An introvert's journey out and into the Void (micro essay) (thought)

The introvert is sitting again in bed with his laptop. He's a breathing cliché in some respects: jobless, wants to be a writer, doesn't really like going out of the apartment unless inevitably, and currently rethinks the decisions he's made in life. And that's all good and normal.

So far his job, a weird one that varies from living in little towns in the middle of nowhere to potentially be the head of a huge project and a huge team of people—, has consisted mostly of being surrounded by few people. Though sometimes, he gets asked to do the opposite and beyond for the job's sake. Compromises, I think they're called.

But the past years taught him conflicting lessons and thoughts. "I like so much being at home, sometimes cleaning, sometimes taking care of the cat —'cause, of course he has a cat, it's still 2019—, and usually procrastinating the writing of a novel that, like it's predecessor, only God knows when will it see the light of day". Of course, the lazy bastard like procrastinating, at least until he feels guilty about it, which is every other night.

The apartment is nice, in a great, pretty and calm neighborhood, away from the turmoil and noise of downtown. The view to the mountains and the cold air that blows in as soon as you open the window is chilling yet comforting.

But all of that, costs money. Everything is down to earning more money than you spend on living —and vices, obviously.

And so he wonders the course of action: get out, get a job, work with other people, maybe having to move once again to a remote location with no 4G or Wifi for three months, or getting a much worse paid job downtown, sort of climbing down the ladder, so he can help his partner with the rent, the food, and more importantly, the cat's food.

He thinks of this and decides that it's kind of been his own career's fault that he doesn't want to go back at it: it's demanding, it's better paid than most but not fairly, compared to the amounts of work and hours that end up being part of it, it lacks any kind of benefits, not even the minimum required by law, and actual dangers are a big part of it.

So he thinks of a third option, which, a little ironically, stems from one of his favourite means of procrastination: a lot of the internet content he has been consumig revolves around people changing careers and jobs, and entering what used to seem only like a trend: the world of entrepreneurship.

He thinks, "this doesn't look like a passing thing anymore, or an alternative for people who escaped awful jobs or had mental breakdowns or something". He ruminates and the best part of all the content he's consumed circles in his head, "maybe in today's world and economy, working for and by yourself is the answer, or at least, an answer".

He already knows the "it's hard but it's worth it" discourse. It's scary. It won't mean working all alone, it'll mean having to go interact with people by himself just to be able to..."to do what?", he asks himself, "sell, stuff? I've never known how to freaking sell stuff, nor I know what could I sell". And that's true. But he thinks he can do it, or ease his way into it, or partner up with people that he already knows. Aynthing. Something.

He's so tired of working for an institution that's, in almost every way possible, worse than working at a McDonald's or a Starbucks, that the mere thought of having to go back to, and even having to make sacrifices for it, like moving to other states, or into the middle of the mountains —no matter how pretty they are—, overwhelms him.

He decides he can make the stuff he wants, learn and improve what he doesn't know and push through the stuff that is not his cup of tea. He's not alone. He's got help. Not from everyone, but there're friendly hands all around. One of the good things that come from all those years of working around the country is that: friendships and acquaintances almost everywhere.

Also, he thinks and tries to push through Resistance, to keep writing. Because all this looking inwards and pondering has shed a tiny ray of light into one small but solid truth. Even when confused or disappointed in the things he has done and studied for, writing —and reading— seems to have been the constant, the foundation, the theme in the arc of his own story.

And understanding as he does know that life itself is a narrative arc, he thinks the turning point is at hand, and that the tribulations will arrive and will be difficult, but at the end, he will traverse through the Void, into the Unknown, and will come back home with the gifts, and the knowledge, and, specially, with a mastery, if partial, of his own fears.

Instead of closing the laptop and going out, he starts, finally, to put it to good use.

The top image is taken from this etsy shop.

An introvert's journey out and into the Void (micro essay) (thought)

The introvert is sitting again in bed with his laptop. He's a breathing cliché in some respects: jobless, wants to be a writer, doesn't really like going out of the apartment unless inevitably, and currently rethinks the decisions he's made in life. And that's all good and normal.

So far his job, a weird one that varies from living in little towns in the middle of nowhere to potentially be the head of a huge project and a huge team of people—, has consisted mostly of being surrounded by few people. Though sometimes, he gets asked to do the opposite and beyond for the job's sake. Compromises, I think they're called.

But the past years taught him conflicting lessons and thoughts. "I like so much being at home, sometimes cleaning, sometimes taking care of the cat —'cause, of course he has a cat, it's still 2019—, and usually procrastinating the writing of a novel that, like it's predecessor, only God knows when will it see the light of day". Of course, the lazy bastard like procrastinating, at least until he feels guilty about it, which is every other night.

