(s)triptych : [carlos vélez]

Carlos Vélez
Secrets… Well, even though bottling emotions is a talent I do indeed recognize, Idon’t feel that keeping certain traits or thought processes hidden from others form part of my integrity as an individual. That being said, could I be lying to myself in saying this? 

What are, in reality, secrets? 

Are they necessary? 

Are they inevitable due to the sameinevitability of this life? 

Do I actually have various secrets just waiting to be splurgedout at any given moment, or at any particular moment, without my consent? 

Yes. Without my consent. Secrets have a way of giving themselves out in moments undeniably critical for a human being. 

Hey, there are even times when those around you know more about you than you know about yourself. Fascinating, huh? I wouldn’t be surprised. C’est la vie? Enough with the metaphysical bullshit; I’d rather just frolic around the complexities of circumstances, embedded in the details and in the re-discoveries. It’s fun, trust me! And regarding complexities, I’m a pretty simply simple guy. I have dreams and ambitions like everyone else. 

I reside in a relatively modest household, with relatively normal hobbies, with a relatively questionable sense of humor (I’d die for some slapstickcom right now). At the end of the day, I am genuinely nice and humble, even if my bulky appearance says otherwise. I’m a PLUSH of bearded sunshine. 

And speaking of the bulk and the beard: Masculinity is pretty damn fragile. 

I mean, I’ve no shame in donning freshly painted nails, as well as wearing bomb-ass floral pattern clothing. But of course, shun the faggot even if it is completely unrelated, right?   


Bueno, seguimoj.

What about me is intriguing… I am not exactly delighted with my name. CarlosVélez; because nothing screams mundanity more than Carlos Vélez. Especially considering the fact that such name comes from a 90’s soap opera [citations needed].Soap opera, heh, fuck my life. Unbeknownst to most, I have a slight interest in researching about serial killers (‘relatively normal hobbies’? Bullshit), and to the surprise of many people, I am not that into video games (take that, masculinity). I’m really not sure if it’s wise keeping up with these random acts of myself (fun facts: I love me some fun facts). 

Probably not- PROBABLY. Not. 

Though I would like to add that something not much known about me (though it is not because I intentionally keep it as a secret, but because I am simply not vocal about it) is the fact that I love writing poetry, and I’d like to think I’m pretty damn good at it. Funny thing is, how those close to me tend to find my writings as dark, melancholic, and somber. I don’t know; I find writing about such topics actually comforting, regardless if my sentiments are fitting or not. Plus, I do believe that there are a variety of themes and messages that can be conveyed through those types of emotions; the flexibility is there, no doubt. See, poetry is like a secret; even though its nature is that of the unknown, of the rawness, and of the corners not perceived by everyone, there is a certain beauty attached to it; a beauty that ultimately guarantees not only comfort, a sense of realness of the self, a sense of identity, a sense o-did I just use the concept of secret to bring forth a comparative analysis? Ahh, I’m talking about the concept of secret and its implications again, aren’t I? 



A mischievous silhouette hidden by a veil of gospel, Zelen Dward is surely awalking paradox. A childhood driven by faith, he holds the figure of God as a catalystfor his interest in obtaining power. With the heart of metropolitan showmanship, Zelensails through troubled seas as his conquest of control, dominance, and desires, sharpens.

Alright. You see no viable purpose in listing ‘criminal’ acts you have committedthroughout your life… Of course, the shit you might get into! 

Well, it is not like you

have committed truly horrible crimes (you know, worthy of huge media coverage). Kidnapping? No. Sexual assault? God forbid! Manslaughter? Hey, we all have morbid thoughts some time in our lives, don’t we? But no; with the presence of God you have had the moral strength of not being lured into these devilish acts. However… You have sinned. Oh, you have sinned and you know it pains you just thinking about it.Deception, treachery, apathy, denial… They’re all there. Man’s deepest, darkest nature not visible by many, inevitably manifested through your soul. And it makes you uncomfortable, no doubt. And you know that it might disappoint God. And you know more than well that God’s disappointment is far, far much worse than any mediacoverage you might get for any hell-bent action.You just keep praying, dear.The dawn is cool and the room is comfortably still. With the touch of frigidhands of this century-old oaken desk, you jot down your thoughts. But how? You ask.How is it possible that you have committed any sinful acts? You start to ponder. Thescream, heightened by the moonlit echoes of the living room plagued by the stench ofyard sale rugs; it starts to resonate with you. A scream so distant, but so familiar. It wasan autumn you won’t quite forget, now can you? Even if the stubbornness in you tries tootherwise. Certainly, how can you forget that distorted scream of your grandfather asyou swayed your way into that bottle of Belgian ale? The same grandfather whoprovided you what is necessary for a shelter of well-being, the same grandfather wholoved you dearly, knowing the precariousness the poor old man was facing through, andyou had the audacity to slowly sell each of his belongings in order to accrue wealth andauthority. And now his whereabouts are unknown, surely being cared for by heavy rainsand busy bystanders. And speaking of gambling; nice catch in cultivating an empire ofinstitutional schemas hardwired in such a way that you always hit that jackpot. You havesavored every bit of it, and you love it.And what is a servant of God without the humiliation towards your very ownbrothers? Yes, your very own brothers. They might not be of your kin, but aren’t we allsons of the almighty God? You relive the fragmented scenes of every shout, every spit, every “coward,”, “piece of shit,” “devil,” “faggot,” and “scum” spawned out of your blessed mouth, every hastened stare given to those you have perceived as lesser.Curious, since you have held various events and charities organized by the very community church you proudly form part of, for the needy, for the marginalized. 

And you instantly wonder about all of the activities the church has made… Jesus, Zelen. Your church clearly had become a brothel of busy profits, a place where men in white gowns interacted in monetary transactions (Come to think of it, this is worthy of newsheadlines!). 

