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What Matters

riverflows — Sat, 31 Oct 2026 21:32:45 GMT

Sometimes taking off on a wave is like dropping a needle on a vinyl record. It's the closest comparision to the smooth sensation of something moving underneath you and then becoming that thing - becoming the moving water or sliding into a room of sound. Perhaps you need to have experienced either to understand the connection. Both sensations enter my dreams - I am moving along the green face of a velvet glass wave, or the black vinyl is circling, circling, smooth as black sheets.

On Monday I paddled out on dark - there's enough light before the official first light to see, and if you can hear the waves and know what direction the wind is blowing, you know it's going to be worth it, even if just to be in the ocean as the dawn comes. I knew sun up was at 6.43, and if I put my phone on between the folds of my towel by the edge of the outgoing tide, I could get a few waves (first light is a suprisingly long stretch of time) and then check to see if I'd got a text to come in. My timing was immaculate - I had five minutes to sit, catch my breath, and hope like hell I wouldn't be called in by the deadline of 7 am so I could head back out there, which I did - the surf was good, as forecast, and it was beautiful out there.

It's hard to explain just how beautiful it is. Perhaps you've felt it walking very early in the morning - the world is calm, just waking up, Perhaps the light hits the trees, a dressing of brightness as the colour is dialled up and the night slides away. Perhaps it's birdsong, the dawn chorus. The sun sliding over the hills.

Out on the water, I look east toward the furthest headland and say 'morning, Dad' as I do every dawn I surf this place. It's where his ashes went, and I feel his presence deeply here. Gulls take flight in messy formations. Lately, dolphins - the first fin enough for the heart to skip, and then the recognition of friend over foe. George the fisherman walks to the point, his white bucket expectant. Black cormorants air their armpits to the cool air. Behind the rocks, the bigger sets crash, signalling time to prepare so that the surfers can slide, in their turns, onto the wave. Early, there's only a few of us - later, many.

The sunrise can be either a technicolour event complete with alien spaceships and red vortexes of clouds, or more moody blues and purples with the orb invisible and the only inkling it's arisen being the trustworthy brightening. Either way, the heart expands out into the universe. How could it not, when the ocean and sky are so beautiful? So, so beautiful?

It's moments like this I feel the meaning of life. It is this - to breath with the birds, the dolphins, the stingrays. To take part in the life given to us, to be moving in nature, being in flow with the world. What else is there? I wonder at the young women who are coming down the beach, the old men who must take prognisterone and have hot showers to warm up before they paddle out on their various watercraft, the men who surf no longer, the women who leave to have children and come back, like me, after those decades are gone. My father, ashes in the salt.

One day, my hips will fail me, my paddle strength gone, my balance upset. Perhaps soon I will swim instead, come here at dawn to take photos, or sit watching the clouds become castles or dragons or alien cities awash with crimson and tangerine.

I don't want for much else. In these moments, nothing else at all matters, just the moving water underneath me, the leaping fish, the seaweed hanging below the surface, and the tide moving out, and in, and out again.

`With Love,`

No quiero ser el pez globo

nanixxx — Mon, 26 Oct 2026 07:19:18 GMT

I don't want to be the pufferfish

All things considered, the pufferfish devotes its carefree existence to drawing perfect geometries on the seafloor (for love), never suspecting that one of its few predators could eventually carry it to the table of a luxury restaurant, where the skilled hands of a chef would strip it of its superpower.

All this is possible, of course, as long as the fluttering of a few dozen butterflies in the Pyrenees doesn't alter an air current, change a decision, divert a thought and, through that distraction, the precise cut of the knife... I insist, any resemblance while I write this for you is purely coincidental. It sounds like a cliché, this idea of being as lethal as pufferfish venom after the embrace of butterflies.

I had just smiled before looking at my arms. I'm far too thin. I could say that I am the brandy from a bottle left open and forgotten in a park in the middle of a drunken, windy night. Don't worry, these are merely the first babblings of someone getting drunk on poetry.

I'm speaking from within, afraid even of the ants lining up to drink my toxic juices. I'm speaking from within, and not as the observer I ought to be of the ups and downs of my mind. I spent hours ruminating among the versions of myself that I know well and would like to forget, like crumpled paper in the bin.

I don't want to be the pufferfish.

