On the relationship between Past, Present, Future

Open your eyes and tell me what you see.

My past is not here, what is here is me.

And I am my past,

But my past is a trace,

Not a person, not a place.

My past is not my present.

My present is what is now,

And what is now, is me standing here.

My past is not my future.

My past is a memory in my mind and heart,

And my future is the limitless imagination shaped by my hands.

I hope you can see,

What was, is no longer me,

What is, is the real me,

What will be is whatever I want to be.


Random Thoughts

  • On letting in and letting go: The fear of letting in because you know that at some point you will have to let go.
  • On the concept of Home: This new place feels like home. I don’t know where I am going, but here at least I don’t feel lost. That is the closest feeling to home.
  • Fear and Anxiety: The strongest couple I know. They pay me an unsolicited visit every now and then. I never miss them, but they seem to miss me. I don’t fight them anymore. I let them come, stay and leave. I no longer act on the thoughts they bring with them. I strive to make my heart a warm place even for darkness, because a fact of life is that if there is lightness there is darkness. They will always come back so there is no point in fighting. Still, my heart sinks with heaviness sometimes, trying not to fight, trying not to act on these feelings.
  • On bad habits: Constantly leaving has left me without knowing how to stay. I only have felt like staying once. How does it feel to want to stay?



I have learned to appreciate the sincerity
of your unexaggerated laughs,
of the subtleness of your smile,
of the seriousness in your eyes,
of the openness of your helping hand,
of the timeliness of your scarce responses,
of the shyness of your heart.



The Mechanics of Connection and Disconnection

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Friday 6:05 pm.

For a second, I feel like tonight could be a promising night. After an hour of indecision, I finally decide to join my friend for a night of storytelling on the topic: “A Crazy Little Thing Called Love.” Just after I decided to go to the storytelling event, another friend invited me over to his place to have dinner. I have a bad habit of stretching myself too thin, saying I will go to so many different events, that in the end, I have to cancel a few to stay mentally and physically sane. With this friend, I had cancelled a couple of times already, so I felt a little guilty and had to say yes. I even invited him to join the storytelling event. And so, after a homemade dinner, we were on our way to meet my other friend at the storytelling event.

We arrived a couple of minutes early and took a look around the room. It wasn’t very crowded and the majority of people seemed to be older than we had expected. The entrance fee, which we were unaware of until we reached the door and talked to the lady at the cashier, was 8 Euros. I started having second thoughts: Do I really want to pay 8 euros to listen to stories of strangers sitting in the middle of a crowd that, already, without even having started, looks quite bored?  The answer: No.  So my friends and I decided to try to look for another plan and headed out of the building. On the way, however, there was a place with busting party music, and some guys were hanging out just in front of this place. My extremely outgoing, extraverted friend, who, in my opinion, could REALLY be a bit shier (he calls it being “truthful”; I call it being embarrassingly honest -I can feel my stomach sink and my head wish a black hole sucked me into the darkness just thinking about the things he says to strangers),  started talking to the guys hanging outside the party place and, somehow, we ended up in this office party. After an hour of awkwardly introducing myself to these strangers who all worked together at this marketing company that is just soooo cool  that holds office parties every Friday, I was ready to escape to the uncool comfort of my home. But no. My extraverted friend found out some of the office guys were going to some bar near to his place, and decided to invite them over to his place. I didn’t want to go and join their crazy “sex, drugs and techno” party, but alas! I felt responsible for my other friend, because she had just met my extraverted friend and, thus, I could not leave her there alone. And that is how another two hours of tortuous awkwardness and a long journey into disconnection, borderline alienation, ensued.

Saturday 1:10 am and 10: 17 am.

I am heading home, feeling abysmal disconnection. I wonder what has caused this intense, shattering feeling of disconnection. The people we met were really nice. They were open-minded and fun. And yet, there was I, suffering from early hungover disconnection after what felt like drunkenness caused by lethal cocktails of soullessness. And the feeling lingers. It follows me throughout the next morning and into this grey afternoon. It roams around my room, waiting for me to acknowledge its presence, to ponder about it.

Saturday 4:27 pm.

Still feeling hungover from the powerful cocktails of disconnection, I lazily lie on my bed, thinking about what causes two people to feel connection or disconnection. Is it their looks? No, I can’t count the times I have felt insurmountable disconnection talking to physically stunning people.  Is it common interests? No, I can’t count the times I have felt disconnected to people who share my interests and even passions. Is it common beliefs? No, I can’t count the times I have felt disconnected to people who share my political beliefs. It helps, but I also had wonderful friends who were leaning to the opposite side of the political spectrum. Is it similarities? No, I can’t count the times I have felt annoyed at people who are similar to me. Is it differences? No, I can’t count the times I have felt a gap so big, that no matter how much I try to jump to the that other side, I fail.

