For what is a man without sense in a throb?

For what is a man without hum in a beat?

Are his eyes the stare of a man who is alive?

Or has his soul just died and sled into the night?

For he is a voice that no longer responds

That fell asleep onto the opinion of a crowd

For, in a world of anger and tweets,

He ceased to believe there was good in his words

And such a shame that his voice lost its way

For it spoke loads of truth in a younger time

When he was a boy who knew who he was

Now the years see the silence of a mind lost

And now he stays quiet in a mumbling room

And stutters to the need of facing the truth

What happened to the boy he used to be?

His smile vanished, so the hum of his

Yet there is still a throb of bravery left

That signals a chance for a life well-lived

There does not need to be a vaccine to realize

The man still has a flicker of a beating heart

The silence slowly fades to the beat of the throb

Passion is the hidden rhythm to the essence of his soul

The cure is just waiting to say itself through a word

Boom, boom, boom, boom

Beyond any human debate, nature explains itself. You dare to wonder whether Earth is flat or not, yet the Sun displays its answer shining among clouds and bright colors in an everyday fireburst display. If the Earth were flat, don't you think the Sun would carry on its way in a straight line? It would pass through, like a shadow, and then lose itself among clouds to never come back. However, the Sun acts as our, rising over our cities to rule over when we build our own decisions. The horizon is its army, sunrise is its throne, midday is its majesty, and dusk is the fallen triumph of a failed kingdom. Earth's roundness is a Deulofeu cycle; night takes over the darkness of disaster as a eulogy for beaten soldiers, until, once again, our heavenly star takes upon our time conception once more... such as a King would do.

Is the title a noun or an imperative? Is loving optional or an egalitarian burden? Regardless of how I stand up to my questions, old annoying Society somehow mocks them and becomes a misogynistic judger, who makes me less of a man because I haven't canonized the best of a lady under a relationship with my gentle charms. Well, I don't think one who manages to attract plenty of women makes a gentleman. I believe a true gentleman is the individual who dares to fall in love no matter how high the risk of falling apart may be. Brave is the one who loves inmensely, unconditionally, and opens his heart in world of hatred, and blessed is who walks gracefully into his coffin and claims to have loved it all, even the unloveable. Passion for love is what gives this life the poetry it needs, even if it crumbles apart and it reduces to ashes joint by broken veins and bleeding arteries; for even a broken heart may end up in a happy melody through the metric, the rhyme and the syllables a poem sings in sign of an elegy.

So, to fall in love or to fall apart? Both are essential parts of living fully; therefore, my son, even if Society haunts you by questioning your manhood, don't be afraid of being rejected by a golden-haired lady with a fairly shining smile. Go ahead and embrace that rejection. Cry for it, write a mad lyric and join it with an unglorious guitar accord. After all, in vision of Erasmus of Rotterdam, madness is what may save us from our own despair.

Love always as I love you, my graceful gentlemen,

Eduardo.

Mexico City, January 1st, 2018.

I'm a close friend of yours, yet you dare to call me a mistake. A well-hidden secret that God and your family would dishonor should it be revealed. You don't give it much importance, because deep down you know that it won't be relevant as long as you end sleeping alone at night. Your biggest fears feed me, and I know you are brave enough to go past the fright of ghosts and wood floors' crawling-in sounds. You are not scared of the darkness, but rather scared of never having someone to share said darkness with; your mind follows me, that glorious idea of hugging the warmth of dangerous arms no heavenly believer would see as pure. I haunt you when I intend to marvel you with true love, yet you hide me, as I become a threat to your own self-confidence towards ending this sad period of solitude. Yet, I am faithful, so I will wait, wondering around the streets of your neighbourhood until some hopeful day, I won't be regarded as an enemy anymore.

Remaining faithful to you,

Your Loving,

Mistake

Snow doesn't descend down the folkloric streets of Mexico City. Instead, a gray-colored sky —joint by a undecent fog— crawls into the bones of old inhabitants of the neighbourhood during Christmas Eve, and forces family into uniting over dinner and regret the elegies they have taken over the year that has passed. However, 2017 came to bring a new ghost, who floated over the mouth-transferred stories that reigned over this town. Eugenia, Petén, Medellín, Álvaro Obregón; these Mexican streets held a new kind of monument that had been recalled by older generations yet remained ignored during the new millenium: debris. Imponent buildings that held the memory of an entire borough and the home of various families were reduced to dust. The blocks they lay on before now were completely abandoned, while over the debris, every other toy, yearbook or piece of clothing would show up over it. Some families dared to visit them to point them out in the name of amaze and post-traumatic shock, but in reality, they treated the sites the same they would treat touristic attractions.

For they forget the rumble that only scared them enough to post a dramatic statement on social media, yet shook the life of an entire universe that lay in between the apartments of a condo. For they forget how even the ground they relied on shook in an intense and sudden manner, threatening the confidence we have on our own existance's importance. For they forget that there was acutal suffering beyond their basic amaze, for they forget the unknown tragedies that occured just a few blocks away in a walking distance. For they have no respect for the boy that was crushed by a crumbling building while trying o get his boy back, the freshman student that watched his school fall apart, the parent who never saw his children again, the names that would be forgotten to become statistics.

Don't point out what happened in September the 19th, honor it through silent prayers and respect the grief that created these new monuments. But most of all, go on and enjoy the tiny existance that was brought to you to live. Because anytime, the September 19th demos may come back, and haunt the lives of yet a whole new generation to come... once again.

The inevitable thought of wondering about the force that destiny takes into our lives is somehow a way for us, rational yet empty-purposed beings, to regain confidence in what lies ahead as the future and our skill to handle its obstacles in an appropiate manner in spite of lacking preparation in doing so. Trying to find the true nature of destiny, or debating the reliability of its existance along an entity that writes it, is never going to solve the individual's questions to aim for the truth, because there is not an explanation for purpose or meaning outside one self. The task of the rational person is to set him/herself into a journey towards self-knowledge; so that various options for values, motifs, skills and tastes can be explored and later taken freely, and an aristotelic eudaimonia can be reached by every individual. Taking a Camus-like posture, it's not about wondering if free-will exists, it's about realizing that you are rational and learning to master and take over your decisions and ideas to build yourself the destiny you want to have, no matter what the external circumstances wind up being. That way, the purpose of life will be so clear that no exhortation for destiny will ever be needed, because the path is being taken over by its individual and inspiration to follow it will come along with it.