Sometimes I feel so full of life when I deceive myself, when I weave stories to sweeten the failure of you not being with me, when I speak with the tarot and endlessly trace the edge of every card I have written, where I find myself hunched over, staring at the space a fishing rod would occupy, imagining the hook in the void and feeling the relentless counting of drops of sunlight on my drifter's skin, reminding me that life is still beating... after all.

I love you, you know that, I love you. Time speeds up, applying pressure without you noticing.

Sometimes I feel so full of death that I can almost hear it sneaking into my room, stumbling into the mirror, shattering itself there where the hours in which I kissed you on another's lips never stop replaying, and later I repeated your name in my head as one shapes a beautiful, heartfelt line... and so I breathed it in and drank it in small sips so that its sound might lead me towards orgasm.

You know? I like to think that the brush of my words still makes you tremble.

En resumidas cuentas, el pez globo dedica su despreocupada existencia a dibujar geometrías perfectas en el fondo del mar (por amor), sin sospechar que uno de sus contados depredadores podría llevarlo a la mesa de un restaurante de lujo, donde las manos expertas de un chef lo despojarían de su superpoder.

Todo esto es posible, claro está, mientras el aleteo de algunas decenas de mariposas en los Pirineos no altere una corriente de aire, modifique una decisión, desvíe un pensamiento y, con tal distracción, el corte certero del cuchillo... Insisto, cualquier semejanza mientras escribo para ti es pura coincidencia. Suena a cliché esto de ser letal como el veneno del pez globo después del abrazo de las mariposas.

Acababa de sonreír antes de mirar mis brazos. Estoy demasiado delgada. Podría decir que soy el brandy de una botella abierta y olvidada en un parque a mitad de una noche ebria y ventosa. Descuida, son los primeros balbuceos de alguien que se embriaga con la poesía.

Hablo desde adentro, temerosa hasta de las hormigas que hacen fila para beber mis jugos tóxicos. Hablo desde adentro y no como la observadora que debería ser de los vaivenes de mi mente. Estuve horas rumiando entre las versiones de mí que conozco bien y que me gustaría olvidar como papel arrugado en la basura.

No quiero ser el pez globo.

A veces me siento tan llena de vida cuando me autoengaño, cuando hilvano historias para endulzar el fracaso de que no estés conmigo, cuando hablo con el tarot y repaso sin cesar el borde de cada carta que he escrito, donde me encuentro encorvada, mirando fijamente el espacio que ocuparía una caña de pescar, imaginando el anzuelo en el vacío y sintiendo el conteo incesante de las gotas de sol sobre mi piel de vagabunda, recordándome que la vida sigue latiendo... después de todo.

Te amo, lo sabes, te amo. El tiempo acelera, metiendo presión sin que lo notes.

A veces me siento tan llena de muerte que puedo hasta escucharla entrando a hurtadillas en mi cuarto, tropezando con el espejo, haciéndose añicos allí donde no paran de reproducirse las horas en las que te besé en los labios de otra, y luego repetí tu nombre en mi cabeza como quien perfila un verso bonito, sentido... y así lo respiré y lo bebí en pequeños sorbos para que su sonoridad me condujera hacia el orgasmo.

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Onírico Viaje sin Interpretación [Es-En] Oneiric Journey Without Interpretation

felixmarranz — Sat, 24 Oct 2026 10:49:30 GMT

Cada sorbo de café disipa el desconcierto de haber despertado cuando salía de la estación de trenes.
Unos momentos antes estaba frente a la taquilla comprando los billetes del viaje junto a mi hija, que tenía promociones y cupones de descuento para todos, incluidos los gatos.
Finalmente, el cobrador le recibió todos los cupones y le entregó los billetes para todos.
Ahora, con los billetes en mano, fuimos a buscar el equipaje a toda prisa y en la carrera me preguntaba por dónde va a pasar el tren de Buenos Aires a la India, así que detuve a un pasajero con cara de funcionario británico colonial para preguntarle.
El hombre que abrazaba una cartera de cuero repleta de papeles y carpetas me miró arqueando una ceja sobre el monóculo y respondió: ¿¡Tren!? ¿Cuál tren? Estamos por embarcar y, como vamos por los mares del sur, todo el viaje será de cabeza.

Con la segunda taza de café en mano, disipado en recuerdo del subconsciente o reino de Morfeo, solo puedo agregar que, hasta donde recuerdo, mis sueños son en blanco y negro.

Nada más que agregar acerca del viaje que está por empezar, salvo que la mente inquieta, esta noche decida llevarme en otra dirección.

