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

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. A glance at the street suffices: most cars are white, grey, or black. Why? Because choosing colour, it seems, is now considered a burden. Politics follows the same anaemic script, reduced to a counterfeit dichotomy — left or right, male or female, wealthy or poor. Everything, it appears, must be rendered in black and white.

Communication, too, has regressed in curious ways. Though free video calls are readily available, most people default to text messages. We have, in effect, returned to a digital telegraph: curt lines flung across glowing screens. And should one dare to send a voice note —heaven forbid it be lengthy!— for the recipient will likely play it at double speed, as though even the human voice has been demoted to a mere administrative chore.

As for knowledge, the search is no longer among people. Today, any doubt is swiftly answered by some artificial intelligence model. Wisdom has been distilled into code; the teacher transfigured into an algorithm.

And what, one asks, endures? Hypocrisy. Not merely of the social or domestic variety, but the sentimental as well. Disguise remains acceptable —indeed, celebrated. Many couples choose to harbour clandestine companions, as though secrecy were a legitimate release, a valve against routine, an antidote to the erosion of passion.

Thus society legitimises the behaviour of those who proclaim “I love you” only beyond closed doors. Families, in the name of stability, transform betrayal into a Pyrrhic victory: an escape, cleverly painted over, dressed as politically correct, all within the framework of the necessary monogamy which still props up the ideal of the traditional family.

◇ Over 12,950 posts are available at http://pablomera.blogspot.com

I also read letters sent to tromp@hotmail.com

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 Mera a.k.a. Pablo E.M.G, and some friends call me "trompo." I follow Metallica and Oasis, I am a rugby player, my blood is A+, and I stutter, and none of the above will ever change.

I have chosen to construct a stable, pleasant future, full of gentle pauses and joyful discoveries. Not because the world has promised it to me, but because I have desired it enough to make it so.

Pure stoicism, with its cult of endurance, has not saved me. Nor has the draconian, with its cult of punishment. Not me, nor those whom I hold dear.

Stiglitz said that the financial level of the 99% does not change. And perhaps he is right. But I maintain that there is a crack in that statistic, a margin where the improbable blossoms. Therein resides the strength of desire, the faith that asks no permission, and the daily miracle of continuing to believe in the impossible.

For though the system was not designed for me, I, in fact, was designed for hope.

Pablo Mera

◇ There are 12,950+ posts available at http://pablomera.blogspot.com

and I read emails sent to mailto:tromp@hotmail.com

• Pablo E.M.G. is the artistic name of Pablo Mera ,a man who has lived many lives in one. Born in Montevideo and shaped in Asunción, he has been an entrepreneur, cultural curator, soul DJ, keen observer of human nature, and emotional architect of language. Today, he writes, reflects, and creates from the threshold between memory and desire.

His work — be it in words, music, or thought — delves into the subtleties of human behaviour, the unseen forces that shape the tangible world, and the quiet beauty found in contradiction. With an urban sensitivity and a cosmopolitan spirit, Pablo E-M weaves past, future, and the miraculous into each phrase he pens and every idea he sets free.

He believes in what cannot be seen, but can be felt.

And in that which goes unspoken, yet moves the world.

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 prevailing commandments of our time. It’s a generational affliction, a mental straightjacket woven from well-worn platitudes: "Boys don't cry," "Girls are this, girls are that." Life, utterly and brutally simplified. But that simplicity, you see, was nothing short of devastating.

It was, of course, far easier not to think. Absolutely. Especially for those of us who came of age in an era where certain questions were strictly verboten, and obedience was the order of the day.

Then, one day, with the passing of time, a dreadful realisation dawned upon us: "What if everything we've been told is a complete and utter lie?" Some of us managed to reboot. Others, sadly, remain trapped in an inescapable labyrinth of these inherited mandates, clutching onto a life that isn't quite real.

As Mariano José de Larra so astutely put it: "The heart of man needs to believe something, and it believes lies when it finds no truths to believe."

And so, mental health became just another taboo—another item on the endless list of tools used to manipulate us. Because if you think, if you question, if you dare to feel pain... well, you're just a bother, aren't you?

We dutifully honoured the philosophies of our elders because "one simply must obey." Fathers, grandfathers, priests, vicars, professors... If they were alive today, if they had to face the dizzying complexity of this world, they wouldn't have a clue where to begin.

Yet, the record plays on repeat: "Boys don't cry, girls are such and such." And so, many choose ignorance, others numb themselves with drink and drugs, and those who think too much find themselves drowning in their own mental tempest.

Because, at the end of the day, the command remains the same: DON'T THINK.

My name is Pablo Mera—Pablo E.M.G to the Anglophone world—and some chums call me "trompo." I'm rather fond of Metallica and Oasis, I play rugby, I'm A+, and I stutter, and none of the above is ever going to change.

