‘The most dangerous kind of person is the one who’s afraid of his own shadow.’ Bob Arctor

October 21, 2012 at 2:41 pm (From beyond reality) (, )



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Cat and her replica

June 8, 2012 at 6:23 am (From beyond reality, From reality) (, , )


Close enough…

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Just discovered Snapseed…

June 7, 2012 at 2:34 pm (From beyond reality) (, )

…and took a little advantage of it.






And I concluded that the world seems more interesting from a blurry perspective

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King and queen

March 17, 2012 at 10:11 pm (From beyond reality) (, , , , )

I often imagine life as a game of chess. Fighting. Pleading. Making decisions. Making sacrifices. Losing people we care about or people that we only meet. And at the end of the game, winning, losing or remaining paralysed. Realizing that the victory is actually the gameplay itself.  You’re made of wood. You’re made of the body and the spirit. You’re made of the king and the queen.

The king and the queen. Generally seen as a couple. I imagine them rather as a duality. One existence living as two inseparable complementary entities. They’re inseparable, yet they live separately. They wait to find each other. The king, the locked-in power and the queen, free but deprived of the sense of direction. They complete each other and the king cannot possibly win the game without his queen.

And in the end who are you playing against? The destiny? The result of passive-aggressive behavior, where the force of justice brings about its reaction to the act of “no-action”? What’s your weapon? The chain of the decisions that you make on your trip through the chessboard? Your experience and the network of people of whom you are surrounded?

So many questions…

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How a writer died.

May 7, 2011 at 8:24 pm (From beyond reality)

I came back to tell another story. This time the story is about another story, the kind of story that everyone carries through their live, the kind of story that is being written every day, the kind of story that someone will perhaps read after it’s done. So, once upon a time there was a writer who naturally used to compose novels, sci-fi mostly, and he was pretty good at it; not only that his stories really used to make sense, but they were also captivating and people enjoyed reading them. However, exploring his inborn talent took the writer a lot of time, it actually consumed roughly all of his spare time. The immediate consequence was obviously a defective social life, for he didn’t have time to be a nice person, even though deep down inside he craved for socialisation and the comforting feeling of fitting in a group. After all, it’s natural to feel like that, human nature demanding to be respected. So he started to tell people stories instead of writing them down. Unfortunately, the result was not an increase in popularity among his peers. They labelled him as being a lunatic. In the end he ceased making up any story, thinking that people have no need to learn about anything that he can tell and not enough good will to listen to another person getting off their chest. This is how our writer died.

The question is: whose fault was it?

The story’s fault, because it made people feel bad about themselves;

The writer’s fault, because he chose to tell his stories in a wrong way;

People’s fault, because a story cannot behave for itself.

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The Doll

November 11, 2010 at 4:10 pm (From beyond reality)

When I was a little girl, a doll pleaded with me to buy her. It was the greatest doll I’d ever seen and consequently I fell in love with her from the very first moment I held her in my arms. I never felt the necessity to change her in any way, like to create new clothes for her, modify the clothes that she already had or to make her a new haircut. Nothing to be added, nothing to be removed. She was simply perfect.

I spent my childhood playing only with that doll, and even though I used to have a few playmates back then, I was always coming back to the doll to confide all of my secrets, my passions and my doubts to her. This friendship was a bit reinforced by my introvert behaviour, I have to admit it.

One day, by accident or by design, the doll went up in flames and turned into ashes. Those ashes… they eventually spread somewhere or took other form, but seeing them on the floor was the most depressing thing a child could see. And it was not the fact that I had lost my doll that made me suffer, but those ashes who were trying to suggest me that the relationship between me and her was not only gone for vacation, but completely destroyed.

Days went by, with my pain growing less and less obvious, until everybody forgot about the whole story. Except me. The feeling of missing her was still rambling through my mind. Then people thought that it was not normal for a person not to have a doll. So they bought me one. When I first saw the new doll, I thought that it was very lovely, but when I figured out that the doll was supposed to be mine, I rejected it immediately. It’s not that the poor doll isn’t big enough to fill that void in my spirit; it just doesn’t have the jagged shape that would fit in there.

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