we, the civilians are watching it die. I want to speak for my entire generation and say, that it has been a disgusting pleasure to watch our country burn in flames of hatred and division, along with our precious future here, as we turned into young adults.  This past 17 years have been a real life lesson for us and our families, and an every-day challenge to survive, that’s for sure. If anyone asks me what effects has this experience had on myself, I would tell them that undoubtedly living all this has moulded me, it has become a part of who I am - whether I like it or not -, it has defined my way of understanding the world, and of course, it has made me develop a series of tactical moves to help me solve the problems that may appear in life. -Tough life, tough skin. It was not enough for God to put me in a country where I didn’t really fit in, oh no, it had to be also a hostile environment, a place where,

Have you ever asked yourself if what you have is a profession, or is it more like an OBSESSION? I’m not talking about being a workaholic, no, I’m talking about making your profession a lifestyle, about adopting a point of view and a way of thinking that will accompany you throughout your entire life. I’m talking about having a pure, hateful, loving, and awfully addictive obsession with your profession. Well I think I do. I even suspect that a profession like architecture inevitably turns you into an obsessive person –that is, if you weren’t already a maniacal freak before you started studying it. And again, I think that my mind may have been a little messed up already before entering the university, he. But what I am certain of is that this past years that I have spent studying architecture have turned me into a more obsessive, maniacal individual than I was before. My eyes have been successfully trained to see certain things, and I’ve developed this sort of sixth sense that makes m

Me gusta hablar de la luna contigo; sabes conversar sin pretensiones, y eso me agrada. Para ti no hay prejuicios ni limitaciones, para ti las líneas son tan sólo sucesiones de puntos desarmables, por lo que el horizonte para ti, no significa nada. Un día que la inspiración me agarró desesperada te dije: “ Quiero burlarme del horizonte contigo, enséñame cómo lo haces.” Entonces me miraste con el cariño de una amistad entrañable, y después de un instante de silencio me explicaste tu secreto: “Mira, es sencillo, verás que mientras más te acercas a la línea del horizonte más se separan los puntos que la conforman.” Hiciste una pausa; y con la mirada clavada en el pedacito de océano que se asomaba entre los tejados, parecías encantado con tu propia teoría de disolución del mundo. Luego continuaste: “La línea se vuelve porosa ante tus ojos, hasta que la permeabilidad le gana. ¿ Ya viste? El horizonte es frágil, como todo lo demás” Me miraste y me regalaste una sonrisa. Yo también