Hey, are you with me now?

-What do you mean? I am literally sitting right next to you, she said smiling.

-Yeah, but are you with me like; not thinking about all the mundane stuff. Like every single moment we are together is eternal, like if it’s always 3:13. Like if a selfish lover fell so deeply in love, the world lost all meaning. Are you with me so close, you can hear the unrhythmical interruptions of my breath, or my crooked fingers slip through the dusty river stones. Are you with me even if we are frozen in time, even if I destroyed your greatest pride.

Because often, I sit alone on this hidden riverbank, thinking, watching the tall trees far in the horizon, valse to the pacing summer wind. Pollen and other dusty stuff get taken up in the air too, making a hazy ethereal ambiance. Like a fairytale forest.

And every time that happens, I am scared you will float away in the light of the day like the rest of the dust particles scattered all around us. So, I ask you again if you really are here with me, and every time you reply the same thing. And every time it’s still 3:13. And every time I look back at the horizon wondering something wild. And every time you have already floated away.

You know, honestly, I don’t want to stay stuck here, even a 3:13, forever, with you. I want to float away, with, with the rest of the pollen, dust and other stuff, into the horizon of tall wiggly trees. In the summer heat, in the warmth of life.

-your loving karim

I don’t want to disappear.

How do I create meaning in my life?

Dash is a stray dog. He is already two years old, supposed to be Labrador, but never grew the body of a pure breed, sluggish fur, and nonchalant hunched posture. Not remembering even a glimpse of his parents is something that makes him sad, and lately, he feels it even more. Ever since his birthday two weeks ago, he has this strange feeling inside of him that won’t go away no matter what he does. Maybe he is doing it all wrong…

The feeling is like a growing ball of fire under his solar plexus. An urge spreading all around his body, up to the tip of his paws, craving deep tender affection. A feeling he doesn’t even know, yet, he knows he needs it and his deep fantasies have never gone so wild. This spontaneous feeling resurges at any moment and takes him on the wildest adventures, always leaving him washed up on the shores of anywhere.

Today, walking down the dusty streets of the chaotic favela, it feels like the contrary of an oasis; if such a thing existed. A crammed-up desert. Everyone seems to be busy, but for their selfish reasons, in their selfish world, searching for leftover food near the dumpsters, begging to be adopted by a new master or gathering their scattered puppies. Dash walks flappy ears down with a drowsy sludgy face, like a numbed leopard, and no, there is nothing particularly wrong with him today, that is just how he’s been lately, like for the last year and a half. His bony figure slowly stalks every street corner, sometimes he gets into brawls, sometimes he finds leftover lunch.

It’s late on this summer Sunday afternoon and Dash is still walking. For the first time in his short life he sees a girl Labradora, there, lying on a doormat. Fur clean and soft, no scars or dirt scabs, she seems like a house dog. How beautiful, she is completely mesmerizing, simply a pleasure to observe. He could sniff her cool pure scent from blocks away, however, she was not alone. So he got closer, almost face to face, in the dog world one’s personal space is much reduced. He sniffed her all around and sniffed all the multi-colored and patterned baby puppies, she was exhausted, he could sense that but also her wonderful satisfaction. He never imagined one could reach such levels of thrill and self peace, literally, she was glowing yellow.

Dash tough for a moment: “ I’ve found my soulmate, this is the missing piece to my dull life, she is just the one I was waiting for.”

- Hey there! -he said

-Hey. -she replied in a soft voice.

His mind racing, heart beating, tail wiggling.

-Are those my kids? — is all he could make out, such a awkward question…

-No way Jose. Life is a bitch, but to have kids you got to make them yourself! — she said, surprisingly not surprised by his question.

-Oh okay, thanks anyways. — he replied timidly.

-Bye, I suppose?

- Bye.

-Take care.

-Yeah, you too.

Dash walked away slowly, thinking, and planning.

Something had clicked inside of him, something from her beauty deeply inspired him.

Starting Monday, he will start creating instead of procreating.

-your loving karim

The devil talks to me

When I am afraid

When I am ashamed

When I am nervous

When I am lonely

When I am bored

When I am upset

When I am lost

When I am confused

When I am uncertain

When I am weak

But then I remember that all he says is RUBISH.

And I feel brave

And I feel proud

And I feel confident

And I feel loved

And I feel fulfilled

And I feel happy

And I feel found

And I feel determined

And I feel certain

And I feel alive

Fuck you devil.

-your loving karim

Victor sits alone in the kitchen, crossed-legged on a sparkling steel table. Muddy shoes on and hair messed up. He is tired of eating the same cereal bowl on and on, “Happy Puffs” taste like cardboard. Out of the blue, he throws it across the room, smashing in pieces into the wooden cupboard.

-It’s broken, Victor.

-This was never seen.

The television talks back to him, and now he listens carefully, to the French girl on the screen.

She says that butterflies bloom in summer. At the same time, the first ray of morning sunlight shines into the room, magnifying Victor’s watery eyes, and it blinds all the white-coat doctors in the room.

It seems that winter has ended. The bowl is broken, but Victor, not yet.

-your loving karim

De espalda a la estación,

De cara a esos lagos tan húmedos.

¿Porque tus ojos brillan tanto de día?

Me llevas con tus brazos, tu cuerpo y el alma

 por calles antiguos, y escondites que

Solo tú conoces.

Encantados nos quedamos un rato más,

Porque no hay prisa.

Pues cuando estoy contigo

Nunca lo hay.

Y en una plazuela, en este frío, entre la multitud.

Ya estoy desamparado.

Por tu pelo delicadamente desarreglado

Tu boca dulce y agresiva.

Haces gestos raros, me cuentas… y ríes.

