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 to embark, we risk being cast adrift, excluded from the whole.

And should we decline to consume what is being consumed today, then we must invent a parallel universe —an existential VPN, if you will— a world within a world, simply to survive the one that rushes past and over us.

The bombardment of information is relentless. Meta-analyses gather together thousands of studies —an achievement inconceivable a century ago— bringing forth remarkable advances, yes, but also an unrelenting mental exhaustion. This avalanche drives us towards escapism: at times physical, but most often digital.

Thus emerge the four-second fragments of content, for even five seconds now seem intolerable. Messages, if too long, are left unread. Voice notes, if they exceed a minute, are consumed at double speed —their tones distorted into false voices, as contrived as avatars, as hollow as the artificial intelligence that mimics humanity without its flaws, without its hesitations, without the rough and stuttering truth of an authentic voice.

Artificiality seeps into everything. Faces filtered into unreality. Fashions that unite, yet in the same breath divide. Intelligence branded as “artificial” while the natural appears to fade.

And here am I, amidst it all, possessed of an intact memory, rich with recollections, brimming with gifts I long to bestow. Yet I find myself the victim of ageism. I have so much to offer, and yet, at times, I feel pushed aside, left trailing by the relentless velocity of the modern world.

This, then, is why this podcast exists. It is born of necessity. I shall speak plainly: I need to feel useful.

If but one person listens, if one soul takes these words and claims them as their own, and someday tells me so, it shall suffice.

It may be my children —from whom I have long been estranged, for reasons I still cannot grasp.

It may be someone I once harmed, unwittingly, and for whom I never found the moment to make amends. I carry that weight within me, and I ask the universe —God, or the force that propels me onwards— to grant me time. Time to prove, through deed rather than word, that I can repair what was once broken.

I am Pablo Mera —or Pablo E.M.G. to the English-speaking world— though some friends still call me “Trompo”. A rugger at heart, blood type A+, a devotee of Metallica and Oasis.

This is my space: The Manual of the Lucid Misfit. My words, as ever, are available on every platform.

Thank you for the gift of your time.

I have written more than 12,950 posts, all to be found at http://pablomera.blogspot.com.

And should you wish to write to me, here I am: mailto:tromp@hotmail.com.

"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 can never go back. And every night, he looks up in the sky and sees the moon and howls her name. But - he can never touch her again. "She added that Kuekuatsheu meant "the wolverine."

..to this day the beasts of the earth still cry to the moon baying out their sorrows to their love of whom is now intangible"

From an Innu Leyend

The Innu were one of the first North American peoples to encounter European explorers.

I have come to understand something recently—something deceptively simple, yet as searing as a naked truth: we all carry sorrowful stories. It matters little what fortune has smiled—or frowned—upon us; life always conceals a corner of shadows.

I am Pablo Mera, or Pablo E.M.G. to the English-speaking world—though a few old friends still call me “Trompo.” I adore Metallica and Oasis, I am a rugger at heart, blood type A+, and my podcasts can be found across every platform.

Darkness, I have discovered, is no fleeting spectre; it is a silent hound that follows us everywhere. We fancy, at times, that we have outrun it—but when we turn the corner, there it is, waiting faithfully. For, in truth, it belongs to us.

The digital realm—that mirage of endless connections—invites us to believe that an army of algorithms might offer refuge, conjure answers, dispense technological comfort to questions we cannot even articulate. And yet, loneliness remains—patient, unwavering, true to its nature.

Ignorance and loneliness… sisters in silence. Ignorance shields you so long as you remain unaware of what you do not know; loneliness, so long as you still have someone to whom you may whisper your reasons.

The cure, if such a thing exists, may be as unadorned as learning to sit at table with oneself. To converse with our own ideas, to wrestle with our feelings, even when they appear as adversaries. Meanwhile, we seek our diversions: the forbidden—drink, narcotics, gambling; and the sanctified—sporting fanaticism, religious fervour, the bacchanalia of Black Friday, or even the labour that consumes us. All in the desperate hope of escaping the most daunting conversation of all: the one with ourselves.

For the unvarnished truth is this: until the cure arrives, the commonest sedative is simply not to think. Yet one cannot cease thinking whilst forever fleeing from oneself.

Perhaps the great lesson is this: to teach our children how to spend time in their own company, to endure that seemingly unbearable boredom and transform it into fertile ground. This is not a sentence of solitude, but an invitation to savour the art of one’s own presence. For if we should ever grow weary of ourselves, we imperil our very self-worth—and that is a price no one should be asked to pay.

I have published over 12,950 posts upon my blog: pablomera.blogspot.com.

You may write to me at tromp@hotmail.com.

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—there stretched a desert: I was never part of any of the milestones in the lives of my four children. Not a single one.

I am Pablo Mera. Pablo E.M.G. for the English-speaking world. Some friends still call me “Trompo.” I love Metallica and Oasis; I was once a rugbier, I am A+ blood, and my podcasts are available on every platform.

I am not perfect—far from it. Yet I can stand tall and say this: I do not drink, I do not smoke, I do not take substances, and I have never been, nor will I ever be, an instrument of domestic violence. I believe myself to be a good man, a loving father, a faithful friend. And Vani, my wife of more than fifteen years, confirms it each day with her unwavering love.

So then… why?

Why was I shut out of my children’s lives?

My conclusion—painful, bitter, but inevitable—is this: it has everything to do with what it means to “be someone” in our society.

If you no longer possess the money to sustain the lifestyle you once had—even if you work with dignity—you are deemed a disaster.

If you have just enough but lack a conventional job, you are a kept man.

If you lack both money and a “proper” job, you are dismissed as idle.

And if life suddenly grants you a stroke of fortune through some unorthodox venture, you will surely be branded a swindler… or a drug trafficker.

I was called both.

The first time was in the 1990s, when an old rugby friend visited my home in Paraguay and could not believe the way I lived.

The second… the second shattered me, for it came from someone I had seen come into this world.

I was also branded a swindler. More than once.

But here lies the irony: for people to truly believe you are a trafficker or a fraudster, you must be wealthy. Extremely wealthy.

If you are not, you are simply a failure.

I am not infallible; I have never been close to it. Yet I have never harboured the will to harm another soul.

This I learnt the hard way:

Money, when abundant, buys forgiveness.

It forgives you for being a trafficker, for being a swindler, for being a bad father, a bad husband, a poor excuse of a man.

But the absence of money is never forgiven.

That temporary poverty turns into a permanent sentence.

Until—should you ever succeed again—they forgive you once more… only to call you a trafficker or a swindler all over again.

And yet, life is astonishing when it brings together two people scarred by the same wound, and shapes them into a couple brimming with love and joy in spite of it all.

This episode continues in spanish with Episode 6 of Season 2, voiced by my wife, Vanina Vergara . please visit https://bit.ly/4fmf5qM

It is, without doubt, the most precise description I have ever heard to this day.

I hope it may be of use to someone else.

◇ There are 12,950+ posts available at:

http://pablomera.blogspot.com

and I do read the letters mailto:tromp@hotmail.com