Seeing the unseen and moving on - The Lucid Misfit's Handbook - by Pablo E.M.G

Football (soccer) remains one of the last true sanctuaries of meritocracy.

There, no narrative can save you. It does not matter whether the best team wins or loses, because if you are poor… you do not play. If you are unfit for purpose… you watch from the sidelines.

No solemnity can conceal a mistake, no title can excuse mediocrity. The body speaks. And it speaks plainly.

The same applies to other sports, regardless of the size or shape of the ball, but football is the king.

What happens in political power is a...

How simple it would be, would it not, to remain blissfully unaware of things.

To carry on regardless. To flee into the safe havens of traditional escapisms. Yet alas, such a path is not mine to tread. I lack the capacity to turn a blind eye to what unfolds before me.

Neither do I claim to possess the ultimate truth in all that I think or say. But I am keenly aware of this: we are living through a bellicose moment in history, a time when two major wars...

I remember quite vividly attending the premiere of Star Wars: Episode IV – A New Hope back in 1977.It was screened in one of those grand old cinemas, the kind that seated two thousand souls, majestic halls that scarcely exist today. The queue stretched endlessly, with unfortunate stragglers left outside. One had to arrive early, line up with patience, and wait one’s turn to enter.So much has been lost, for nowadays the cinema has migrated into our very homes. Films and series are consumed at will—on demand, streaming, summoned at the mere press of a button. It was no...

We now inhabit a world in which the artificial has quietly supplanted the real.

Almost without noticing, we have relinquished the habit of physical presence: of sitting together at a table, of looking one another in the eye, of sustaining a conversation that lasts longer than four fleeting seconds. This is not a lamentation, but merely an observation of the age in which we are compelled to live.

And so, uncertainty grips me. How does one board this train that hurtles forward at bewildering speed? For if we fail...

"Why is the moon so lonely?"... Because she used to have a lover...His name was Kuekuatsheu and they lived in the Spirit World together...And every night, they would wander the skies together, but one of the othe spirits was jealous.

Trickster wanted the moon for himself, so he told Kuekuatsheu that the moon has asked for flowers. He told him to come to our world and pick her some wild roses, but Kuekuatsheu, taking the shape of a dog, didn't know that once you leave the Spirit World, you...

Seventeen years ago, three years after I had ceased to share a roof with her and her siblings, my eldest daughter, Agustina, turned fifteen.

I was not there. I was not invited.

Just a few days ago, Valentina, my youngest daughter, was married.

I was not there either.

I was not invited either.

Between those two moments—the fifteenth birthday of one, and the wedding of the other—ther...

The Return of the Telegraph and the Simplified Society

Season 2 · Episode 1

I am Pablo Mera —or Pablo E.M.G. to the English-speaking world— though some friends still affectionately call me Trompo. At heart, I am a rugby man, blood type A+, and a fervent admirer of Metallica and Oasis. My podcasts, as ever, can be found on all major platforms.

We live in an era which, rather than expanding our horizons, seems increasingly intent on narrowing the life of the mind...

The Architecture of a Happy Destiny

Life has led me to believe.

Not in rigid dogma or exact formulae, but in the good, the miraculous, the unexpected that plants itself amidst the chaos with the face of possibility.

I have learnt that, much like one's country or religion are personal constructs shared amongst those who also choose to believe, so too is a happy destiny an intimate architecture, built brick by brick with desire, with sorrow, with faith.

My name is Pablo...

I'm Pablo E.M.G a.k.a. Pablo Mera and some chums call me "trompo". A bit of an odd duck, I suppose—a stutterer with A+ blood, a rugger man who loves Metallica and Oasis, and not a single one of those things is about to change.

The following text is a reflection on the subtle tyranny of our upbringing, a kind of inherited intellectual chloroform. It’s a bit of a personal one, so bear with me.

We've been utterly bamboozled by the prev...

Today, ego and comparison govern the lives of several generations, on Earth as it is in the Matrix. They are the new invisible forces: a religion with no gods, yet with algorithms.

Ego—that digital cocaine we snort with every scroll—has us addicted to vapid validation, to the desperate need to appear beautiful, happy, and successful in the treacherous mirror of social media. And comparison, that shadow constantly whispering, "look what the other chap has," pushes so many into reckless decisions, into running races with no finish line, into attempting to r...

If we dare—even for a moment—to step into the protagonist's shoes, I sometimes find myself convinced that certain cognitive ailments aren't a curse, but a sophisticated prize that evolution, in its obscure wisdom, bestows upon us.

A keen memory, once one reaches a certain stage in life, can become a rather elegant trap. For memories never arrive alone: they're bound by thick threads to emotions, and those aren't always sweet. Some memories burst open like rusty tins; others fester with unbidden nostalgia. Thus, almost without warning, we become prisoners in a...

My name is Pablo Mera

I'm a rugby man, blood group A+, a stutterer, and a great admirer of both Metallica and Oasis. None of this is likely to change.

In my time, I've had my share of successes, but I have also, I'm afraid, committed nearly every mistake imaginable. This is precisely why I write: so that some small part of what I have learned, through countless stumbles, might serve another soul. Or, at the very least, to serve as a record that one can...

The Lucid Misfit's Handbook

One doesn't partake, you see, in the usual trifles: no smoking, no tippling, no illicit substances. Nor does one seek refuge in the raucous clamour of football, or dissolve into those bellowing throngs, all to paper over some existential void. The latest gadget? Utterly beside the point. Catalogued "experiences"? One finds them rather… vulgar. One takes care of oneself, of course. Not out of some tiresome moralistic bent, but purely, you understand, for self-preservation.

My singular indulgence — if one must insist on having one — is to think. To read. To doubt. To inv...