-your loving karim

Underneath a decaying, damp tree trunk, the night raindrops fell with increasing intensity. Amidst the heavy downpour, only silence enveloped Roachman. His surroundings were limited to the glistening splashes illuminated by the ethereal moonlight. The restless rhythm of each droplet resonated within Roachman, penetrating even the deepest layers of his sleep. In his dreams, he envisioned another world—one where he could grow older alongside his mother, play with friends in the park, and sniff in the warm breeze of Sunday afternoons.
Suddenly, a deafening crackle shattered the silence as lightning struck a neighboring tree, causing it to collapse with a resounding crash. Roachman broke  awake, his face pale and confused, bracing himself for the worst. But nothing came. Minutes stretched into hours, yet only intermittent drops persisted. Attempting to settle back into sleep, Roachman yearned for the rest necessary to endure the challenges of another long day. However, his senses remained on high alert, his mind racing, and his heart pounding. Sleep eluded him tonight; he was too afraid to close his eyes, leaving himself vulnerable. Dark thoughts invaded his mind as nostalgia mingled with panic, unraveling his train of thought. There was no hope on the horizon for Roachman until daylight emerged. Yet, he found safety in the confines of his lonely mind—a sanctuary safer than the dark, damp forest.

...

With the first rays of dawn, Roachman, still wide awake, was consumed by an excruciating thirst, aggravated by the proximity of a freshwater puddle just a few meters away. However, he couldn't risk venturing out of his safe haven, even for a sip of crystal-clear rainwater. The thirst played him relentlessly, teasing him with its proximity.
In the early light, Roachman felt a sense of security, allowing confidence to lull him into a trance-like state. His weary thirst overpowered his caution, compelling him to seize the opportunity. Abruptly, a series of ominous crashes resonated from the distance as towering forest trees tumbled one after another, converging upon Roachman. The beast approached—a dark, spiky visage, blood-red eyes, and jagged, razor-like teeth. It was his final vision. Frozen in a moment of terror, he was violently torn apart, his fragile form tossed aside like a discarded ragdoll. In his fleeting moment of consciousness, his face buried in the mud, he bid a silent farewell to this cruel world. His body lay unrecognizable—missing limbs, turned inside out—a grotesque mess coated in dirt and blood. The beast would not even deign to feast upon him, for Roachman's kind was deemed nothing more than a pest.

-your loving karim.

Life is like an immense river, flowing down a broken slope and taking everything in its way. But also feeding forests and blooming flower gardens, carefully running in the kingdom’s canal, and kissing the dry lips of thirsty farmers. A little later on, I stand too on the dangerous riverbanks. As a holy newborn, I play in the splashes, tap dancing my bare feet on the shallow warm water. Following the stream wherever it goes. At an older age, I made a decision: To build my own canal, carefully guiding the water stream to form something beautiful. As I sit right now between the tulips I planted last year, I realize how I forgot the great immense river that took everything on its way. I must remember. In any moment it will take my canal and what I made beautiful, forever, on the never-ending flood.

-your loving karim.

The alchemist took the book that someone brought to the caravan. It didn’t have a hardcover, but he could still identify the author: Mikhail Bulgakov. He stumbled on the story:” Hearth of dog”.

-From Sevilla to Granada, under the balcony in the night…

It was a fake and distracted voice that sang above him. The dog got surprised and widely opened his sleepy eyes; right next to him, he saw the leg of a man on a white stool. His pants were rolled up and a naked yellowish shin covered with scabbed blood was exposed.

“-Holy Moly! Thought the dog.  It must surely be me who scarred him like that. I am responsible. Shit! Il de dammed for a beating now.”

-Why did you bite the doctor, you hobo? Hein? Why did you break the window? You dirty vermin!

“Who hou hou, moaned the dog in complaint.

-Ok fine. You are conscious again, just stay calm you idiot.

Now that I have captured your attention, we can start from the beginning and proceed step by step.

Who am I, you ask? Ah! How curious is your human intellect, so limited you cannot understand my unmeasured essence? Enough is to say I’ve got many names in your human history, amongst them: Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Shakespeare, Albert Camus, and many others. Perhaps you are wondering where has Sherzade gone, and how I know about her existence. What a infinite curiosity you have there! Is it really important though?

Ok, let’s say we met in Tangers, although not the Tangers you know by Tv Documentaries, one from parallel world, that claims being the only true one.

A friend of mine; Jorge Luis Borges built a map of it: “Del rigor en la ciencia”. He build the most sophisticated map with a scale of 1:1; as large as the country itself. But its citizens soon realized that such a map did not provide any insight since it merely duplicates what they already know. This is how my friend Borges proved the delusion that more information guarantees better decisions.

As to you mister chanting Dog, I can only say one thing: avoid foreign languages, you only annoy the reader’s comfort.

-your loving karim

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Context: 3 years ago, I published for the first time online, all for thrills. No grand ambition was searched just the maybe the feeling of being heard by a stranger.  I wanted to share something I felt valuable for others; a lesson I learned by suffering but wished others might save themselves before, although as homo sapiens we are all set to first commit mistakes to ultimately learn from them afterward: no good advice will save us.

A lot of things have changed in my life and definitely I have more than 10n times been a different person but on this, I still have to keep the same idea. Maybe written in a different way you might understand a different flavour of what I’m talking about.

Let’s start with this: we are all social human beings. You may like it or not, but being social is what makes us human and what led our species to develop as it is today.

“Ughh but I’m a introvert I’m not social, I just stay alone and mind my own business”

No, the sole fact of living in a society where work is specialized and divided is already a type of social interaction. Unless you live alone in the wild as a isolated hunter-gatherer, you are somehow a social animal.

Most of us believe our subconscious persona is just how we were born. The case is much more complex: like most of the things in life. We are building on our life experience and social learning. When you are a kid you start to think like your parents and relatives only to discover the real world when you grow older. We copy or oppose our beliefs to the ones we are faced with every day of our life. From believing in a afterlife to whether you should have a boyfriend, all these complex questions need answers, so many uncertainties and mental existential problems to deal with; we get overwhelmed very fast. On top of that you got to worry about your work, making money, and having fun; “Ain’t nobody got time for that philosophical stuff”. So we let all the hard work into our subconscious, it’s thrilled with all the responsibility given and proceeds to do its best job of sorting out all of our deepest doubts ( it does!). We go on to living our lives easier, focusing on the day to problems like what are we having for lunch, who are we going out with tonight, what gift to buy for our mom, what was the score of today’s football game, who started following me on social media. Clearly no time for existential thinking.