◇ There are 12,950+ posts available at http://pablomera.blogspot.com

and I read emails sent to mailto:

mailto:tromp@tromp@hotmail.com

• Pablo E-M is the artistic name of Pablo Mera ,a man who has lived many lives in one. Born in Montevideo and shaped in Asunción, he has been an entrepreneur, cultural curator, soul DJ, keen observer of human nature, and emotional architect of language. Today, he writes, reflects, and creates from the threshold between memory and desire.

His work — be it in words, music, or thought — delves into the subtleties of human behaviour, the unseen forces that shape the tangible world, and the quiet beauty found in contradiction. With an urban sensitivity and a cosmopolitan spirit, Pablo E-M weaves past, future, and the miraculous into each phrase he pens and every idea he sets free.

He believes in what cannot be seen, but can be felt.

And in that which goes unspoken, yet moves the world.

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 reach standards designed to be utterly unattainable.

But this didn’t begin with the Internet, oh no.

Back in the '70s and '80s, long before Wi-Fi and Instagram filters, the television series Little House on the Prairie was peddling a fantasy just as toxic: the ideal family of Charles and Laura Ingalls, eternal love, the exemplary father, and the obedient mother. Its script, as simplistic as the Westerns that influenced our grandparents, was an emotional blueprint for an entire generation. Sweet, yes... but lethal.

Because in that perfect postcard, so many of us felt we were outside the frame, impure, mistaken, incomplete.

And that, my dear reader, is where the great disconnection began.

Today, all of that still vibrates, only multiplied tenfold. Social media—which are neither social nor truly networks—have woven an invisible and sticky web where the real, the imagined, and the fake are all tangled up. Many of us live there, dancing on a stage of hypocrisy, pretending that everything is perfectly fine while being devoured by the hunger to be someone else.

And thus, the intangible—the image, the appearance, the empty promise—continues to have a brutal effect on the tangible: the body, mental health, our choices, our very lives.

And without us even noticing, happiness has become a private spectacle that no one truly feels, but everyone applauds.

My name is Pablo Mera—Pablo E.M.G to the Anglophone world—and some chums call me "trompo." I'm rather fond of Metallica and Oasis, I play rugby, I'm A+, and I stutter, and none of the above is ever going to change.

◇ There are 12,950+ posts available at http://pablomera.blogspot.com

and I read emails sent to mailto:

mailto:tromp@tromp@hotmail.com

• Pablo E-M is the artistic name of Pablo Mera ,a man who has lived many lives in one. Born in Montevideo and shaped in Asunción, he has been an entrepreneur, cultural curator, soul DJ, keen observer of human nature, and emotional architect of language. Today, he writes, reflects, and creates from the threshold between memory and desire.

His work — be it in words, music, or thought — delves into the subtleties of human behaviour, the unseen forces that shape the tangible world, and the quiet beauty found in contradiction. With an urban sensitivity and a cosmopolitan spirit, Pablo E-M weaves past, future, and the miraculous into each phrase he pens and every idea he sets free.

He believes in what cannot be seen, but can be felt.

And in that which goes unspoken, yet moves the world.

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 time that no longer exists. We cling to a fashion, a rhythm, an ideology like castaways from our own history, unable to release that floating piece of driftwood, even when it's utterly riddled with termites.

And that, you see, is where forgetting appears not as an adversary, but as an emergency exit. A sort of merciful amnesia, a slow anaesthetic for the soul. The only non-surgical door out of the labyrinth of perpetual resignation.

I believe the secret, then, is to live as well as possible with what we're given, to give thanks even through gritted teeth, and to look forward… and upward. For on the day we must depart—as I understand is the case—death will arrive like someone who's been waiting for us for a long time. It will take us from one state to another without us barely noticing. Without a sound. Without any prior warning.

The pain or the relief, in any case, will linger for a while—just for a brief moment—in the memories of the few who are still alive... and happen to remember us.

My name is Pablo Mera . I love Metallica and Oasis, I'm a rugby player, A+ blood type and a stutterer, and none of that is ever going to change.

◇ There are 12,950+ posts available at http://pablomera.blogspot.com

and I read emails sent to mailto:

mailto:tromp@hotmail.com

* Pablo E.M.G is the artistic name of Pablo Mera ,a man who has lived many lives in one. Born in Montevideo and shaped in Asunción, he has been an entrepreneur, cultural curator, soul DJ, keen observer of human nature, and emotional architect of language. Today, he writes, reflects, and creates from the threshold between memory and desire.

His work — be it in words, music, or thought — delves into the subtleties of human behaviour, the unseen forces that shape the tangible world, and the quiet beauty found in contradiction. With an urban sensitivity and a cosmopolitan spirit, Pablo E-M weaves past, future, and the miraculous into each phrase he pens and every idea he sets free.

He believes in what cannot be seen, but can be felt.

And in that which goes unspoken, yet moves the world.