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Desnudo como una 7Up
Cuando camino por la casa, guiado por la memoria de los muebles y el sonido de mis pasos, me pregunto si alguien observa sin que yo lo note. Siempre he sido transparente, sin máscaras, aunque la vida a veces nos obliga a adaptarnos, a encajar. Pero esa adaptación, ¿no es también parte de lo que soy, incluso en la soledad?
¿Experimento de Honestidad?, me sorprendo dándole vueltas a esa pregunta retórica del usuario @marabuzal: “¿Quién eres tú, de verdad, cuando te desnudas?” Un cuestionamiento que hace un par de meses atrás creo haber respondido, con la iniciativa de la amiga @marylink: “¿Cuán recta soy cuando nadie me ve?” Escribo y honro la invitación que me hiciera la amiga @iriswrite en su entrada.
Imagen generada y editada con ayuda de las herramientas Magic Studio y Magic Capture de Canva Pro.
Dicen que el carácter se revela en la soledad, sin testigos. Sin embargo, mi soledad es relativa. Mi discapacidad visual hace que viva con la duda constante de si realmente estoy solo. A unos ocho metros, las caras se vuelven borrosas, los gestos se pierden, y la privacidad se convierte en una ilusión. ¿Qué significa entonces "nadie me mira"? ¿La ausencia de testigos libera nuestra esencia, o es la conciencia de uno mismo la que nunca nos abandona?
Cuando estoy solo, me dejo llevar: un bostezo sin vergüenza, una carcajada, una flatulencia. Son esas pequeñas libertades. Pero también llegan pensamientos que no siempre comparto: errores cometidos, palabras dichas sin filtro, impulsos de la edad. ¿Será que esa transparencia brutal es, en el fondo, una manera de buscarme y perdonarme a mí mismo?
La llegada de mi hijo Matthew abrió una ventana a un cuarto oscuro. Me vi reflejado en su curiosidad, su vocabulario precoz, su manera de cuestionar a sus maestras. Matthew es autista, con sus propias reglas, y en su rebeldía intelectual veo mi propio reflejo. Los hijos nos obligan a mirarnos de nuevo, a reconocernos en gestos y palabras olvidadas.
Imagen de mi propiedad utilizada en otras publicaciones.
¿Cuestionarme…? Me pregunto si la transparencia es una virtud o una carga. Decir lo que pienso sin medir las consecuencias me ha traído tanto satisfacciones como problemas. En ambientes académicos, cambio el vocabulario, adapto los chistes. Es un código social. ¿Eso me hace menos auténtico, o es una versión diferente de mí mismo, ajustada al contexto?
La discapacidad visual me ha enseñado que la percepción es parcial. No veo rostros, pero escucho voces, percibo silencios, siento el ambiente. ¿Quién soy cuando no puedo ver a los demás? Tal vez más yo, sin distracciones de apariencias. Pero también más vulnerable, expuesto a mis propios pensamientos, sin el escudo de la interacción visual.
En la soledad surgen preguntas sin respuesta. ¿Cuánto de lo que soy depende de la mirada ajena? ¿Sería diferente si pudiera leer los gestos de los demás? ¿O la verdadera libertad está en no saber, en moverse guiado por la voz interior?
Me gusta pensar que soy el mismo, pero reconozco que la vida me ha enseñado a modularme. No es hipocresía, es supervivencia social. Como decía Oscar Wilde: "El hombre es menos él mismo cuando habla en su propia persona. Dale una máscara y te dirá la verdad." ¿Será que, en la intimidad, todos usamos alguna máscara, aunque sea la de la sinceridad absoluta?
Imagen generada y editada con ayuda de las herramientas Magic Studio y Magic Capture de Canva Pro.
Matthew me ha enseñado que la autenticidad es desafiante. Su manera de enfrentarse al mundo me recuerda que la honestidad no siempre es cómoda, pero es necesaria. Al criarlo, quizá estoy aprendiendo a aceptar mis propias diferencias, a reconciliarme con las partes de mí que no encajan en los moldes sociales.