Through thousands of years of learning, we have understood that having a partner was the best social deal we could make. Securing the lineage of our DNA, our species, and best of all unconditional ally ( mostly to satisfy selfish needs like protection or social status). Additionally with religions mostly preaching monogamy, finding one sole life partner became an ideal to the modern woman or man, of course, it wasn’t much respect by men in the last century for obvious reasons: women getting the worst out of it.

In 2023 finding a partner isn’t much about these primal needs, it is probably to fulfill unconscious self-purposed needs like social status, social tradition, and the fear of being left alone forever.

Did we ever take a little break to stop and think do we really need this, yearning for something virtually impossible for the rest of our life, feeling blue on a romance that was never even meant to exist? There are so many things we can work on and build, from crazy new athletic skills to expression through complex art, discovering remote corners of the world and our minds. We do not have time to be blue all day long, and much less waste time on a fairy-tale pursuit. The lesson here is; everything in life has to be built, polished, maintained, and cared for. There is no gold oasis and if you want a real companionship then you will have to build it with hard work and sweat, forget about those platonic loves they are wasting your time; the greatest love stories I know survived not because they were meant to be but because they made things work out.

So forget about the queen in her far glitter kingdom, before it’s too late.

Cause a witch told me that:

You will travel day and night,

across desert and jungle, fire and ice.

Conquering one thousand armies. Discovering secret treasures.

Building to lose brotherly friendships.

Falling to get up.

Failing to succeed.

Until your legs give up,

Until your mind breaks a million times,

Until you forget what home is.

And then, in the dawn of darkness.

You will meet the sunrise queen.

You will love her for a week, a month, and over a year.

But late at night in your cold side of the bed.

You will miss home and yourself.

Falling asleep,

Buried in an unchosen tomb forever.

Your forever loving Karim.

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The red curtains rose and the battle began as a pink paint bomb splattered on the Kevlar riot shields. No time was given to look your adversary in the eye, as blunt weapons swung with cutting speed, flying projectiles met mid-air, and fierce revolutionary palms cheered, waving together. The opposite crowds held with growing tension. French pavement stones piled up to fragile sculptures of anarchy, tentatively near the stiff boots of the riot control "CRS" police.

Their exhibition ended with the beginning of the mechanical police forward charge, launched by the official commander's whistle. The so built up clash was chaotic, a beating to the defenseless, an unfair fight all along, staged by dodgy so-called guardians of the law, guarding their own interests. Everyone merged into one disoriented mess, overflowing into side pathways all around. The chants of revolution paused, drowned out by loud, stumbling footsteps.

The chase continued into the darkness of the night until the rebels were tired, surrendering to the battle, catalyzing more determination for the ultimate fight.

There is a little white, hairy fluff on the grey sidewalk. In fact, there are tons of them spread all around, like early snowflakes settling on the flat ground for the first time. The wind delicately picks them up, and the glowing round pompoms whirl up and are tossed around the whole block, enacting an imaginary skipping-like dance. Tossed out and dancing all around their mother, the white widow. She stands tall there in the middle of the side street. She could have enchanted the darkest forests or sanctified the tallest of rocky summits, but this white widow is not even in the center of this side street. Hidden by all the monotone, dusty buildings and lost in the messy crowd of cheap cars, it can still find a way to enchant the few curious eyes. Dancing in mesmerizing, meditative swirls, the white widow makes the center of the stage hers again.

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In the supposed busy Paris metro line, Callen was on his way to an important destination. He was in a hurry, not even bothering to listen to music on his headphones. Anxiously waiting on the train dock of purple metro 14, the fast train suddenly slammed its brakes upon entering the station, and it felt as everyone rushed to the doors, almost pushing each other in a bid to not be left out. Callen, however, made his way in without worrying. He was well-acquainted with the trains and knew that he was at the mercy of their unpunctual nature. Nonetheless, he still felt a persistent itch of anxiety on the back of his skin.

As he took a seat on the middle bench of the wagon, Callen noticed that all the seats were empty except for the one on the opposite end, which was occupied by Francine. She was the girl he had always had a soft spot for, and she looked as pretty as always, wearing a scruffy knit wool sweater with her hair carelessly tied, allowing some forehead hairs to fall like an intentional fringe. She seemed to be engrossed in the lecture of her book, or at least in her thoughts.

Callen froze for a second, lost in divine contemplation, but quickly regained his senses and looked away. He was aware of her presence but decided not to engage in conversation. He didn't have the patience or time for the usual courtesy, and his anxiety about traveling was all-consuming.

So he remained immobile, waiting on his side of the bench, for his stop, eager to get off the train and be alone. Suddenly, his name was called by a soft, melodic yet broken voice. "Hey Callen! Is that you?" said Francine, taking the seat right beside him.

"Why didn't you say hi when you first saw me?" she asked directly.

"Because it is a dream, so I didn't feel I had to be nice and cordial," said Callen.

In that moment, Callen thought to himself, "What a fool am I! If it's a f*cking dream, why am I worrying anyway?"

"Where are you heading, Calle?" Francine asked.

"I'm heading wherever you're going," Callen wanted to say, but he only stared awkwardly into Francine's eyes.

In the ensuing silence, Francine got closer and held him in her arms, saying softly, "I suppose we can have each other because it's just a dream."

Intertwined in each other's arms, they headed to the same train stop: the one that didn't exist, because it was just a dream.

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They just seem a little weird

Surrender, surrender

But don't give yourself away”

-Cheap Trick

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We often associate surrendering with ultimate defeat, such as in a war where surrendering means losing everything from land to dignity. However, life is not a war; it is something complex and alluring in an absolutely unique way. That being said, why do we keep treating life as if it were a deadly war? Why do we hold on so hard, even when letting go hurts less?

