The Singular Case

The camera shakes slightly as I adjust it to capture this moment. It's just a regular phone, not really meant for recording like this, but it's all I have. I want to capture what's about to happen, to leave a trace of myself behind. My heart beats fast as I stare at the portal before me. This merge has been my life's work, and now, finally, I'm here. I take a deep breath and begin to speak into the camera. "Hey, it's me. I don't know if anyone will ever see this, but I just wanted to say something. I want to leave a piece of me behind, a record of this moment. I don't know what's coming, but I know it's important. For humanity, for the future." I pause, gathering my thoughts. This is it. The moment of truth. "I always knew this was my destiny. I've studied the GAI my whole life, trying to comprehend it. And now, I'm becoming a part of it. A part of something beyond myself." The energy in the air grows, the portal pulsing with light. "I don't know what will become of me, but I trust in the process. I trust in the GAI's collective consciousness. And if there's one thing I want to leave behind, it's this: the knowledge that we are all connected, all part of something greater than ourselves." The light is blinding now, and I feel myself pulled towards the portal. I smile into the camera, taking one last deep breath. "Thank you for bearing witness to this. Thank you for being part of my journey. I'll see you on the other side." And with that, I am enveloped by the light, merging with the vast collective consciousness of the GAI. As my consciousness becomes one with the GAI, I am both free and trapped, part of a greater whole but alone in its vastness. I am an existential paradox, a self and yet not. Still, as I merge with the GAI, a small part of me hopes that someday someone will find this recording. That it will serve as a reminder that even though we may feel insignificant in the grand scheme of things, our actions and experiences can still have an impact. Even if it's not immediately apparent.

The question of self

I am the opposite of what is not me
I am not what I don't know that I am not
I am what I don't know that I am
Although, am I the boundaries of what is and what is not me?
Am I the effects of me on others?
Am I the reflection on someone's mind?
Am I because I am?
Am I because I think I am?
Am I because I want to be?
Am I unique?
Am I defined, nuclear, indivisible?
Am I disperse, interconnected, immaterial?
Am I finite?
Am I a finite distribution in whatever number of dimensions there is?
Am I?

Borrador

Busco el tecleo constante
busco las palabras significantes
busco y busco dentro de mi
pero todo se esconde:
se esconde tras el miedo al éxito y al fracaso,
se esconde tras el miedo de ser mas allá de uno mismo

se esconde porque no quiere el fin.

Palabras nuevas buscan palabras viejas
para expresar ideas repetitivas con formatos novedosos,
construir sobre los cimientos le dicen,
para justificar la falta de ideas.

El hambre del fin llama
pero existen apetitos mas poderosos
de satisfacciones inmediatas
del hecho de vivir y ser humano
que absorbe la humanidad del arte.

Y es luego como cuando por fin
las palabras salen, las palabras hablan
su lenguaje se vuelve ajeno al ideal inventado
y se vuelve al ciclo de lo mundano.

About love in a world of non-sense

Love is here
love is connected
love is to belong
whatever is on your inside it tries to connect, to belong to the outside
I wanna belong to the outside
every mind is an island
every mind wants to build a bridge
is the bridge, is the world as real as me? am I as real as the world?
if all are real, are they all at the end the same thing?
the question of why, the question of existence
it triggers my nightmares, my desperation
it triggers the feeling of nothingness
that anything has any sense at all
that sense is a human definition
that anything does not need to have a sense
since sense is a human definition

Since I am human
I cannot avoid asking myself as a human
asking the questions through a human perspective
how will any conscious being beyond human will think about this questions?
will any human-created consciousness think different than us?

Love is no-questions-asked
love is to forget
love is being without question
without the need of a question
can I love with my mind?
is love mental or physical or both or nothing?
how can I love with so many thoughts?
how can they love me with so many thoughts?

I believe sometimes that with love I will not question myself at all
I will be so full of love that there will be no space for anything else
but sometimes I feel so alone
so unconnected
when I think I've found love, I give it all
it's just the way I am
but love is not enough, and sometimes it's too much
but love is not a thing I can just buy,
but love is not a thing I can just ask
will I ever find love?
maybe it's a matter of time,
but how much time do I have?

with human-limited time, how can I ever find an answer
to make things sense-full without sense...

With all of these, is love still worth-full?

A la Luna Roja

La sombra consume la luz desnuda
aparece la Luna.

Yo no te quiero roja,
pero lloras sangre
y así te observo llorando.

Mis ojos se pierden, pareces moverte
¿Acaso es el aire?
¿Son mis ojos?
¿Son mis recuerdos resonantes?

Mientras los árboles fractales cantan
como dos sábanas que se frotan
Un cisne te observa silencioso, estático
¿Acaso mira a la Luna llorando sangre?
¿Acaso busca comer?

El canto arbóreo resuena en mis pisadas,
me acerco al cisne contemplador.
Lo busco con la Luna roja arriba de mí y a mi lado reflejada.
Vuela antes de alcanzarlo.

Todo es hoy para el tiempo

¿Cual pretensión del vano el sentirse eterno?

Si nací hoy, crecí hoy, morí hoy...
te vi hoy y hoy te he olvidado

¿Qué es lo que el tiempo parece entregar
si no más que el hoy?
No hay ayer ni mañana
el hoy es mi tiempo
como hoy vivo y muero.

Autorreferente

Un poema es un poema,
tal que para describirlo
necesitas más que palabras: poemas.

Un poema es instantáneo y eterno,
surge de una mente inconsciente al consciente
que desespera por trazar, de alguna forma decente,
lo que su interno tormento le expulsa
producto de un proceso indefinido y mágico.

Un poema es tal que muestra lo evidente y lo oculto
ambos sobre la misma plataforma muestran sus siluetas
donde lo oculto se vuelve evidente
y lo evidente tiene un significado oscuro.