Something like this does not happen in the capital city located on the rivers of the Plate, a place where when we look to the east, we are looking at the vast ocean that, even while it still separate us from the world, it shows that it is the only separation, that is, if we could only cross the ocean, we would be in the world.

In the same place, just above the water on the big city, you can find the biggest skies.

The large concentrations of people and their settlements, in some way allows to measure the dimensions of the sky that complements the chaos with harmony.



And when the hill began its downward slope, if only we could go without falling, we would be flying over the streets with nothing to stop us on our way to the rest of the world, we would be communicated.



From here, where streets are narrow and the sky is small, it takes hours until we reach another population, which will only lead to another and another, always away from the world, always close to us.



Maybe I'm just looking to get away from myself ...



And one imagines that in other places, people will be different, that the miseries which surround us here are not ubiquitous there, in the same way that one imagines that there will be others without the miseries that we carry ourselves.



Suddenly, everything becomes an introspective journey. Where we are trying to anticipate what that somehow brings death, the depersonalization of the subject, the meeting with the whole, the person losing the unit becomes part of that other great unity. The disintegration, the transmigration to other substances, the reconfiguration of space and its complement.



The time itself is lost with the person and do not care if it happened a thousand years or minutes ago, if it happened to us or who knows what. All these experiences are not going anywhere, or perhaps to some collective memory, where as always lose some detail and create other imaginary.



And once past our time, we will not know if things happened to us, or whether they were illusions created by the mind itself, and a clover found in a book will make us rely on the accuracy of the past, but we can not be sure, maybe the clover belonged to someone else and we only end up finding it, so we can recreate memories that do not belong to us, so as not belong to anyone else.



And to find a captured image of our own person in the past, will not return us to that moment, we are not what we see there, but some other person who existed at the time, but was destroyed and rebuilt many times later. Not even a single cell of our body shall be common to the person we see in that picture, all our personal settings were renewed million times since then.



And the person looking at that picture, now it's gone.

Once again, the time showing its paradoxes, leaving exposed the unreality of the being.

In the past I have seen repeatedly those cartographic maps that gives fairly accurately the actual dimensions of the town, but even so, the distances become inaccurate when one runs through on foot.



The town has lost much of its original architecture, cobblestone streets and almost no more houses with high ceilings. The houses are crowded block after block without interruption, but without taking flight in the vast majority.

However, every now and then appears an old house, i'm talking about those who have a colonial style, with tall doors, windows and ceilings, just one floor and the front decorated with a minimal touch of Baroque style.

When I meet with these houses, almost immediately, the mind seems to take off in retrospect as if it could glimpse the primeval configuration of the village.



The village seems to have been born from a path. Along that path now imaginary, are located surviving colonial houses, some crumbling, others restored or preserved, all rise with the same pride they had in their younger days.



Colonial houses intermingled with all devoid of beauty, more recent constructions.



The survival of these colonial houses is as allegorical as real, the high social class people that once inhabited them, are the same as those living today. Landowners and Ranchers, retain their colonial palaces, while the few industrialists were those who brought more efficient and economical materials and their related architectures.

The houses themselves, seem to breathe the spirit of village society.



As a vertebral mountain arises the row of power, sustained from the vicinity, all around, but below, those who yearn to take their place or simply serve them.

More distant, lower, many more, the rest, those who are longing to be close, but do not belong and never will.



The foregoing describes a pyramid structure. This structure is very solid indeed, the question is, who wants to be on the floor below? Who decides who goes down and who's going up?



Enough for today.

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