You have likely read about the Eastern philosophies that discuss the art of letting go. These concepts have been pondered for hundreds, yet thousands of years by many wise men, monks, and individuals with a deep sense of critical thinking. As a child of Western culture, I ask myself why so many of us lack access or exposure to these powerful ideas and knowledge. The answer is quite simple: these philosophies and ways of thinking have no useful place in a consumer-driven, capitalistic society. Except for making our quality of life better and improving our sense of connection with the world, ultimately helping us feel at peace with the life the universe has given us. The capitalist powers don't want you to have that; no, they want you to stay incomplete. They want you to have an insatiable craving for more, to consume their products blindly while generating more and more money for them. And us? The scraps are for us, nothing else. When we accumulate all this material mess, we lie to ourselves, believing that the latest face moisturizer or car model is all we need to finally be happy. We start to believe that building the tallest tower we can is the path to peace, when in reality, it's just laying still on the ground. Being simple, feeling satisfied with little, and accepting our fate will never make us feel the urge to go shopping for the latest sneakers or subscribing to another TV network when we already have ten we don't even watch. It just doesn't fit into their business model; that's why they better have you feeling all confused and uneasy to sell you even more stuff. But they don't know that the power of honesty will always eventually prevail (I truly believe so).

When being honest in life, one of the most fundamental parts is surrendering. Only when you surrender completely to life can you see and experience it fully. Life is not like a battlefield opponent trying to destroy us; it's like the arms of a loved one. We must let go and surrender to them to feel their true compassion. Surrendering allows us to experience life in a whole new way. Instead of always being disappointed by our high expectations, we accept what we have, and as a result, we further cherish the few things or people we have in our lives. Our mundane, maybe boring tasks that we always wish to end faster become moments of life that we embrace and yearn to keep forever; this works with everything. For example, imagine you never wash dishes with music, but after a nice dinner, someone tells you that this is the last time you will wash dishes in your life. Some sort of nostalgia kicks in, and all of a sudden, washing dishes was not that grueling after all; in fact, it was part of all those little things that make life what it is. Surrender to your mistakes, for they form a part of the past. That spectrum of time, along with the future, is entirely out of our hands. We are creatures of the present, the only place we will ever exist. Reminiscing or feeling anxious are feelings we have, yet they are something that technically doesn't exist. Find peace in losing, for as the saying goes, "losing and making mistakes is the way we learn best."

We are creatures of the present, the only place where we will ever exist. Reminiscing or feeling anxious are emotions we experience, yet they do not technically exist. Find peace in losing, as the saying goes, 'losing and making mistakes is the way we learn best'. Surrender to the fact that you are on a rollercoaster and enjoy the ride, surrender to your faith.

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Abuali was awkwardly dressed in neon techno-hippie clothes, looking like an old Berliner in a midlife crisis. The young teenage girl joined him on the other side of the hangar, and they both looked out of the X-taped windows into the dusty desert outside.

"Man, you look slick! HAHA!" the girl teased.

"Come on, can someone please tell me where I am?" Abuali asked for the millionth time.

"Okay, okay, but first let's go see Dala, Mister in a hurry. Follow me," said the teenage girl, leading the way.

They left the hangar nursery through a small hidden side door. The rusty sound of the steel door announced the dry and arid weather outside. "Cover your face, dude!" cried the girl. A blast of sandy wind almost pushed them both over. There wasn't more than a meter of visibility, and Abuali's eyes were burning even though he covered them with both hands. The teenage girl was prepared with her green sky glasses and pulled him by the forearm. Both of them dragged their feet through the sand. Shortly after, they heard the sound of a clanking, broken roof sheet. When the sound seemed to be above them, the little girl pulled another door, exactly the same as the one they first left through. In the building, Abuali could see again. It was the same structure as before, but this one was fitted out with alleys of last-generation desks, multiple computer screens, and machine control pads. At least a hundred workers could fit here, but there was no one left. It seemed like they all left in a rush and never came back. The tables were slightly dusty, and with the weather out here, it couldn't have been more than a week since they were last here.

Abuali curiously looked around and accidentally touched an alert button on a machine control pad. The teenage girl shot at him. "Stop acting like a caveman, dude! I thought you knew about computers. You won the prize of best student back in Conakry, right?"

Short silence from Abuali...

"Correct, but how the hell do you know that? I don't even know you. I don't even know your name," replied Abuali.

"Oh, sorry, old man. I'm Akiji. I told you that before. I suppose you forgot what happened last night," said the girl.

"I fell from the wall, the cops came, and then I woke up in this wacky, sketchy hangar. That's all I recall," said Abuali, realizing that he really didn't know what happened at all.

"Okay, let me start over from the beginning. First of all, that show in the medina is a fugazi. It's fake, it's a show. Even that old lady that told you something you didn't understand was in on it too. We do this for every recruitment. It's the only way. The stupid AI cops are better than us in almost everything, but they just can't seem to pick up on obvious hints like old school cops. What we do is fake your death in public, right in front of legit cop eyes, so they close your case forever, and you can finally live free among us, the desert ghosts. We couldn't let you in on the plan before because the AI scans your last living emotions to make sure nothing fishy was happening in your brain. They can't recall vivid memories, but they can recall your feelings. You, my friend, in their eyes, were just a desperate illegal immigrant crazed by confusion who climbed a random wall, probably lost, and fell like a sad little chick that can't fly. After that, of course, the authorities take your body to the fast-track autopsy, and in less than two hours, they send you to the dump outside. Yup, the dump.

“There isn't a cemetery," asked timidly Abuali.

"They say there is, but look all around us, it's just pure sand and desert. It's so hostile out here, no one can come and check. This is when I come into play. I scavenge around the dump, or if you want, the cemetery, for fresh bodies, searching for corpses that may make it through the survival test. Yours was one of them. Actually, I have never seen someone with as much revival success rate as you. I'm not going to explain to you the whole process of revival and stuff. I hardly understand it myself, but maybe the scientist brothers that worked here could."

“Hold on, so you mean it wasn’t even sure I would survive!? And the other people in the beds next to me, what will happen..?" Akiji began before he could even finish talking.

“Where is everyone anyway? I have never seen this place so empty," Akiji asked.

In that moment, the sound of a small electric motor seemed to approach.

“DALAA!" screamed Akiji.

“Hey you, what's up kiddo?" said Dalal, doing a secret handshake with Akiji.

“Is this the new guy you were talking about?" she asked.

“Yeah, it's him. Present yourself, dude!" hitting Abuali with her elbow.

