I was searching through some old mails, looking for an archive I needed, and all of a sudden I came to remember I had this youthful and abandoned blog, thanks to a tumblr mail.
The very first time I posted that entry years ago I didn't think it would be read at all, so I desisted immediately and forgot about it. Now that I check it up again, I've got to recognize that I didn't expect at all that it would gradually become noticed. I apologize, then, to everyone who gave it a read, reposted it, followed and expected more entries.
My intention with this new post is not to announce it's continuation, but to let you know of my other blog in which I do actually post my writings when I'm able to do so:
I have to say, though, that it's of a very different nature than this one, for it mainly focuses on perennialist authors and things related to symbolism, mysticism, music and traditions. It's also worth of notice that the writings are posted in Spanish, since it's my native tongue and I don't really want to sacrifice my ability to form linguistic artifices with it for the sake of difussion or acknowledgement. In any case, if you're not able to read in Spanish, you can translate the whole page and it will give you a good enough translation. On top of that, that new blog is very far from the original purpose of this other one, but I expect and exhort all of you to give it a try and comment, if any of you feels like it.
The change might be abrupt, in a way, but I expose a pair of reasons for it in the following paragraphs.
My first entry here was posted when I was a 17 year old boy obsessed with Deleuze, Nick Land, and all the entire pantheon of accelerationists that I didn't really understand, but wanted to imitate. The next year I joined the career of philosophy, and eversince I've came to acquire a more "aged" or "mature" view on different philosophical topics that make me now reject a lot of things I used to follow or think about the authors I often used to configure my vision of reality.
It is not unusual, moreover, to feel a certain amount of embarrassment about one's older writings or projects; the writers will understand. The sobering experience that reading and writing have imposed on me and punished me with in recent years makes me see the structural clumsiness of my previous style of writing. It's like talking to someone other, yet knowing it's a self that is no more.
Nothing more is for me to say in here.
All of you, inhabitants of the global village, are cordially invited to that other cave or crypt where only silence, ruins, the sacred, dust and ashes are glorified.














