Carlos & Friend

Have you ever wondered how things change all of a sudden? Wondered how we cross from one place to another leaving the past? How can we remember "times" and know that they are more than a world away from us, and that each long lasting memory means one reality apart? Well I once had a daydream on which only one out of a billion answers was shown in the shape of structures and places where we are destined to return each time something changes in our lives, our spirit, or even in our own private and lonely death. I'll tell you some bits of this place because the rules are so big that just one tiny blog entry wouldn't fill the holes and doubts of what I am about to explain. Imagine yourself living life. Walking through places, doing your things. One day you realize that your course in life has changed and that time has passed by. For a reason that thought turns into a memory, which remains along with its essence , some kind of energy of what now turns into something

The respiration of the organic breed of robots Electronically sleeping away descending from a higher intercourse of time materialized as leaves Sparkles that arouse me Sprinkles just above Little waves, tiny whales leaving me behind Allowing time to string before me Passing by through serenades of peace Leaving putrefaction all to die Leaving interaction on mechanics to A R I S E. . .

Woke up, No longer in the dream. Time started to tick again, everything seemed eternal. I was savagely killed though I'm still alive(?) Woke up from a dream, shapeless, being no longer what for years I thought. It vanished. Forms in the shape of letters said so. Thoughts in the shape of feathers said so. Now that character has gone away, in this reality he's disappeared, leaving trails of irretrievable. This shapeless being is now nothing more than bleeding clay. Waiting to be shaped. And I know that all around will try I'll be their toy, their hope, their guide. And I'll be their shape, their figure just so they can sleep alone (with a grin on their face) But deep inside the bleeding clay There's a little, little soul That's searching for the moment where you'll let me be your clay Mold me, shape me, do me, only you can do it right. when the shape turns into wishes, then the task will be complete. Then I would be your dream come true, or the end of my last

Preface So many things to say, so many things to write. But before I shape my new entry I would like to thank all the people that took a little spark of their time in this life writing comments, reading, or just watching the other entries. I appreciate that a lot. Lately I noticed that I had not posted a single new entry since last year's November, and I felt slightly kind of shocked about it, but at the same time I knew that things happen for a reason, and that this was the path that had to be taken in order to share a new idea that I felt worth telling. The other -and most important- reason of my absence in this dream-thought-space is probably best told within this same entry that is specially dedicated and devoted to all souls that are in constant search of truth, and love, and wisdom (and magic too), and that fight for what some might call the warmth of being here, just like a gift from life and into the eternal, infinite space that surrounds and invades us everywhen… The next

Because so many things are shown to us through the path we live, it may be valid to wonder about the idleness of our silence. Is there nothing left to say? Is there nothing left to see? There is everything out there where thought believes, and there's everything inside, rotting (as Baudelaire said of course) while we try to polish the being that can't be defined by words; not even by that word some people call soul.

Lately I have been starting to think some things are not so real as we think they are, materially speaking. The spirit guides us through our journey. When our spirits are lost, we must know our ancestors will always be there to tell us who we are... I don't want to sound that corny, it's just we actually are our ancestor's birthmarks, burden or legacy -whatever you wish to call it- It is hard sometimes to find the way out. Specially when you have been inside for a long, long time.