"No need," said Dala. "I already read all your file. You seem like an interesting prospect. I think you are going to do just right with us, but before, you might need some explanations and training."

“Then my work is done here. I'll see you guys in a couple of weeks. Have fun, see ya later, aligataa," said Dala.

“Take care. There is something awkward happening out there," said Dala.

"Don't worry, I'll be fine. I am always fine. You worry too much."

Akiji stormed out the rusty door, and a breeze of dry sand hit Abuali's face.

"Now you," said Dalal. "We have a lot to catch up. I work upstairs, even though my legs don't work no more. May you push me to the elevator, please?"

Surprised by her condition, Abuali respectfully did as told.

“Now tell me, what was your plan actually when you left your home…."

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If you've read some of my recent posts, you've surely realized that I'm back working in a restaurant. And as a line cook, I spend almost 12 hours a day there, so it's only natural that my whole life starts to revolve around it. One thing I really like about the place is: its punk, modernist, and cool vibe; kind of like a 2023 laid-back hipster. The decoration is unique with neon lights, hanging plants, and Japanese artwork on the shelves. But the masterpiece, funny as it may sound, is in the bathroom. A huge black and red Cleon Peterson scene of war and chaos. This wasn't the first time I had seen this artist. I remember always seeing his murals in the back frame of the Skateboard youtube show: The Berrics. Apparently, he is also appreciated by the young. It makes sense with his bold portraits of violent and raw yet realistic scenes that express chaos and the most dreadful realities of our time, still with an aesthetic cartoon style. The man behind this incredible art is Cleon Peterson, one of the most underrated artists of our decade. In every one of his paintings, a scene of our brute world is depicted with bold colors like red, white, black, and yellow. The aesthetic is bold and clear. It reminds me of ancient Greek murals but in a modern distorted fashion. Sometimes, dark, somber men are beating helpless people, while in others a reference to the masked powers that control the global economy, grin their terrible smile. When I see his art, I immediately feel the sentiment that he depicts, almost as if I could shout it in single words: Brutality! Greed! Domination! Desolation!

Cleon is the modern incarnation of a murals chronicler. Remember when we were just cavemen? We could only depict explicit feelings and sceneries of our life, untreated and blunt. With only one glimpse, we could feel the immensity of the shared story. But with time, we lost that beautiful form of expression, giving way to much more complex and developed forms of art that are also mesmerizing and marvelous. However, in a world where everything is so complex and stories are so abundant, simple and direct art becomes rare. We search for deep primitive feelings, connecting through ideas that are universally applicable. Note, for example, that none of Cleon's art depicts a specific type of population. They all look the same, sort of big, muscular, somber monkeys. Simple art for everyone, universal ideas that are sometimes better explained in one word than a thousand. Maybe there is also truth there. Maybe we are too caught up in technical and complex rabbit holes, and the answer might be just hidden in our primitive instincts, expressed in one simple common feeling.

I hope you also find Cleon Peterson's work as interesting as I do. They might seem like violent, dull paintings at first sight, but very interesting reflection and intention are hidden behind. Cleon is inspired by a variety of subjects and always manages to surprise us with a new added one. Check out his website in the link to see more of his art.

That is the end of this first art segment where I share with you a piece of art I find really valuable and underrated. See you in the next art segment!

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Hace poco tiempo, mi vida tomó un rumbo completamente nuevo y diferente. Ahora soy lo que algunos llaman un adulto, la vida de estudiante ha acabado, aunque solo tengo 22 años y todavía tengo cara de “chibolo” (joven puberto en peruano). Ahora me hago preguntas existenciales, retóricas sobre mi carrera y sobre qué tipo de persona quiero ser. Antes, solo me importaba saber los planes de la tarde y cuántas personas nuevas iba a conocer. No rechazo esa vida, simplemente siento que he volteado la página a otro capítulo, por más que la extrañe, eso ya quedó como cosa del pasado. También quiero ser independiente y proveer para mí mismo, es decir, hacer mi propio dinero. Y, obviamente, no quiero ser otro esclavo del gran capitalismo mundial (como cualquier persona decente, pero al parecer algunos se olvidan). Entonces busco lo que podría hacer como trabajo; que sea lo menos jodido de todo, pues para mí, trabajo es trabajo ( del latín “trepaliare”, una expresión popular que hace referencia a la acción de torturar con un “tripalium”) es decir, tortura. Por más que tenga que ver con mis pasiones o cosas que me fascinan, al final del día, el trabajo es rutinario, exhaustivo y no tan divertido. Muchos estarán como: “Pero yo hago lo que me gusta, así que no trabajo ni un día, nanani nanana”. Muy bien, si lo sienten así, ¡qué suerte! Pero para mí, entre hobbies y otras formas de ocio, me la paso mucho mejor que en el trabajo que sea. No lo tomen del mal lado, tampoco digo que el trabajo es el “sheitan o el diablo”. Más bien, al contrario; pienso que es necesario para nuestra vida, mas no es sinónimo de diversión.

Todo esto es para decir que ahora siento el trabajo de otra forma. Ya no busco la realización personal a través de él, no espero que todos los días sean de los más placenteros, tampoco padezco mis horas de trabajo, solo son mi nueva tarea de la vida. Son el útil que me permitirá llevar a cabo mis verdaderos sueños o, en simplificado, me van a dar dinero para tener las herramientas para viajar y descubrir el mundo y construir cosas que aporten a nuestro querido mundo y a la humanidad. Tampoco quiero ser el santísimo santo o el Dalai Lama, seguramente en el camino me voy a divertir y voy a pecar (a veces mucho). En cualquier caso, el objetivo principal no es acumular para mí mismo, sino aportar algo para los demás.

Volviendo al tema del trabajo, para mí es una simple herramienta para obtener recursos como dinero, práctica o networking. Entonces, lo veo sin prejuicio ni expectativas aparte de lo explicitado en el contrato. Lo que ahora me permite compartirles un involuntario experimento que la vida me concedió.

