Flatiron, les Punxes & _________

There is something about a building in that specific end of the urban grid that makes it unique. It was on my dream today. Again. A building like that. As if remainding me that I must aknowledge a path in which situations evolve at a certain pace, that eventually end up in that specific space. I know what the dream is trying to do. Huh… I know. It’s convinced, like me, that there is somthing there to chase, to dream for, in a near future development that requires my play to evolve into that.

What’s my job? I’ve got one now. One of those that comes with a pay at the end of the month, and holidays, and your own business time, as if sometimes you need to explore especial situations that require your time-space, and you need to leave your post. You have those kinds of rights. A sort of union job, even if it’s just a temporary thing. The illusion of sustained future. Alas, I’m out of the pit.

I’ve been drawn to this building for a long time. It was one of those things that I spotted on the map the first time I came to this city. As if there was something to do: to walk along the buildings that make up for a local architecture. A place to be, in public space, that allows you to cherish the moment. Explorers tend to do that, and that’s why when you find yourself in the internet the first thing you’ve got to look for is a navigator. To explore. To embark in a safari, or to be a firefox wondering around searching for your own pokemon chrome. To surf the web, as if you are a daring a surfer. The quest of living on the edge. The path of communications. The futurenow.

I’ve come to terms with myself. I’ve accepted the revolution taking place in my head is just myself of feeling outside the box. Like death taking place in this social scenario. Like the pandemic of a social decay, more that a real health issue: the mental one. I’m mental. That’s the deal. A deal I have to cope with. I know. Other mental dwellers know about it, and face it with a dignity of mental people. Have listen to the sound of mental? Mental is the nicest sound in the English language, if you are comming from the island. It’s like Man Island. I’ve somehow hooked to the idea of a singularity happening to me. A man thing. A golman thing. It’s personal. It’s mental.

So… So I’m searching for chimera. Or utopia. Better yet, the dream has taken me here. And I must go about my business. Life is not what happens over the weekend. It’s what happens to people in a Pandemia. Reclusion. Tight spaces. Unsettleness. Uneasyness. Floating in the waters of despair, searching for hope. Hope is my utopia. It’s my driver. My social enabler. I’m hooked to the idea of prosperity in a social environment that has not unleashed quite yet. It is still cooking in my head. Like a possibility to allocate the future in a safe place. The sustainability of the social transformation that requires our mind shift. As a whole. They way complex systems go about.

I am here to do the supporting role of a play I’ve witness out there. I’m just a poet with a pen, writting away in a notebook what ought to be the next delivery of a glimpse into our inwardly rise. A place insde my being is beating with chords of a song that unleashes the shadows of our doubts. It keeps popping in my head. Like a roller coaster within my system. The first one I’m bound to: my body-soul system. Like a chuck box.

A storage dream to take along a mission to explore. The world inside a building that hides the ends of a new entire system. The transformation pattern of our desire. A new city evolving from the dust in which the reborn are awakening at last.

That’s this new building in my dream. This is the dream within my building. The chuck box in my quest. I’m ready to fill in the blanks. I am just connecting the dots. The dream is still on. The quest is just beginning. The vision of the New world is here, in this city, in this building that englobes the entirerity of…