En la soledad, los recuerdos se hacen más nítidos. Vuelvo a mi infancia, cuando la transparencia era inocencia. Con el tiempo, aprendí que la honestidad puede doler, que las palabras pesan. ¿He cambiado o solo he aprendido a disfrazar mis impulsos?
A veces me descubro hablando solo, ensayando conversaciones, pidiendo disculpas a ausentes, celebrando victorias secretas. ¿No es ese el verdadero yo, el que se permite sentir sin testigos, el que se enfrenta a sus fantasmas sin miedo al juicio externo?
La discapacidad visual me ha regalado una perspectiva única: la mirada ajena es solo una parte. Hay gestos propios, pensamientos no compartidos, emociones vividas en silencio. ¿Quién soy cuando nadie me ve, cuando me desnudo? Quizás más libre, más auténtico, pero también más vulnerable y consciente de mis limitaciones.
La transparencia, esa cualidad que valoro, es un arma de doble filo. Permite conectar honestamente, pero me expone, me deja sin defensas, como me ha causado problemas en HIVE. ¿Es mejor ser siempre uno mismo, o es necesario protegerse, guardar algo para la intimidad?
Matthew, con su mirada inquisitiva, me recuerda que la autenticidad es un camino. Cada día es una oportunidad para descubrir nuevas facetas, aceptar contradicciones, aprender de errores. ¿Quién soy cuando nadie me ve? Quizás solo un ser humano buscando respuestas, dejando migas para no perderme en la oscuridad como Hansel y Gretel.
Cuando camino por la casa, guiado por la memoria de los muebles y el sonido de mis pasos, me pregunto si alguien observa sin que yo lo note. Siempre he sido transparente, sin máscaras, aunque la vida a veces nos obliga a adaptarnos, a encajar. Pero esa adaptación, ¿no es también parte de lo que soy, incluso en la soledad?
¿Experimento de Honestidad?, me sorprendo dándole vueltas a esa pregunta retórica del usuario @marabuzal: “¿Quién eres tú, de verdad, cuando te desnudas?” Un cuestionamiento que hace un par de meses atrás creo haber respondido, con la iniciativa de la amiga @marylink: “¿Cuán recta soy cuando nadie me ve?” Escribo y honro la invitación que me hiciera la amiga @iriswrite en su entrada.
Imagen generada y editada con ayuda de las herramientas Magic Studio y Magic Capture de Canva Pro.
Dicen que el carácter se revela en la soledad, sin testigos. Sin embargo, mi soledad es relativa. Mi discapacidad visual hace que viva con la duda constante de si realmente estoy solo. A unos ocho metros, las caras se vuelven borrosas, los gestos se pierden, y la privacidad se convierte en una ilusión. ¿Qué significa entonces "nadie me mira"? ¿La ausencia de testigos libera nuestra esencia, o es la conciencia de uno mismo la que nunca nos abandona?
Cuando estoy solo, me dejo llevar: un bostezo sin vergüenza, una carcajada, una flatulencia. Son esas pequeñas libertades. Pero también llegan pensamientos que no siempre comparto: errores cometidos, palabras dichas sin filtro, impulsos de la edad. ¿Será que esa transparencia brutal es, en el fondo, una manera de buscarme y perdonarme a mí mismo?
La llegada de mi hijo Matthew abrió una ventana a un cuarto oscuro. Me vi reflejado en su curiosidad, su vocabulario precoz, su manera de cuestionar a sus maestras. Matthew es autista, con sus propias reglas, y en su rebeldía intelectual veo mi propio reflejo. Los hijos nos obligan a mirarnos de nuevo, a reconocernos en gestos y palabras olvidadas.
Imagen de mi propiedad utilizada en otras publicaciones.
¿Cuestionarme…? Me pregunto si la transparencia es una virtud o una carga. Decir lo que pienso sin medir las consecuencias me ha traído tanto satisfacciones como problemas. En ambientes académicos, cambio el vocabulario, adapto los chistes. Es un código social. ¿Eso me hace menos auténtico, o es una versión diferente de mí mismo, ajustada al contexto?
La discapacidad visual me ha enseñado que la percepción es parcial. No veo rostros, pero escucho voces, percibo silencios, siento el ambiente. ¿Quién soy cuando no puedo ver a los demás? Tal vez más yo, sin distracciones de apariencias. Pero también más vulnerable, expuesto a mis propios pensamientos, sin el escudo de la interacción visual.