Después de un largo año sabático, viajando y trabajando un poco por aquí y allá, decidí volver a mi antiguo trabajo en un restaurante moderno en Francia. Me ofrecieron un buen sueldo y un contrato corto que me convenía. Me dije, ¿por qué no? Podía hacer un poco de ahorros, ya que me estaba quedando corto, y de todas formas podía seguir avanzando en mis escritos (ya tenía más que suficiente de historias para transcribir). Al volver a la "chamba" (jerga: trabajo), las cosas iban bien. Estaba contento por volver a la rutina, además de conocer a la gente y el lugar. Pero noté algo diferente. En mi tiempo libre o en las tardes después del trabajo, me di cuenta de que seguía trabajando en mi escritorio: escribiendo, grabando y buscando nuevas historias o artículos. Construyendo cada día mi sueño, mi arte, y se sentía bien, se sentía increíble, me llenaba de satisfacción. Aunque no fuera famoso ni nada por el estilo, el simple hecho de avanzar era suficiente.

Durante la semana, me encontraba en un bucle de trabajo. Eso hacía que ya no esperara ansiosamente el final de la jornada o el fin de semana. Aunque suene extraño, vivía en el momento, plenamente enfocado. Ya no tenía tiempo para nostalgia o sueños infinitos; tenía un objetivo en mente y caminaba hacia él, a veces dando vueltas o pausas, pero siempre lo tenía en la mira. Esta es la gran diferencia conmigo mismo hace un año, cuando pasaba mis días en el mismo restaurante. Me sentía inútil, usado, ansioso por escapar de cualquier forma y alejarme de allí en ese momento. Ahora, mi ruta está delineada, mi objetivo definido y puedo marchar tranquilo por el desierto más monótono o las colinas más empinadas, tome el tiempo que tome. Soy como un camello cruzando el Sahara; no voy a parar hasta encontrar el oasis. Ya no soy un camello que está paseando por los alrededores; esto es real, esto es vida.

Esta evidente diferencia entre mis dos formas de ser me lució más clara cuando volví a este mismo trabajo rutinario que tenía hace un año. Regresar a una forma de vida similar a la que tenía antes muestra lo diferente que soy ahora, cuánto he crecido, cuánto he aprendido. Me parece una excelente ayuda para convencerme de que estamos en otro rumbo, estamos progresando. Si hubiera vuelto a vivir la misma vida que antes, sería una prueba clara de que no he aprendido nada. También puede pasar de la forma contraria cuando volvemos a un mismo lugar, pero es diferente porque esta vez estamos perdidos, y eso se siente directo. Cuando estás en un camino positivo, el cuerpo y la mente lo sienten, y te dan pistas evidentes. Si no te sientes bien (mentalmente), es por algo; probablemente por tu estilo de vida.

Por eso, me gusta decir ahora que volver atrás no siempre significa retroceder, como un gato que da un paso atrás para dar un salto.

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The mountains are a very special place where I have always been able to find peace in the never-ending horizon. It's like having an altruistic teacher that teaches me valuable lessons I cherish for the rest of my life. Whenever I go to the mountains, I am never disappointed and always amazed by its wild surprises. The immense immobility of these silent creatures can move your deepest thoughts. There is also something therapeutic about being alone, feeling small in the face of the vast immensity of our world. That's why a part of my heart will always belong to the mystic mountains.

Yesterday, as I climbed the slippery slopes of Mont Pécloz in Savoie, France, I remembered my first climbs with my mother when I was about 7 years old. One Saturday night, my mom told me, "Tomorrow, we are going to 'el zapato al revez'." So I slept early and got my bag ready. By 8:30, I was falling asleep when the door of my room burst open. It was already time to wake up. My eyes itched as if someone had squeezed lemon on them, and all my senses told me to go back to bed. But my mother was already in her high brown boots, and Gianni, my cousin, was waiting outside with the dogs. Everyone seemed to have been up for hours, and as a young 7-year-old, I followed them. I packed some sweet goodies in my bag and some fruit because my mom said it was important, a bottle of water, and I was ready to go. I raced down the house entrance with my two dogs chasing me with their tongues dangling wet from their smiling dog faces. The car ride to the mountain was short but wonderful. There's something special about riding side by side with your pet dog on empty Sunday morning avenues.

As we started the climb, the excitement masked the monotone flat walk in the beginning. We could still talk comfortably, just like a walk in the park, but once it started getting steeper, we could only hear each other's breaths as the physical pressure increased. Now, more than 10 years later, on a different continent, on a mountain covered in snow, and not warm sand, I still recall the same feeling that transported me back to that very moment with my mother and cousin in the "Zapato al revez." My hands were slipping on humid mud, and with still 1000 meters to go, I remembered to play the game, one step at a time and one breath at a beat. The hike now transformed into a moving meditation, and I was drifted away by the current of nature. Taken by this current, I could see my deepest thoughts pass by like the trees I overlooked. In the never-ending march, nothing else seemed to matter, so I could finally assess those vicious troubles that tormented and nagged my mind 24/7.

This time, in the icy ridges of La Savoie in France, I felt whole again in the deep snowy silence. All the noise from the city life and my own busy life was gone, replaced by the whistling wind and occasional rock slides. In that nothingness, I remembered the feeling of floating, living with no weight. That feeling that all the gurus try to explain through years of mental practice and meditation, I can skip all of that with my friends, the mountains. They help me find that peace, and I wish I could stay in their arms forever, but it's cold up here, and it's already getting dark. So, I proceeded to start the descent.

Approaching the first ridge, I realized that I had climbed too high. In the trance of silent peace, I had lost track of time. Panic set in as fear filled my mind - how would I ever make it back? I was already too deep in, too far out. I feared I would be lost, frozen into eternity. Fortunately, the wind at the mountain top roared like the most intimidating beast, more intimidating than the fact of freezing to death. So, I took the leap and started climbing down, in any way; physically possible - on my ass, on crazy daredevil hangs, and frightening lunges.

In that moment, the only thing that mattered was the present - the grip of my fingers, the tightness of my leg muscles, the posture of my spine, and, most importantly, my breath. The fear of death, falling, or anything else disappeared. Finally, my feet hit flat ground, at least somewhat, where one doesn't have to hang on to their life at every moment. Like the moments we love the most in life, that feeling of weightlessness was already gone, now just a memory I tried to hold on to as much as I could.