Deseándoles un excelente fin de semana, les dejo con la imagen de esta embarcación en la que di un paseo hace un tiempo por el río Tigre, que conecta con el de La Plata.
Un bote de pequeñas dimensiones que me conecta con la península de Araya, que se comunica con la vecina Cumaná en Venezuela mediante unas embarcaciones similares a las que llaman "tapaditos" para diferenciarlos de los tradicionales peñeros que se dedican a la pesca y no tienen ventanas ni techo.

Aunque ya le voy encontrando cierta lógica al sueño, dejaré que ustedes elijan el significado que prefieran.
Las imágenes son de mi archivo, tomadas con el Motorola, y el texto escrito en mi lengua materna, el español, se lo comparto en inglés mediante el traductor Google.

Gracias por acompañarme.

Oneiric Journey Without Interpretation

Each sip of coffee dispels the bewilderment of having just woken up as I was leaving the train station.
Moments earlier, I had been at the ticket counter buying travel tickets with my daughter, who had special offers and discount coupons for everyone—even the cats.
In the end, the clerk accepted all the coupons and handed over tickets for the whole group.
Now, tickets in hand, we hurried off to retrieve our luggage. As we rushed, I wondered what route a train from Buenos Aires to India would take, so I stopped a passenger—who looked like a British colonial official—to ask.
The man, clutching a leather briefcase stuffed with papers and folders, raised an eyebrow above his monocle and replied, "A train!? What train? We’re about to set sail—and since we’re traveling through the southern seas, the whole journey will be upside down!"

With a second cup of coffee in hand, as the memories from my subconscious—or the realm of Morpheus—fade away, I can only add that, as far as I recall, my dreams are in black and white.

There is nothing more to say about the journey that is about to begin, unless my restless mind decides to take me in a different direction tonight.

Wishing you all an excellent weekend, I leave you with an image of this vessel—one I took a trip on some time ago along the Tigre River, which connects to the Río de la Plata. A small boat connects me to the Araya Peninsula, which in turn links to the nearby city of Cumaná, in Venezuela, via vessels known as "tapaditos"—a term used to distinguish them from traditional peñeros (fishing boats), which lack both windows and a roof.

Although I am beginning to find a certain logic to the dream, I will leave it to you to decide on the meaning that resonates most with you.
The images are from my personal archive, captured with my Motorola phone, and the text—originally written in my native language, Spanish—is presented here in English via Google Translate.

Thank you for joining me.

Magic exists; they just got the name wrong. (EN-ES)

avdesing — Thu, 22 Oct 2026 06:26:48 GMT

There are many things in this world that we cannot see, hear, touch or feel with our human senses, but that does not mean they do not exist. In fact, we live in a world where what really matters is invisible.

Muchas cosas existen en este mundo, a las cuales no podemos ver, oír, tocar o sentir con los sentidos humanos, pero eso no significa que no existan. De hecho, vivimos en un mundo, donde lo realmente importante es invisible.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HA3FgAcYvU8&list=LL&index=1&t=31s

To listen to whilst reading the story - Para escuchar mientras se lee la historia Fuente

SPANISH VERSION (click here!)

Desde tiempos inmemorables se ha cuestionado la magia, se ha dicho que no existe o que es parte de algo malo. Creo que eso ha ocurrido porque el miedo a lo desconocido y que no podemos ver es tan poderoso que nos prohibimos de vivir experiencias que son profundas, muy internas y todas ellas provienen de cosas invisibles.

Quien puede decir que el amor, no existe, o la tristeza, el dolor, la angustia, el odio, la esperanza, la alegría. Todo ello existe, lo hemos sentido alguna vez, como muchas otras cosas, pero todas son invisibles en este mundo de horizontes no palpables con los sentidos humanos, pero no por invisibles no existen. Quien puede negarlo.

Since time immemorial, magic has been questioned; it has been said that it does not exist or that it is part of something evil. I believe this has happened because the fear of the unknown, of what we cannot see, is so powerful that we deny ourselves experiences that are profound, deeply personal, and all stem from invisible things.

Who can say that love does not exist, or sadness, pain, anguish, hatred, hope, joy? All these things exist; we have felt them at some point, just like many other things, but they are all invisible in this world of horizons that cannot be perceived by the human senses. Yet just because they are invisible does not mean they do not exist. Who can deny it?

SPANISH VERSION (click here!)