The apartment is nice, in a great, pretty and calm neighborhood, away from the turmoil and noise of downtown. The view to the mountains and the cold air that blows in as soon as you open the window is chilling yet comforting.

But all of that, costs money. Everything is down to earning more money than you spend on living —and vices, obviously.

And so he wonders the course of action: get out, get a job, work with other people, maybe having to move once again to a remote location with no 4G or Wifi for three months, or getting a much worse paid job downtown, sort of climbing down the ladder, so he can help his partner with the rent, the food, and more importantly, the cat's food.

He thinks of this and decides that it's kind of been his own career's fault that he doesn't want to go back at it: it's demanding, it's better paid than most but not fairly, compared to the amounts of work and hours that end up being part of it, it lacks any kind of benefits, not even the minimum required by law, and actual dangers are a big part of it.

So he thinks of a third option, which, a little ironically, stems from one of his favourite means of procrastination: a lot of the internet content he has been consumig revolves around people changing careers and jobs, and entering what used to seem only like a trend: the world of entrepreneurship.

He thinks, "this doesn't look like a passing thing anymore, or an alternative for people who escaped awful jobs or had mental breakdowns or something". He ruminates and the best part of all the content he's consumed circles in his head, "maybe in today's world and economy, working for and by yourself is the answer, or at least, an answer".

He already knows the "it's hard but it's worth it" discourse. It's scary. It won't mean working all alone, it'll mean having to go interact with people by himself just to be able to..."to do what?", he asks himself, "sell, stuff? I've never known how to freaking sell stuff, nor I know what could I sell". And that's true. But he thinks he can do it, or ease his way into it, or partner up with people that he already knows. Aynthing. Something.

He's so tired of working for an institution that's, in almost every way possible, worse than working at a McDonald's or a Starbucks, that the mere thought of having to go back to, and even having to make sacrifices for it, like moving to other states, or into the middle of the mountains —no matter how pretty they are—, overwhelms him.

He decides he can make the stuff he wants, learn and improve what he doesn't know and push through the stuff that is not his cup of tea. He's not alone. He's got help. Not from everyone, but there're friendly hands all around. One of the good things that come from all those years of working around the country is that: friendships and acquaintances almost everywhere.

Also, he thinks and tries to push through Resistance, to keep writing. Because all this looking inwards and pondering has shed a tiny ray of light into one small but solid truth. Even when confused or disappointed in the things he has done and studied for, writing —and reading— seems to have been the constant, the foundation, the theme in the arc of his own story.

And understanding as he does know that life itself is a narrative arc, he thinks the turning point is at hand, and that the tribulations will arrive and will be difficult, but at the end, he will traverse through the Void, into the Unknown, and will come back home with the gifts, and the knowledge, and, specially, with a mastery, if partial, of his own fears.

Instead of closing the laptop and going out, he starts, finally, to put it to good use.

The top image is taken from this etsy shop.

Retachment (poem)

The severed limb
shakes alone
and the biggest fragment
proceeds to the singing.

Brushstrokes
of purple smoke
depart from the pointy fingers
only to land softly,
like notes being sucked back
into the metal strings.

And the myriad particles,
with all their lives,
and all their tears,
reignite the screams
of matter and laws
and constitute the power
of radiant sunbeams.

The extirpation of the foreign bodies
is always a painful decision
and a torture when self imposed.
But the repositioning of the bones and tendons
grants a double pleasure:
the pain of coming back home,
the pain of refilling a phantom limb.

Finally,
the fruitless packets of air,
of dust and manequins' prayers
return to the void that was once home
and open their little mouths

to take the needle and the thread in,

trying

desperately

to be stitched back

to the pristine organism

from which they once exiled themselves

out of disgust,

disappointment,

hatred

and an accompanied solitude.

The headline illustration came from over here

Retachment (poem)

The severed limb
shakes alone
and the biggest fragment
proceeds to the singing.

Brushstrokes
of purple smoke
depart from the pointy fingers
only to land softly,
like notes being sucked back
into the metal strings.

And the myriad particles,
with all their lives,
and all their tears,
reignite the screams
of matter and laws
and constitute the power
of radiant sunbeams.

The extirpation of the foreign bodies
is always a painful decision
and a torture when self imposed.
But the repositioning of the bones and tendons
grants a double pleasure:
the pain of coming back home,
the pain of refilling a phantom limb.

Finally,
the fruitless packets of air,
of dust and manequins' prayers
return to the void that was once home
and open their little mouths

to take the needle and the thread in,

trying

desperately

to be stitched back

to the pristine organism

from which they once exiled themselves

out of disgust,

disappointment,

hatred

and an accompanied solitude.