What causes, that evasive, almost inexplicable feeling of connection? And what does connection feel like anyway? Defeated by the first question, I shyly and clumsily try to answer the second question.

Connection feels like the early discovery and appreciation of a garden.

It is that garden that makes you want to stay.
It is that garden that, you might not know but would like to know.
It is  garden that might not have the flowers that you like the most, but still mesmerises you with the beautiful splash of multicoloured petals.
It is the garden that slowly, shyly reveals itself,
each time leaving you wanting to see, hear, smell, breathe more.
It is a garden where birds sing beautiful melodies that make your heart dance.

But connection, most of all, feels like a warm hug.

Wabi Sabi: The Beauty of Imperfection



“Everybody is imperfect.  Everybody feels a little broken sometimes. 

In fact, everybody IS a little broken inside. 

But, contrary to what we have been led to believe, it is OK to be broken.

It’s ok to be painfully imperfect and make mistakes.”

Wabi sabi is the Japanese worldview in which beauty is believed to be imperfect, transient and incomplete.

We grow up in a culture that prompts us to incessantly pursue the impossible: to achieve perfection. It brainwashes us with the idea that in order to be beautiful, to be acceptable, to be loveable, to be happy, to be successful, we need to be perfect. With this idea in mind, we spend our lives constantly pursuing perfection, constantly fearing, fighting imperfection. Eternally trying to hide our cracks, our scars, we hide our true selves, the very real and raw version of ourselves. We try to cover these scars and fall into a cycle of constantly trying to get whatever possession, constantly trying to feign whatever quality we have been told will hide those cracks and bring us closer to perfection.

Wabi wabi makes us realise that it is precisely each person’s unique constellation of scars  that make a person so tragically, magically, painfully beautiful.

El Mundo Es Un Mar de Fueguitos


El Mundo por Eduardo Galeano (del libro “El Libro de Los Abrazos”) 

Un hombre del pueblo de Neguá, en la costa de Colombia, pudo subir al alto cielo.
A la vuelta, contó. Dijo que había contemplado, desde allá arriba, la vida humana. Y dijo que somos un mar de fueguitos.

– El mundo es eso — reveló. Un montón de gente, un mar de fueguitos. 

Cada persona brilla con luz propia entre todas las demás. No hay dos fuegos iguales. Hay fuegos grandes y fuegos chicos y fuegos de todos los colores. Hay gente de fuego sereno, que ni se entera del viento, y gente de fuego loco, que llena el aire de chispas. Algunos fuegos, fuegos bobos, no alumbran ni queman; pero otros arden la vida con tantas ganas que no se puede mirarlos sin parpadear, y quien se acerca, se enciende.


The World by Eduardo Galeano (from the book “The Book of Embraces”)

A man from the town of Neguá, on the coast of Colombia, could climb into the sky.

On his return, he described his trip. He told how he had contemplated, from high above, human life. And he said we are a sea of tiny flames.

The world is that,” he revealed. “A heap of people, a sea of tiny flames.”

Each person shines with his or her own light. No two flames are alike. There are big flames and little flames and flames of every color. Some people’s flames are so still they don’t even flicker in the wind, while others have wild flames that fill the air with sparks. Some foolish flames neither burn nor shed light, but others blaze with life so fiercely that you can’t look at them without blinking, and if you approach them you shine in fire.


I read the short story above for the first time perhaps a few months ago. I loved it so much for its accurate description of the world…of how I see the world and how I would see myself in the world. I loved it even more for the reflections it triggered regarding those millions of different flames -some of them lightening and some of them burning the world- and the reactions that could be caused by the interaction of different flames.

“…pero otros arden la vida con tantas ganas que no se puede mirarlos sin parpadear, y quien se acerca, se enciende.” 

“…but others blaze with life so fiercely that you can’t look at them without blinking, and if you approach them you shine in fire.”

I wonder: if you are the kind of fire that blazes with life so fiercely that those who approach you catch fire, you could make them shine even brighter with their own light . However, could it be possible to make them burn until there is barely anything more than ashes? In the end, I guess, it is about finding the flames that will cause the appropriate reactions.