The Mountains had other plans, of course. The whole way back was left, and with every step I took, my thoughts shifted and twirled. By the time I made it to the parking lot, my mind had already raced a million times. But even though I was now back in the lower grounds, that feeling of floating stayed with me. It inspired my daily life. Every time anxiety kicks in, and my mind starts to race like a beheaded chicken, I try to take it one step at a time, one breath at a time, just like when coming down those lethal ridges.

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Have you told your mother about me?

I heard you’ve been away to discover yourself or somethin'

But was it worth it when you stole his heart?

Never returned it, but he earned shit for you from the start

Are you workin' or just wastin' your time?

Did I mention that you’re still on my mind?

Still that lonely guy

Low yet high

Don't know why I still get at your phone

Like, me, I should fuckin' focus on my own life

Yeah, but the bigger picture

Slips and you become more significant in the mixture

Can’t seem to see myself

Always strive to be myself

But who am I, who am I? -Rex Orange country

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I wake up on a Sunday morning feeling a mix of motivation and laziness. It seems like all I'll be that day is tired, but somehow, by magic, I manage to get up and face the day. It's a sunny day, a little chilly, but since spring is here, it's important to let a little skin soak up the sun; you know, for health reasons.

I warm up the kettle in my undies, rinse off yesterday's coffee maker, and carefully pour in the fresh coffee. Gotta make sure it bubbles, cause that's gonna improve the flavor. Before getting dressed, I light up some flower incense to set the mood and make it feel like a real Sunday morning, not just another day of the week. The perfumed fumes mix with the warm coffee aroma and oat milk to create the perfect cozy atmosphere.

Speaking of coffee, I gotta tell you, coffee with oat milk and honey is a million times better than a latte with regular milk. Maybe it's because it feels healthier - plant coffee grains on plant milk, starting the day with the plants, you know? Anyway, I put on the same outfit as yesterday. I know it seems sketchy, but it was such a good outfit and it's not even that dirty. Plus, it matches my vibe, so why change it?

I strut out of the house feeling like a superstar in my used rags and messy hair from my static bed. As I walk around my neighborhood in Lyon, I realize that this town doesn't feel like Paris. Sundays here are just slow, not in a cool, artsy, holistic way, but in a lazy way. People seem shy and sleepy, and the pace is sluggish. Even the market feels lonely and cold.

I take a whole lap around the "farmers" market in the square, and I recognize all these faces from other markets in town. They all act like vicious salespeople instead of humble farmers. It's true that the price of potatoes is cheaper, but what am I gonna do with 20kg of potatoes or 5 cauliflowers? I barely even eat a baguette and tomato for lunch, let alone make a meal with all that stuff. Plus, I tried those veggies last week and they didn't even taste good. I'm probably getting scammed somehow, which is a bummer 'cause it means I'll have to go back to the supermarket.

None of the fruits look appealing either, wrapped up in all that plastic. They look fake and flavorless, like unwilling imposters of Mother Nature. I feel bad for them. To avoid leaving the market empty-handed, I make a quick stop at the bakery for a baguette, and since I'm feeling fancy, I also get a croissant - the ultimate breakfast combo with coffee.

On my short walk back home, I encounter the classic strange Sunday early birds. There's just something about the lack of people and activity that makes them seem extra strange. And then, I see him. The Dalai Lama. He's fully tattooed and dressed like a Mongolian monk wearing Birkenstocks. And here I thought I was the one who wore strange outfits, but this is on another level. If I saw him in Paris, it would be totally normal, but here it just seems a little strange. But hey, who am I to judge? The guy can wear whatever he wants.

Back at my apartment, the smell of smoky flowers and tea greets me. I sit down in my small, messy kitchen and enjoy the weightless feeling that Sundays bring. It's like every sip of tea has no schedule or timing just there hanging out awkwardly, unfittingly, like the faced tattoed Dalai Lama going grocery shopping in Birkenstocks and socks.

I decide to spend the morning reading books and sipping tea. I don't feel like dealing with the mayhem of the messy world. The dystopian society in Mikhail Bulgakov's books seems to have at least a sense of tone compared to the one I live in. Maybe Sundays are for teleporting to configured tangible imaginary worlds.

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The First Time I Traveled to the Middle East

"Our battered suitcases piled on the sidewalk; again, we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life" - Jack Kerouac

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In the summer of 2022, having just completed my studies as a young chef, I found myself still working in a restaurant with no plans for summer vacation. However, I heard that a couple of my friends were embarking on an extraordinary trip from Europe to the heart of the Middle East, passing through Lebanon, Jordan, and Egypt. While everyone else was hurrying to find one last spot on the overcrowded Mediterranean coast or attending the latest hit party, these guys wanted to venture to the middle of nowhere, just to discover our planet and humanity. I felt deeply identified with this feeling of going to explore and share experiences in the most remote and unknown places, and I too wanted to know how it felt to live in another reality. Watching jaw-dropping documentaries and reading diaries of audacious adventurers always ready to take a leap into the unknown, making friends in every corner, and sharing unique interactions with strangers, made me yearn for this kind of adventure. As life often works out in strange ways, I was miraculously given a month of summer vacation from my internship in a gastronomic restaurant in Lyon. That same night, after my late night dinner shift, I bought my ticket to the city of Amman, the capital of Jordan.

Over the next three weeks, we met twice a week late at night, after work or school, to plan the full itinerary of the trip. Of course, the bare minimum of planning was done, and most of the plan consisted of "we'll see when we get there." But at least we had a rough timeline to follow, and what was really amazing was that every meeting made us more and more excited. It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, finally exploring the world. Even before stepping on the plane, the thrill was imminent, and the possibilities infinite - life was once again a grand adventure.