The headline illustration came from over here

About #identity (micro essay) (micro ensayo)

In my job I run a lot into the concept of identity. Of course, every person will have his own concept of what it is made of. But, as I have been finding recently –within myself and sometimes in the attitude of the others–, most of the values and mechanisms we humans are built with are enormously ambivalent. This is a nice way to call our actually contradictive nature.

Identity could be said to be formed up of the common beliefs, stories, legends, ways of life, acting, food, traditions, accents and a long etcetera, that are shared by a group of people. This sharing is usually linked to a certain geographical area by most of its population through a period of time, this means that it transcends. If we don't go any further, into more an deeper details: could we say that Identity is a good thing? Does it help every human group? Does it prevent conflict within and outside the communities? Does it facilitate people's lives through their history?

Maybe you first answered yes. But, don’t you know, or haven't you stopped to think about that it is also the existence of different identities the source of A FUCKING LOT OF CONFLICT, WAR, DISCRIMINATION, RACISM and, again, a long etcetera?

Identity works both ways. Or maybe it just works and the outcome depends on who –meaning what kind of person– uses it. It has the capability of joining people together. Sometimes only based on ideas or a sense of historical relation.

But, when you join with others to form a group, a community, how do you know where does your group end? Where does the neighbor's begin? What makes them "two separate entities"? I really don't want to get into discrimination and that sort of shit. So I might mention it but the issue I wanna question is other.

Truth is, identity can work for the achievement of some tasks or purposes. These may be abstract or quite concrete. From the idea of a new-born country –how it is and where should its people go– to raising money for any goal or cause. But, on the other hand, it sets your mind into separating the social groups, generating sterotypes, allowing in some way the competition between nations and even towns. This, the competition, can as well be good, in the shape of having motivation to improve, or bad, in the ways of corruption and cheating.

So I have to ask another cuestion: if a time would come, in which, let's say "globalization" –in the cultural way– was the way of life for the whole world, would the homogenization of populations' cultures be the factor that nullified the root reasons for conflict between societies? Could that scenario really allow a more generalized peace to exist and expand?

Cultures are interpretations of the world –its nature, landscape, climate, resources, life forms– by groups so different in their adaptation to such world. It is what makes humanity so diverse, and rich. And yet many people threaten that vast plurality. But, and I'm just making unconfortable questions: what if by losing such variety could facilitate us to live together and in peace? Disclaimer: NO, I'M NOT TALKING ABOUT RACE, NOTHING BIOLOGICAL OR GENETIC. I'M ALSO NOT TALKING ABOUT GENOCIDE OR THE SUPREMACY OF SOME GROUPS ABOVE THE REST.

I'm talknig about some sci-fi scenario in which races are left untouched but cultural differences have been left behind and humanity became one cultural entity in which, wherever you travelled, you would be understood and would feel always like home. Is there a value in that? Would that peaceful world be worth the cost? Is the root of our conflicts our natural differentiation?

I am just asking, because, of course I do not have the answers to such questions.

I just hoped, sometimes, that being human wasn't so contradictory and confusing as it is.

Photography taken by me at San Francisco Tepojaco, in the municipality of Cuautitlán Izcalli, Estado de México, México.

About #identity (micro essay) (micro ensayo)

In my job I run a lot into the concept of identity. Of course, every person will have his own concept of what it is made of. But, as I have been finding recently –within myself and sometimes in the attitude of the others–, most of the values and mechanisms we humans are built with are enormously ambivalent. This is a nice way to call our actually contradictive nature.

Identity could be said to be formed up of the common beliefs, stories, legends, ways of life, acting, food, traditions, accents and a long etcetera, that are shared by a group of people. This sharing is usually linked to a certain geographical area by most of its population through a period of time, this means that it transcends. If we don't go any further, into more an deeper details: could we say that Identity is a good thing? Does it help every human group? Does it prevent conflict within and outside the communities? Does it facilitate people's lives through their history?

Maybe you first answered yes. But, don’t you know, or haven't you stopped to think about that it is also the existence of different identities the source of A FUCKING LOT OF CONFLICT, WAR, DISCRIMINATION, RACISM and, again, a long etcetera?

Identity works both ways. Or maybe it just works and the outcome depends on who –meaning what kind of person– uses it. It has the capability of joining people together. Sometimes only based on ideas or a sense of historical relation.

But, when you join with others to form a group, a community, how do you know where does your group end? Where does the neighbor's begin? What makes them "two separate entities"? I really don't want to get into discrimination and that sort of shit. So I might mention it but the issue I wanna question is other.