En la soledad surgen preguntas sin respuesta. ¿Cuánto de lo que soy depende de la mirada ajena? ¿Sería diferente si pudiera leer los gestos de los demás? ¿O la verdadera libertad está en no saber, en moverse guiado por la voz interior?
Me gusta pensar que soy el mismo, pero reconozco que la vida me ha enseñado a modularme. No es hipocresía, es supervivencia social. Como decía Oscar Wilde: "El hombre es menos él mismo cuando habla en su propia persona. Dale una máscara y te dirá la verdad." ¿Será que, en la intimidad, todos usamos alguna máscara, aunque sea la de la sinceridad absoluta?
Imagen generada y editada con ayuda de las herramientas Magic Studio y Magic Capture de Canva Pro.
Matthew me ha enseñado que la autenticidad es desafiante. Su manera de enfrentarse al mundo me recuerda que la honestidad no siempre es cómoda, pero es necesaria. Al criarlo, quizá estoy aprendiendo a aceptar mis propias diferencias, a reconciliarme con las partes de mí que no encajan en los moldes sociales.
En la soledad, los recuerdos se hacen más nítidos. Vuelvo a mi infancia, cuando la transparencia era inocencia. Con el tiempo, aprendí que la honestidad puede doler, que las palabras pesan. ¿He cambiado o solo he aprendido a disfrazar mis impulsos?
A veces me descubro hablando solo, ensayando conversaciones, pidiendo disculpas a ausentes, celebrando victorias secretas. ¿No es ese el verdadero yo, el que se permite sentir sin testigos, el que se enfrenta a sus fantasmas sin miedo al juicio externo?
La discapacidad visual me ha regalado una perspectiva única: la mirada ajena es solo una parte. Hay gestos propios, pensamientos no compartidos, emociones vividas en silencio. ¿Quién soy cuando nadie me ve, cuando me desnudo? Quizás más libre, más auténtico, pero también más vulnerable y consciente de mis limitaciones.
La transparencia, esa cualidad que valoro, es un arma de doble filo. Permite conectar honestamente, pero me expone, me deja sin defensas, como me ha causado problemas en HIVE. ¿Es mejor ser siempre uno mismo, o es necesario protegerse, guardar algo para la intimidad?
Matthew, con su mirada inquisitiva, me recuerda que la autenticidad es un camino. Cada día es una oportunidad para descubrir nuevas facetas, aceptar contradicciones, aprender de errores. ¿Quién soy cuando nadie me ve? Quizás solo un ser humano buscando respuestas, dejando migas para no perderme en la oscuridad como Hansel y Gretel.
Pues bien, no me queda de otra, sino aprovechar e invitar al amigo @silher y a la amiga @beaescribe, me gustaría conocer sus puntos de vista sobre este amplio tema de nunca acabar.
Portada de la publicación de la iniciativa
Creciendo como persona, busca y encuentra lo que necesitas para ser un mejor humano en la Comunidad Green Zone. De seguro, hay un tema que te llamará la atención.
Banner de la Comunidad Green Zone
Dedicado a todos aquellos que, día a día, hacen del mundo un lugar mejor.
Naked like a 7Up.
As I walk through the house, guided by the memory of the furniture and the sound of my footsteps, I wonder if someone is watching without my noticing. I've always been transparent, without masks, even though life sometimes forces us to adapt, to fit in. But isn't that adaptation also part of who I am, even in solitude?
Experiment of Honesty?, I find myself pondering that rhetorical question from user @marabuzal: “Who are you, really, when you undress?” A question that I believe I answered a couple of months ago, with the initiative of my friend @marylink: “How honest am I when no one is watching?” I write this and honor the invitation extended to me by my friend @iriswrite in her post.
Image generated and edited using Canva Pro's Magic Studio and Magic Capture tools.
They say character is revealed in solitude, without witnesses. However, my solitude is relative. My visual impairment makes me live with the constant doubt of whether I'm truly alone. At about eight meters, faces blur, gestures are lost, and privacy becomes an illusion. What does "no one is watching me" mean, then? Does the absence of witnesses liberate our essence, or is it self-awareness that never leaves us?