Each one of us, a group of four friends from Lyon, made our way to Jordan, meeting up on a hot afternoon in a cheap hostel room on the outskirts of Amman. It was like landing on another planet - everything was slightly different, from the delivery motorbike sponsors to the colors of the buildings and their unfinished rooftops. People's faces and the smell of food - it was all familiar, but with a different essence, a different smile, and a different depth. Our adventures were countless and priceless, but what made them feel warm and fuzzy was that we had each other. We could lay our backs on each other, know we were not alone, and crack a laugh in the hardest moments. With that ever-lasting inner curiosity and enterprising momentum, we made it out of our comfort zones, sometimes pulling each other by force, but ultimately, together, to places and situations we could never have even dreamed of.

In the velvety sunset afternoon at a mountain camp in Dana, watching the sun set on the horizon and seeing the first Palestinian borderline lights spark up, I realized that this was what adventure and traveling was really about. It's not about showing off the latest and coolest hotel or party you paid to be accepted into or the luxury restaurant fine dining you can have. It's about sharing with strangers, wandering into the unknown to learn, understand, and build empathy for the rest of the world. Don’t get me wrong, treating yourself to luxury is not a bad thing, but if it is your only reason for traveling and discovering new things, maybe you are floating a little too high in your cloud. This was a turning point in my life. For the first time, I really felt the need to make something inspiring or help others, to contribute to humanity at any scale. It wasn't conceivable to me anymore that all this beauty and wonder existed in the world and I didn't add my own grain of sand. Living a life to consume with only individualistic motives made no sense at all.

Witnessing the raw world, the other side of the coin, the wonderful south taught me that life is much more complex, composed of millions of little aspects and billions of different personalities with their own struggles, most of the time much heavier than the ones I carry. This reflection left me with deep philosophical thoughts. In fact, they were quite simple and easy to conceive. I was just surprised they never came to my attention in the 22 years I had been alive as something so important: existential, until now. How many ways can I help? Why are there so many people suffering on earth and those of us in comfort forget about them as if they never existed? What does it feel like to share a joyful moment with a complete stranger? A million other questions stumbled into my mind, many of which I still don't have answers to. Maybe that's what they call mind-opening experiences. Maybe.

With this confusion of deep empathic feelings, a new chapter began in my life. One where I was not the center, but life, the universe, and the world were the centers around which revolved my aspirations and dreams. I suppose that's what growing up is all about: realizing that the most important things are those that are bigger than oneself.

Returning to Europe, I felt like I had taken a marvelous, fresh, cool shower. I had started seeing life in new colors, and the adventure was just beginning.

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En la esquina de la cuadra, hay una lavandería. Marcha casi las 24 horas del día, todos los días de la semana, incluyendo los feriados, sin publicidad ni anuncios en línea. Pero, ¿por qué necesita marketing algo que es esencial en la vida? Vivir con ropa sucia es un pecado capital, no solo para uno mismo, sino también para los demás que nos rodean. Si apestamos mal, ¿quién querría ser nuestro amigo? En la lavandería, todos los días, una cantidad innumerable de vecinos y pasajeros desafortunados la visitan. Un flujo interminable de personalidades, estaturas, sexos y edades diferentes, trayendo bolsas azules de Ikea con todo tipo de ropa que te puedas imaginar, desde chaquetas punk rotas hasta polos rosados fosforescentes de Peppa Pig. Había de todo, incluso tú estabas sentado allí, escuchando música para matar el aburrimiento, ya que ver la ropa sucia girando en un cilindro durante una hora puede ser tedioso. Pero en tu mente, puedes dedicarle mil veces más tiempo a tus incertidumbres más bobas e irreales.

En la lavandería, siempre hay un banquillo de plástico justo enfrente de las máquinas lavadoras. Para ti, generalmente suele estar vacío, o ¿será porque siempre vas cuando suele estar vacío? Una vez esta semana, un nuevo cachimbo recién llegado estuvo allí, fresquito de la casa todavía, sonando en una amistad nueva o un encuentro amoroso, ya que no conocía a nadie en este barrio. Esperando su ropa sentadito, bien peinadito, sin audífonos, crecían las ansias de que llegue alguien por esa puerta. Para su gran sorpresa, llega un abuelo bien viejo, que apenas podía caminar, con la cara y la ropa oxidada de tanta vida. Se ve amargado por tantas arrugas que tiene, parece que le es imposible sonreír.

"Buenos días", le dice fríamente el abuelito entrando a la lavandería.

-No hay respuesta-

El jovencito tan decepcionado, a contrario de su gran expectativa, ni pensó en contestarle. De igual manera, el abuelo siguió con su día, todo normal, ni sintió ofensa alguna, estaba acostumbrado a que lo ignoren. Vivir viudo por más de 15 años sin hijos ni hermanos te hace insensible a esa cosa de estar solo. El joven no tanto, ya que en su mente, una tormenta tenebrosa comenzó a nublar sus pensamientos. Acabando el ciclo de secado, el joven se fue deprisa, con la mirada en bajo y la mente atormentada. Seguramente, cuando llegue a casa, caerá el diluvio depresivo.

El abuelo por su lado no se vio afectado en lo más mínimo, pues él es la monotonía encarnada. Sigue sentado sin música, sin pensamientos utópicos, ni un juego para entretenerse. Solo existe allí, en ese pequeño espacio mental cuadrado. Al final, un poco como la lavandería misma, sin propuestas de crecimiento o nuevos proyectos, allí nomás manteniendo lo usado, para más rutinas y ciclos disecados.

Para algunos, historias así pueden ser aburridas, pues no tienen una culminación teatral y dramática. Se cortan abruptamente, como la vida misma, en un instante sin imaginar que desaparecerá. Pero bueno, con más razón estas siguen siendo historias mundanas. Si quieres leer algo como de película, ándate a leer el Life Magazine o The New Yorker, quién sabe. Pero dentro de ese lugar mundano, dentro de esas historias rutinarias, se entrelazan y se miran a los ojos, sin decirse "Hola", joyas y reliquias de vidas extraordinarias. Estas personalidades tan únicas, por el peso de las reglas y los prejuicios sociales, se hacen borrosas, tanto hasta que ellas mismas se olvidan de cómo brillar, esperando que el ciclo de lavado se acabe para poder irse más rápido.

La lavandería se ha convertido en un peaje de encuentro silencioso. ¿Siempre lo habrá sido? Me imagino que no, lugares así en la época de mis abuelos eran...

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