Truth is, identity can work for the achievement of some tasks or purposes. These may be abstract or quite concrete. From the idea of a new-born country –how it is and where should its people go– to raising money for any goal or cause. But, on the other hand, it sets your mind into separating the social groups, generating sterotypes, allowing in some way the competition between nations and even towns. This, the competition, can as well be good, in the shape of having motivation to improve, or bad, in the ways of corruption and cheating.

So I have to ask another cuestion: if a time would come, in which, let's say "globalization" –in the cultural way– was the way of life for the whole world, would the homogenization of populations' cultures be the factor that nullified the root reasons for conflict between societies? Could that scenario really allow a more generalized peace to exist and expand?

Cultures are interpretations of the world –its nature, landscape, climate, resources, life forms– by groups so different in their adaptation to such world. It is what makes humanity so diverse, and rich. And yet many people threaten that vast plurality. But, and I'm just making unconfortable questions: what if by losing such variety could facilitate us to live together and in peace? Disclaimer: NO, I'M NOT TALKING ABOUT RACE, NOTHING BIOLOGICAL OR GENETIC. I'M ALSO NOT TALKING ABOUT GENOCIDE OR THE SUPREMACY OF SOME GROUPS ABOVE THE REST.

I'm talknig about some sci-fi scenario in which races are left untouched but cultural differences have been left behind and humanity became one cultural entity in which, wherever you travelled, you would be understood and would feel always like home. Is there a value in that? Would that peaceful world be worth the cost? Is the root of our conflicts our natural differentiation?

I am just asking, because, of course I do not have the answers to such questions.

I just hoped, sometimes, that being human wasn't so contradictory and confusing as it is.

Photography taken by me at San Francisco Tepojaco, in the municipality of Cuautitlán Izcalli, Estado de México, México.

The Comfort Zone (poem)

Careless
Reckless obscenities that dress themselves with glittering clothes
Poison in bottles of licquor, of sweet vanilla, coconut and pineapple
The teeth that bites softest, that makes you ask for another piece
to be ripped from your neck, from your shoulders

The deadly comfort zone
where dreams die under motionless hammers
where people grow downwards
like trees
like coffins that explore the soil.

The wildfires are chanting
After the brief rain the air is scented with the smell of wet earth, wet stones,
water filtrating through the nerves of the land
irrigating its veins, again
pasively

Death most be such a delightful peace...because no dead has ever came back from it:
an eternal comfort zone

The Comfort Zone (poem)

Careless
Reckless obscenities that dress themselves with glittering clothes
Poison in bottles of licquor, of sweet vanilla, coconut and pineapple
The teeth that bites softest, that makes you ask for another piece
to be ripped from your neck, from your shoulders

The deadly comfort zone
where dreams die under motionless hammers
where people grow downwards
like trees
like coffins that explore the soil.

The wildfires are chanting
After the brief rain the air is scented with the smell of wet earth, wet stones,
water filtrating through the nerves of the land
irrigating its veins, again
pasively

Death most be such a delightful peace...because no dead has ever came back from it:
an eternal comfort zone

A soft rain did just fall

Trying to find yet another combination of words that hasn't been used ever before. Even though I know it's very probable such an intention will fail, I keep on trying. Because when I get the exact combination to describe the atmospheres, the lights and shadows, the feelings and cryings of the soul I know I'll be closer to eternity, or to some form of it.
But what I truly seek is to discover the configuration by which your body is built up. The right positions of the stars the day you came to this world. I'd like to understand the etheral nature of your skin, the decadent forms of your tempting lips...the soft heat that comes from your interior and impregnates my face, while we hug in the middle of a poor excuse of a rain.
I'd like to know what's on your mind, which I only know that changes several times in the lapse of a second.
I'd like to understand my own dumb processes, to recognize the moment in which I tend to poison and plot myself. Maybe then, I'll be able to stop my self from sabotating every of my steps.

A soft rain did just fall

Trying to find yet another combination of words that hasn't been used ever before. Even though I know it's very probable such an intention will fail, I keep on trying. Because when I get the exact combination to describe the atmospheres, the lights and shadows, the feelings and cryings of the soul I know I'll be closer to eternity, or to some form of it.
But what I truly seek is to discover the configuration by which your body is built up. The right positions of the stars the day you came to this world. I'd like to understand the etheral nature of your skin, the decadent forms of your tempting lips...the soft heat that comes from your interior and impregnates my face, while we hug in the middle of a poor excuse of a rain.
I'd like to know what's on your mind, which I only know that changes several times in the lapse of a second.
I'd like to understand my own dumb processes, to recognize the moment in which I tend to poison and plot myself. Maybe then, I'll be able to stop my self from sabotating every of my steps.