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(writing experiment or letter for next life)

Love Letter

(in homage to Francisco de Quevedo)

I open my eyes from the dreamlike realm, shaking out the incongruent visions of the unphysical. Before coming back to the rules of this world, before even recovering the shape of my individual being, I breathe you. Loving you precedes the origin of the universe. Language pushes its limits searching to say you. All poems are trying to be enough for you. You are the center and circumstance of the soul, the hero behind the thousand masks, the god of death, the buddha playing to be the sweetest boy, a tender neck painted by Picasso, the smell of our Chinese tea, the delicacy and firmness of your fingers, the untamed metaphors. I know so little or nothing, less than that... Yet, I know,-'know' is not the word: I own and embody the pure wisdom of this-: after the universal tornado turns all into ashes-as it has been doing for aeons the roulette of existences- the reminiscence of your essence will radiate every corner, every little crack and wrinkle, the impenetrable confines, with love. You are my path, you are my vanishing point, my seed, my double, my one, my nothing.



Close your eyes.


Isn’t it beautiful?

The color of void,

an endless time. 

The canvas of imagination

is purest than white

The limit of the world

is none but a thin blue line.

My favorite color 

is your darkest light,

that flavored sound

of the orange cloud

turning to red wine,

the fresh smell of

wet green grass,

You made a warm grey 

when I was seeing cold brown.

You yellowed my soul

I pinked your smile.

Let’s keep dancing in the purple

mixture of the night,

let’s melt our bodies

until we reach the ultimate black,

let’s open the eyes

to find out

together we are the color

of the translucent eye.


come to the paper to free my soul

Wandering thoughts revolving the spirit’s bowels

What seems to care is just the illusion

That placid zone of calm is none else but lethargy

Complain and rage are awakening

Natural empathy for others’ remote and certain suffering

Because outside the mother cries,

the skin is torn,

a stomach is away from its body.

Is this the image of the scrupulousness metaphysics

wondering about ego, 

lying under the shadow, 

covered by soft pure white silk sheet bed?

Life’s smells good when you set apart

There is no guilt on my nights

but my nerves are bursting 

and my veins communicate

with outsider beings

Trying to speak myself in other language 

  I lose 
seek another voice inside
turn around and see a sea of possibilities
found that I’m at the edge
not being looked or looker
embodying the whole gaze
linger on the lost line that
and conjuncts the
written landscape
fractal motion
the less words I know
the best I push the limits
oblivion is burning
my sevillian ancestor
that never existed
the ambiguous order of thought 
tenuous impression
capturing air with my hands

The Thousand Faces Hero’s Journey 


As a natural process, humans beings connect to the world not only by seeing and feeling what surrounds them but also by turning their gaze into the inside. It is an organic process that consists on a constant flow back and forward from the inner self -or even behind- to the outside, to the overpassed frontiers of the body, to the extensions of the objects or machines, to the perception of the atmosphere, to the reception -conscious or unconscious- of another being. Those eyes might look you back. Those eyes, which are just the eyes, might know you, might know you are a reflection, but also might quietly keep the secret or ignore it. The game is the well-known “hide and seek”. The eyes should better hide to sustain the illusion. But nature would not cease to seek what is behind every mask. 


Millenary cosmologies of different cultures spread all over the planet had reached the same experience. Although they name it differently, one can simply not ignore the patterns.




Doctrines with specific rhetorics that appear to contradict one to each other



Language and categories




Once the eye -and I am not referring exclusively to the visual perception but to what we could call the “visionary” perception- trespasses the veil that divides the selfness and the otherness, one can never get back. Not to the same gaze, at least, to the same way of looking at everything. Something has changed. 

To be fair, the most probable -and healthy for practical purposes- is to close again the curtain and maintain the frontier of ego.


My professor of Indian Philosophy told once a story about a yogi that was meditating in a room. Her master was passing and when he saw her, he reproached her to be distracted and no genuinely meditation. The yogi student closed her eyes. The master lightly touched her temple and she immediately went outside of herself; she was at the same timeless moment the veins of the roots of a tree and the further star of a distant galaxy. She opened her eyes. The master was holding a broom. He offered her the broom and he asked her to go to another room and clean it. 