Tal vez magia es una palabra que no es adecuada, relaciono la magia a algo que sucede por azar, y nada ocurre por azar, todo en la vida es acción y reacción, aunque parezca que no hemos hecho nada para que algo pase, hasta un pensamiento inconsciente tiene poder de crear algo, pero como no sabemos de dónde viene lo llamamos magia.

Más bien yo cambiaría de palabra y en vez de llamarlo magia a cosas que ocurren y que aparentemente son incompresibles, lo llamaría energía. Esa palabra está más reconocida, al menos hasta la ciencia habla de ella. Somos energía, energía dentro de una carcasa, un cuerpo, el cuerpo sin esa energía no podría moverse y hacer nada, sería un cuerpo muerto.

Perhaps ‘magic’ isn’t quite the right word; I associate magic with something that happens by chance, and nothing happens by chance, everything in life is action and reaction. Even if it seems as though we’ve done nothing to make something happen, even an unconscious thought has the power to create something, but as we don’t know where it comes from, we call it magic.

I’d rather change the word: instead of calling things that happen and seem incomprehensible ‘magic’, I’d call them ‘energy’. That word is more widely recognised, after all, even science talks about it. We are energy, energy contained within a shell, a body. Without that energy, the body couldn’t move or do anything; it would be a dead body.

SPANISH VERSION (click here!)

Entonces en ese sentido, si la energía existe, la magia también. Muchas cosas hay en el mundo y que nos pasan día a día que no podemos explicar, pero pasan y por ello existen. Y es cuando ocurren esas supuestas casualidades, más bien me gustaría llamarlas causalidades, y también ciertas sincronicidades, es allí cuando alguien puede cuestionarse mejor las cosas.

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Sea

nanixxx — Mon, 19 Oct 2026 06:17:51 GMT

https://play.3speak.tv/embed?v=nanixxx/hsu7vm60

Cinematic Music by Dmitrii Spis from Pixabay.

*sea este latido hueco / desafinado este azul que no me llena... sea mi respiración entrecortada sea la magia que nos perdimos... esta vida sin rumbo...*

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Divagaciones necesarias

nanixxx — Sun, 11 Oct 2026 04:59:09 GMT

https://play.3speak.tv/embed?v=nanixxx/oszcxp9u

Necessary ramblings

The surroundings of my house make me sweat.
A lot.

The bicycle makes me sweat.
Even more.

Solution? Drink plenty of water.
This skinny one’s liquid reserves are healthy, don’t worry.
(At least that reserve. The others, I don’t know.)

I always carry two bottles on the bike and at home the bottle is within reach, because when I stop hydrating my head starts to ache.

And the sun… well, the sun isn’t harmful, it’s natural medicine.
Don’t be afraid of the sun.

I’ve got my harvests, as you can see.

I don’t spend the whole day cycling just for pleasure. Only on Sundays. I work hard, from sun to sun… 🤣
(Though when it comes to her, pleasure is always implied.)

I’ve even started painting the house.
One side has a roof, the other doesn’t.
Luckily, household chores are done under cover.
Sweating… but in the shade.

I’m moving forward at the pace of a sick snail with the painting, but the point is not to stop.

“Move”, my quantum double whispers every morning before I get out of bed.
I know I resist sometimes; yet I don’t let him down. And I think he’s happy, though I’ve been told I give him a lot of work.

I don’t know what I’m writing, nor what you’re thinking… it doesn’t matter.

Having infinite energy carries certain dangers.

Tired?
I’m not. And if I get tired 🤐.

Eleven days of October have passed and the monthly cycling plan is already at 135%. Should I change it?

Yes, I definitely have infinite energy.

Bye!

Los alrededores de mi casa me hacen sudar.
Mucho.

La bicicleta me hace sudar.
Mucho más.

¿Solución? Beber suficiente agua.
La reserva de líquido de esta flacucha está saludable, no te preocupes.
(Al menos esa reserva. Las otras no sé)

Siempre llevo dos bidones en la bici y en casa la botella está a mano, porque cuando dejo de hidratarme me duele la cabeza.

Y sol... bueeej el sol no es dañino, es medicina natural.
No le temas al sol.

Tengo mis cosechas como puedes ver.