But you’re oblivious, Zelen. “As the waves crash, the clouds roll.”

But no crime is more heinous than that of the disobedience of God, and you fucking know it. Disappointment has instilled on the little peace you had, and this mere fact serves you as a reminder that God is also in you, and if you failed the temple of God, you have failed yourself. Let that be your mantra. Let it speak through your consciousness. God knows what more you have in store for the next ten years. And as the dawn turns to silvery nightfall, you pray yourself to sleep.


Click. Click. Click. Click… Click. Click.

There it is!

The night has fallen onto a deep azure as the leaves rustle their earthly lullabies. The slight rainfall accentuates the leaves’ melodies, spawning out a familiar song keen to the insomniac lairs. Glistened by the moon, the window serves as aport -Godamnit, too cold.

The boy proceeds to close the window. Well, thank you for that, really. And there you are; the uncultured prick unknowledgeable of the most important writing etiquette of all writing etiquettes: Silence. Really, thank you. Moving on. The boy then quickly ponders about an absolutely random memory he had just fetched from the not so cornered corners of the mind, and captures it on the allegorical screen(Trust me on this one; an allegorical screen makes perfect sense. Just picture it as picturing of- ah, forget it). And so, the trance commences.

The memory was that of a serene Saturday in a rustic household of some distant relatives. The sunset announces its departing, and the social commotion had started to diminish, joined by soothing tunes (Thinking about it, if I recall correctly they were The Smith tunes). The few of us that remained gathered together in a contraption reminiscent of World War II vehicles. Don’t ask me why it looked like that. Please. As we mounted inside said contraption, built by the son of one of my relatives, a strange sensation took over my conscience.

All within a second, a contour appears in the peripheral vision of the boy. The contour was certainly indecipherable; its shape was that of a shape never perceived by a human being, its appearance took form of a slight, three-dimensional creature from a fantastical nightmare, yet it showed no harm whatsoever. It was actually charming; interesting, definitely. Weirdly enough, no one else had noticed the contour.Suddenly, as the vehicle strolled through the open valleys, the contour emitted a light that reminded me of that same light at the end of a tunnel, numerously portrayed by cartoons and movies, and, I won’t lie, I was truly captivated by it. I won’t also lie about the fact that the sensation was bizarre, never felt anything like it before. To be honest; I was scared shitless. But it was captivating. Bizarre, but captivating. The feeling was bittersweet, for a lack of better words that has the possibility of synthesizing the conglomerate of feelings that have appeared due to a particular new experience at a particular time in a particular setting with particular characters.

Particular particularities. (Particles?)

Now, imagine the brightness expanding in the horizon. You, an individualwho had found comfort in the tranquility of the mundane, start succumbing intoesoteric landscapes, in a constant vertical loop, much like a film tape rapidlyuncovering fragments of details and memories right in front of your eyes. Spiralinginto madness. Or spiraling into a new beginning? A sudden stench of century oldyard sale rug awakens you. You panic initially. You ask yourself about yourwhereabouts, but manage to stay calm, as an intuitive tackle puts you in a position offamiliarity. You start venturing throughout the place, and as you walk, you hear ascream. The panic appears again, and you start sprinting around the weakened halls.You find yourself with some stairs (it is evident that you’re inside a second-floor

house), and quickly march down towards a living room. The stench of the yard salerug appears again, and on your direction you see an old fellow. His countenance showed signs of genuine grief and despair. The poor old man seemed as if he was longing for something, or someone. And in an instant, his hollowed eyes fixate on yours.

"How are you holding on there, dear?" a worried voice comes out of the void.

The boy looks at the lady, and nods with a smile. The breeze outside wailed a gentle thunder, and the vehicle hums a mechanical melody, giving a hearty rhythm to the drunken choir in the back. Now, I don’t mind drinking as a recreational activity (as long as it is done with moderation), but being submerged into a risky scenario like this (being inside a man-made vehicle with questionable security compartments in the middle of a valley-forest mixture that marries well together with the darkness of the ocean), it is pretty terrifying. But no matter. I’ll just maintain my composure, and I’ll simply continue sightseeing the roadkills and the diverse floras, although not completely visible, sadly.

"Watch out for that hole!"

The organs start playing their resentful tunes, signaling the end of the apologetics sequence and, in turn, the culmination of the activity For a Brother”.You recline at the dampened walls of the altar and witness the success of another fundraiser event as the audience prepares to leave to the comfort of their homes. No doubt that the event had accumulated a healthy amount of profit, you start to think with a grin. The preacher firmly shakes your hand, and you follow him toward the room where the congregation usually gathers. As you sit down to discuss further business, to your left appears a man of slight dark skin with a slight hunchback and what it looked like a limping leg. You start to wonder; he might be looking for something to eat, just like every one of them, or he might actually be looking for salvation, which in that case you might reconsider things. Either way, he is being a disturbance to your moment of accruing glory. You direct yourself to the man and suddenly his gaze transmits a certain memory. Surprisingly picturesque, you wonder.Every sensation active in this moment, as the fireplace denotes a longing coziness, the couches reminiscent of failed conversations, the stairs crooning harvested woes with each angered step taken, and the faded, hardened, century old, yard sa...

"Hey, kid, are you okay over there? The ride just finished, you know. Go along with your parents, it’s helluva late for you to be out here, after all.-\


Fragments of details and memories, no more. 

I know it’s there, but I just can’t seem to recall any of it now, strange. Wait… Ride? 

What ride could he be possibly talking about? Huh, wouldn’t be worth in asking. I’ll just go along with it. Now, about that old fellow…


© 2015 Convergencias Editores. Con tecnología de Blogger.