The experience that mere words cannot express or transmit, is over now. Resonances of a forbidden memory are the only reminiscence. The intellect can opt to jump it, continue, and let it behind until it merges with the ocean of oblivion. Or it can also desperately try to bring it back. I say “desperately” because it is nothing more than a rational process. Forcing an absolutely intuitive experience is in vain: “How can one remember thirst?”. 


One cannot truly remember. One can just barely experience flashes of that, of what in old Sanskrit is referred to as tat sat, a finger pointing to the inapprehensible, to the ineffable. It happens, though. And those instants are the pinnacle of lucidity. There is not a Singular Truth I could describe and my intention would never be to impose, I try not to. However, in my very inside, there is an intuition that is more than mere speculation. I have had seconds of delusion, I have met the other’s eyes and met my gaze from the outside, an extreme, overwhelming sense of oneness that explained itself Everything; suddenly Everything irradiated compassion, Everything, including entropy, made sense and encounter a balance, a reason beyond the intellect. I am not talking about anything magical or supernatural, just the simplest thing than, nevertheless, only generates intricated labyrinths when it is tried to be expressed, particularly with words. 


Once you have realized, you have not reached any answer but the start of a journey. The journey can go, as what I may be seen as the Western way, to the path of unfinishable questions, or to a supposedly more Eastern way, to the path of calming the mind through meditation, or there are infinite paths and possible ways. My way, now, is ambitious, immoral, perhaps, it could imply breaking a taboo, the necessary hidden part of the cosmic game. My purpose is to replicate the experience. I read poetry more than evocative, poetry that is invocative and that literally has altered the world by dimension that. Poetry not only made by words, of course, but any kind of experience could also enter the poiesis, the sacred process of creation. The crucial point for me is the intersection between two beings, more or less directly, through a book written centuries ago on the other side of the world or face to face in a conversation here and now. The name of this is Empathy, the fulfilment of the heart when pure and spontaneous compassion is breathable, the thought is: “I am not Alone”. 


I’m trying to hold the idea. How could I? She melts through my hands, she’s escapes. I want to hold her but time passes, flowing or not. Pure present. Life and movement. That’s why I write so much about me, the cause of needing to create and to exteriorize my thoughts and feelings, some perceptions that I’ve experienced. But why? Where is hidden the primordial movement, the first why. Am I saying something now? What am I talking about? Who’s talking? 
When I write in English I just can be an actress, I play myself. I play with me too… Am I the chess piece or the player? I’m the game, of course. Who was the builder of it? 
But wait, wait, this is just a person writing, two hands typing. This doesn’t mean anything. 
I think I made it, I got a point now, don’t you think so?
Oh! Yeah! Of course, now there is a you (if you haven’t noticed).
“Where I end and where you begin”.
I’ve been trying so much to write me. 
It came to my mind an image:

The mixture between the paper and the water… Everything is moving, every single line. I could stay contemplating the wave, hypnotized by the flow of its shadows. 
And that’s what’s all about. I think I’ve lost the yarn, I left it behind the wallpaper. 
And maybe that’s the reason you’re here, reading this exposure of myself (whatever that means…). 
I’ve been wandering a lot. I like walking around the ideas, take a trip going nowhere or without reason and see what happens. But I have a need now. It can be seen as a question of life and death and also as a desire, a little whim. Sometimes I see it as a strong will of the spirit. I don’t know how to name it but I need to shape it, to materialized the reality that I can perceive so clearly in my mind. 

Captura de pantalla 2019-11-14 a la(s) 6

This is a creative writing space in which I explore my (non-native) English voice.

You can find some of my short stories, letters, creative essays, and poems hidden in my multimedia labyrinth Ananta Uma.

Other publications have been made in 
Casa Barullo and Imprenta Patriotica

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