No me paso el día montando bicicleta sólo por placer. Sólo los domingos. Trabajo mucho, de sol a sol... 🤣
(Aunque cuando se trata de ella, el placer siempre está implícito)

Hasta he comenzado a pintar la casa.
La casa tiene techo en un lado, en el otro no.
Menos mal que las labores hogareñas se hacen bajo techo.
Sudando... pero a la sombra.

Voy avanzando a paso de caracol enfermo con la pintura, pero la cuestión es no parar.

Muévete, me susurra mi doble cuántico cada mañana antes de salir de la cama.
Yo sé que me resisto a veces; sin embargo, no lo defraudo. Y creo que está feliz, aunque me han dicho que le doy mucho trabajo.

No sé lo que estoy escribiendo, ni sé lo que estás pensando... da igual.

Tener energía infinita supone ciertos peligros.

¿Estás cansado/a?
Yo no. Y si me canso 🤐.

Han pasado 11 días de Octubre y ya el plan mensual de ciclismo está al 135%, ¿debería cambiarlo?

Sí, definitivamente tengo energía infinita.

Bye!

_{Music by Sub_Clair from Pixabay.}

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_{Original content by @nanixxx.} _{All rights reserved ©, 2026.
Every image I include in my posts is mine. When it’s not, I credit the source in a caption.}

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Sin título

nanixxx — Sat, 10 Oct 2026 08:37:00 GMT

Llegué sin planificarlo y me vi de pronto rodeada de criaturas demacradas que miraban con fijeza. Creo que alimentándose de mi desencanto ante un panorama que se repite aquí como una maldición eterna.

Las vestiduras de aquel paraje ruinoso conocido como La Costa siguen quebrándose de a poco. Día tras día, mes tras mes, año tras año... hasta que un temporal arrase y limpie totalmente la herida.

Se trata del antiguo Club de Cojímar adonde los jóvenes acudían embelesados por la música y la caricia del mar, para luego allí encontrar otros tipos de embelesos.

Es curioso cómo los despojos siguen conservando su nombre a despecho de la desidia y el abandono. La memoria es un mecanismo de abducción de tal poder que parece tener alas infinitas; es decir, sabe muy bien arrinconar la sombra, o la luz, según aplique, o convenga.

Me quedé unos pocos minutos clavada en un palmo de escombros, con la mirada perdida en el azul y la espuma, pensando en las sapientes crónicas que he leído de otras épocas e imaginando la que haría yo, aderezada con el voceo de fondo de un vendedor ambulante en bicicleta que, por la grabación que llevaba consigo, intuía cada vez más lejos.

Aquellas notas sociales hablaban de pregoneros que ponían sus cuerdas vocales al servicio del ingenio, con musicalidad, gracia y alegría propias del cubano. Este, en cambio, era monótono, repetitivo, pero aun así me tentaba comprarle una porque es un dulce que me traslada con mucha rapidez y emoción a mi infancia. Mi tía abuela Tita era experta en hacer cremitas de leche y yo en comérmelas.

La rica cremita de leche de Camagüey
_{La rica cremita de leche de Camagüey}
_{_{La rica cremita de leche de Camagüey}}
_{_{_{La rica cremita de leche de Camagüey}}}

Sé por qué son muy reconocidas las cremitas de leche de esa provincia del oriente y centro de Cuba: tienen leche de vaca de verdad y poca azúcar, pensé. Será porque los guajiros de allá son nobles y todavía no les alcanza la mala costumbre de "hacer más con menos".

Y es que cualquier cubano puede ponerle rostro a esto de "hacer más con menos", una consigna que se convirtió en la radiografía de un país y, por ende, la calidad de casi todo se ha sacrificado tanto que encontrarla es rarísimo.

Más con menos...

De más a menos...

Lo que sí no cambia nunca es el olor a mar.

Y sí, hay miradas que salvan.

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Cómo entrene a mi dragón [Es-En] How I Trained My Dragon

felixmarranz — Wed, 30 Sep 2026 15:45:51 GMT

Cómo entrenar a tu dragón es una película de animación que vi hace algunos años con mis hijos ya adultos en aquel momento y, al parecer, ha tenido tanto éxito que ya va por su cuarta entrega, pero esta no es una reseña de la película.

How to Train Your Dragon is an animated movie I watched a few years ago with my children—who were already adults at the time—and it has apparently been so successful that it is now up to its fourth installment; however, this is not a review of the movie.

En realidad, es solo un ejercicio de la imaginación en que hoy les invito a acompañarme junto a mi dragón rojo, que ya aprendió a volar.

