domingo, 28 de noviembre de 2010


Siento sed, sed de sangre
Sed que nunca he de saciar.
Tengo hambre, de la carne:
De morder y de besar.

Me domina ese impulso
Que satisfacer no puedo
Al notar en tu piel el pulso
Cuando acaricio tu cuello:

De abrazar y acariciar;
Despedazar y morder;
De hacer daño y besar.

Tu suave piel recorrer
Con mis labios, una vez más
¡Y saciar, saciar mi sed!

domingo, 21 de noviembre de 2010


La palabra persona proviene del término griego usado para referirse a las mascaras de teatro. Y tiene un significado muy acertado: al fin y al cabo, el teatro no es más que una mentira  inventada para entretener, mientras que las personas somos una gran mentira. Mentimos para hacer daño, mentimos para proteger, para nuestro beneficio y para engañarnos a nosotros mismos. Mentir es parte del ser humano. 
Pero no es nuestra culpa. Es solo que no sabemos expresarnos. Esa presión, ese dolor, esa euforia que sentimos en la cabeza, en el corazón, en la garganta. Las lágrimas y la risa, cuando aún no han salido de nosotros. Nuestro lenguaje no nos permite expresar todo eso. 
Y esa es la razón por la que mentimos tanto. Porque no podemos ni acercarnos a decir la verdad. La verdad importante, la que reside dentro de nosotros. Simplemente, no podemos. No podemos.

viernes, 12 de noviembre de 2010


Original en español, y traducción al ingles. Original in Spanish and, further down, the translation into English.

Los humanos tenemos una tendencia a la razón.
Racionalizamos nuestra forma de ver la realidad, aunque no nos demos cuenta de ello. Nos ayuda a sentirnos seguros. Creando unas reglas, unas medidas, ganamos una sensación de control, y es un método efectivo para lidiar con la mayoría de problemas.
Sin embargo, de vez en cuando, algo altera esas reglas. Se produce una excepción, un caso extraño a las leyes que nos habíamos creado, y entonces todo el sistema puede venirse abajo.
Es entonces cuando perdemos uno de nuestros apoyos básicos. Nuestra forma de entender nuestra propia vida.

We humans have a tendency towards reason.
We rationalize our way to understand reality, thought we don’t usually realize. That makes us feel safe. Creating a set of rules, of measures, we gain a feeling of controlling our mind, and it is a effective way of facing the majority of our problems. However, from time to time, something alters these rules. An exception occurs, a case completely beyond the laws we had created, and then, the whole system can collapse.
It is then when we lose one of our basic supports. Our way to understand our own life.

lunes, 8 de noviembre de 2010


It is a proven fact that even the slightest force can have enormous effects if the correct mechanism is involved: A single drop of water is enough to shatter the walls of a dam, given the adequate circumstances; the weight of the smallest of the pebbles could be enough to lift a mountain, if pulleys are used in the appropriate way; a single program can ruin the information saved in thousands of computers, more than any library could ever keep. Everything has an effect on everything, and that effect can be amplified to incredible levels. 

Sometimes, these mechanisms are not a physical object, but words, feelings, reactions. A chain of events of any kind, spreading all over the planet, starting form a single gaze and ending in a person’s last breath. Destiny itself can be expressed as a series of social, physical or psychological movements: an enormous, but subtle, piece of clockwork in which every part fits with the rest, thus achieving wondrous results.

lunes, 1 de noviembre de 2010


Inspector Arnould entered the flat, and he had to cover his nose with the hand because of the unbearable stench.
- Revolting, right? – said Gérard, one of the polices who were examining the room. – We have just taken away the corpse. It seems that he has been dead for about 4 days. The neighbors called the police when they worried about the smell.
- What do we know about him? – asked Arnould.
- His name was Michel Duplessis. We haven’t found any relative or friend. He was a painter.

It was evident that he was a painter. The tiny, wretched room was full of canvases and paintings. In almost every one appeared a girl, the same in all the pictures. One of these was on a table. Arnould observed it. It was a portrait of the same person. When the inspector left it again in the table, he noticed something: There was a letter hidden on the other side of the canvas. He read it:

“My name is Michel Duplessis, and this is my story. I first met her three years ago. One night, I had a dream, in which the beauty itself turned a person. That was her. Since then, I couldn’t take her out of my mind. I couldn’t paint anything that wasn’t an attempt to capture her in a canvas. 
But then, I achieved it: I was able to pour my dream into the painting, to make her to become a real image, rather than one in my mind. This was even worst. Now that she was a step closer to be real, I was a step further of reality. I realized I had fallen in love with the illusion I had created. 
So I made a decision: I had been able to make her closer to me by painting her, so if I wanted to be beside my dream, I had to paint me in the same canvas that her. To be in the same world. To be together. 
I began at the moment I had the idea. And it worked. As the picture was being drawn, I felt closer to her. But I also felt tired, like if I had less and less energy. Day after day, getting up from the bed was getting harder. Nevertheless, I continued, as I had to complete my work. In fact, it was soon the only reason of my existence. 
One day, I realized: I was trying to pour life into my picture, so I was losing my own life. Now that I can see that the rest of my time is not measured in heartbeats, but in brushstrokes, I’ve decided to tell my story before I take the last step”.

Arnould left the painting in the table, and he observed it again, more closely. The girl was of course the center of the painting, but at her side a there was a man. It wasn’t an important part of the picture but, like the girl, he looked very real: a vividness distant of the one that can be obtained by any artist.