In reality, it is just an exercise of the imagination in which I invite you to join me today, alongside my red dragon—who has already learned to fly.

Desde su primer intento se lanzó a las alturas para posarse en el punto más alto desde donde estudiar el panorama en derredor.

From his very first attempt, he launched himself upward to perch at the highest point, from which he could survey the surrounding landscape.

Ubicado, se dejó llevar por la corriente de aire que hoy, por fortuna, ha dejado de soplar con la intensidad y helada humedad de ayer.

Once positioned, he let himself be carried by the air current—which, fortunately, had ceased blowing with yesterday’s intensity and freezing dampness.

El esfuerzo por batir sus pequeñas alas lo llevó a buscar agua en los tanques de amarillas torres que recuerdan Los Araguaney de la Cancamure.

The effort to beat its small wings drove it to seek water in the tanks atop yellow towers that recall the Araguaney trees of Cancamure.

A cada vuelo aumenta la distancia y, aunque no parece que vaya a crecer, ya da signos de su futura naturaleza y comienza a irradiar calor que, por fortuna, no se transforma en llamarada.

With each flight, the distance increases, and although it does not appear likely to grow further, it already shows signs of its future nature and begins to radiate heat—which, fortunately, does not turn into a flare.

Ya no duda, ni falla en encontrar el camino de vuelta, y aunque prefiere las despejadas alturas, los espacios verdes le atraen con preferencia sobre el cemento gris.

It no longer hesitates or fails to find the way back, and although it prefers open heights, green spaces draw it more than gray concrete.

Una pequeña parada sobre la banca antes de volver a elevar el vuelo y explorar la inmensidad del mundo frente a él.

A brief pause on the bench before taking flight again and exploring the vastness of the world before him.

Una parada en el refugio de las lagunas entre la costanera y el río de regreso al hogar para recargar las pilas y volver a estirar las alas.

A stop at the lagoon shelter—situated between the waterfront promenade and the river—on the way home to recharge and stretch my wings again.

Ahora está listo para la fascinante noche de la ciudad que no duerme.

Now you are ready for the fascinating night of the city that never sleeps.

Aunque sigue del mismo tamaño, qué rápido crecen los dragones.

Even though it remains the same size, how fast dragons grow.

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El cisne negro // The black swan

enraizar — Sun, 27 Sep 2026 21:11:27 GMT

https://play.3speak.tv/embed?v=enraizar/20cll3rd

Una tarde calurosa más de un verano que ya comenzaba a provocarme cierto hastío, me adentraba en el madrileño Parque de El Retiro. Aledaño a la estación de tren de Atocha, renombrada como Almudena Grandes en homenaje a la popular escritora madrileña, y próximo al barrio de Pacífico y a Cibeles, el Retiro ofrece la posibilidad de un momentáneo alivio frente a las calurosas jornadas estivales.

Entre los miles de visitantes, que en la estación más calurosa del año, acuden a El Retiro en busca de sombras salvadoras o de un pequeño sorbo de tranquilidad, podemos descubrir todo tipo de criaturas, hasta las más inesperadas.

On yet another hot afternoon during a summer that was already starting to wear on me, I made my way into Madrid’s El Retiro Park. Adjacent to the Atocha train station—renamed Almudena Grandes in honor of the popular Madrid-born writer—and close to the Pacífico neighborhood and Cibeles, El Retiro offers a momentary respite from the sweltering summer days.

Among the thousands of visitors who, during the hottest season of the year, flock to El Retiro in search of welcome shade or a brief moment of tranquility, we can spot all kinds of creatures—even the most unexpected ones.

Aquel día de agosto, a solo unos pasos de haber entrado en el parque, pude ver al cazador y al lobo feroz sentados alrededor de una mesa, frente a dos latas de cerveza y lo que parecía ser una bolsa vacía de patatas fritas.

La estampa me resultó bastante extraña, lo suficiente como para que mi curiosidad me acercara a entablar una conversación con ellos.

Fui recibido con amabilidad, aunque mantuve cierta distancia física. El lobo, aunque en todo momento se mostró bastante cordial, no me transmitía mucha tranquilidad.

That day in August, just a few steps into the park, I saw the hunter and the big bad wolf sitting around a table, facing two cans of beer and what appeared to be an empty bag of potato chips. The scene struck me as quite strange—enough to make my curiosity prompt me to approach them and strike up a conversation.

I was greeted warmly, though I kept a certain physical distance. The wolf, although he was quite friendly throughout, didn’t exactly put me at ease.

La cháchara, que fue bastante animada, me dio la oportunidad de preguntar por Caperucita Roja y por la Abuela.

De la abuela, me comentaron que a esas horas, serían sobre las 19:30, estaría todavía acostada. Me explicaron que, como por las noches solía participar en alguna partida ilegal de poker, tenía por costumbre dormir hasta la puesta de sol.

Lo que me comentaron sobre Caperucita me sorprendió todavía más. Parece ser que la niña del cuento dejó de ser esa niña dulce e ingenua que conocía. Se encontraba inmersa en plena adolescencia, se hacía llamar Caperucita Oscura, vestía toda de negro y no paraba de escuchar a Joy Division…

The conversation, which was quite lively, gave me the chance to ask about Little Red Riding Hood and Grandma.

As for Grandma, they told me that at that hour—around 7:30 p.m.—she’d still be in bed. They explained that, since she used to play in illegal poker games at night, she was in the habit of sleeping until sunset.

What they told me about Little Red Riding Hood surprised me even more. Apparently, the girl from the story was no longer the sweet, innocent girl I knew. She was in the thick of her teenage years, went by the name of “Dark Little Red Riding Hood,” dressed entirely in black, and listened to Joy Division nonstop…

Cuando se terminó esta entretenida conversación y mientras me fui alejando de los dos contertulios, me dije: - ¡Cuánto ha cambiado el cuento!

Pero… ¿Cuánto ha cambiado el mío? – Pensé.

Recuerdo una película maravillosa, La jungla de asfalto. En ella, Sam Jaffe, después de salir de la cárcel, pone en marcha el “atraco perfecto”.

Jaffe es una persona meticulosa, poseedor de una racionalidad extrema. El golpe lo planeó durante años, mientras estuvo en prisión. No hay detalle dejado al azar, es perfecto. En apariencia, nada puede salir mal…

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New Community – Introduction and a Bit More Clarity About Its Purpose

nanixxx — Sat, 28 Jun 2025 14:08:21 GMT

So yes, this is the (not too long) introductory post for the new Invisible Horizons Community.

I wanted to create a space that felt somehow “new” on Hive, and with so many communities already out there, starting a new one always struck me as a real challenge. Still, it had been on my mind for a while. I’ve been on this blockchain for a few years now, and this feels like a way to show I care — and that I’m also drawn to the idea of opening new creative spaces.

_{Cover created with the help of Copilot AI}

So the idea began to take shape in my mind:

A place for all those who travel with their imagination.

Let me share a little anecdote.

When I was in high school, there was someone on the school’s leadership team who used to call me “the Swede.” It was her way of saying I was always spaced out, lost in my own world. She’d see me in the hallways, sitting alone, book in hand. She always found a way to catch me out of class, off wandering instead of in the classroom… “What a character,” she’d say, laughing as she sent me back to class. And me? Well, I was just going to the bathroom and ended up loitering nearby, drifting in my thoughts, dreaming that I was, say, in the Roman Amphitheatre… when in reality I was standing in front of the amphitheatre at the Federico Engels Vocational School. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a camera back then — but a quick Google search will show you. ;)

Ok, to keep the story short 😁... this Community is exactly about that: creating imaginary journeys through real places (and I emphasize this) that we tend to visit. That’s why in the Community guidelines I specify using your own photos.

_{Yes, I know — I created the Community cover using AI when I could’ve taken a photo myself… and you’re right, I will. The thing is, my intuition told me today was the day to present the Community, and I still haven’t captured the photo I truly want for this place that will now also be my home.} 😉

Even if you’re standing on the corner of your street, you can imagine yourself strolling through a city in France or whatever and craft your own story. Play, have fun, invent characters and situations. Give objects new uses beyond what they’re meant for. Make up names… let yourself overflow.

You can even invent an entirely new place that exists only in your imagination — and map it out through words, reflections, letters, poetry, music, adventures, photos, whatever you like. There are no limits to creativity.

As for me, I’ll try to occasionally bring initiatives that might spark new ideas to get you started. Though I know that here on Hive, imagination and creativity are boundless… so I raise a toast to you, and to this new space for dreaming.

🥂

Important! Before You Begin…

Have fun, interact with others, and make this little corner a magical place that everyone will want to visit.

Thank you, and Welcome!

💙