When I'm alone, I let myself go: a shameless yawn, a laugh, a fart. These are small freedoms. But thoughts also arise that I don't always share: mistakes made, words spoken without a filter, impulses of youth. Could it be that this brutal transparency is, deep down, a way of searching for and forgiving myself?
The arrival of my son Matthew opened a window into a dark room. I saw myself reflected in his curiosity, his precocious vocabulary, the way he questioned his teachers. Matthew is autistic, with his own rules, and in his intellectual rebellion I see my own reflection. Children force us to look at ourselves again, to recognize ourselves in forgotten gestures and words.
Image owned by me and used in other publications.
Questioning myself…? I wonder if transparency is a virtue or a burden. Saying what I think without considering the consequences has brought me both satisfaction and problems. In academic settings, I change my vocabulary, adapt my jokes. It's a social code. Does that make me less authentic, or is it a different version of myself, adjusted to the context?
Visual impairment has taught me that perception is partial. I don't see faces, but I hear voices, perceive silences, feel the atmosphere. Who am I when I can't see others? Perhaps more myself, without the distractions of appearances. But also more vulnerable, exposed to my own thoughts, without the shield of visual interaction.
In solitude, unanswered questions arise. How much of who I am depends on the gaze of others? Would I be different if I could read other people's gestures? Or is true freedom in not knowing, in moving guided by one's inner voice?
I like to think I'm the same person, but I recognize that life has taught me to modulate myself. It's not hypocrisy, it's social survival. As Oscar Wilde said, "A man is least himself when he speaks in his own person. Give him a mask and he will tell you the truth." Could it be that, in private, we all wear some kind of mask, even if it's the mask of absolute sincerity?
Image generated and edited using Canva Pro's Magic Studio and Magic Capture tools.
Matthew has taught me that authenticity is challenging. His way of facing the world reminds me that honesty isn't always comfortable, but it's necessary. By raising him, perhaps I'm learning to accept my own differences, to reconcile myself with the parts of myself that don't fit into societal molds.
In solitude, memories become clearer. I return to my childhood, when transparency was innocence. Over time, I learned that honesty can hurt, that words carry weight. Have I changed, or have I simply learned to disguise my impulses?
Sometimes I find myself talking to myself, rehearsing conversations, apologizing to those who are absent, celebrating secret victories. Isn't that the real me, the one who allows themselves to feel without witnesses, the one who faces their ghosts without fear of external judgment?
My visual impairment has given me a unique perspective: the gaze of others is only part of it. There are my own gestures, unshared thoughts, emotions lived in silence. Who am I when no one sees me, when I lay myself bare? Perhaps freer, more authentic, but also more vulnerable and aware of my limitations.
Transparency, that quality I value, is a double-edged sword. It allows for honest connection, but it exposes me, leaves me defenseless, as it has caused me problems at HIVE. Is it better to always be oneself, or is it necessary to protect oneself, to keep something for private moments?
Matthew, with his inquisitive gaze, reminds me that authenticity is a journey. Each day is an opportunity to discover new facets, accept contradictions, learn from mistakes. Who am I when no one sees me? Perhaps just a human being searching for answers, leaving breadcrumbs so as not to get lost in the darkness like Hansel and Gretel.
Well, I have no choice but to take advantage of this opportunity and invite my friends @josegilberto and @chironga67. I would like to hear their views on this broad and never-ending topic.
Cover of the initiative.
Growing as a person, seek and find what you need to be a better person in the Green Zone Community. Surely, there's a topic that will catch your attention.
Green Zone Community Banner
🔆+++🔆+++🔆+++🔆+++🔆+++🔆+++🔆+++🔆+++🔆+++🔆
Dedicated to all those who, day after day, make the world a better place.
Dedicado a todos aquellos que, día a día, hacen del mundo un lugar mejor.
Naked like a 7Up.
As I walk through the house, guided by the memory of the furniture and the sound of my footsteps, I wonder if someone is watching without my noticing. I've always been transparent, without masks, even though life sometimes forces us to adapt, to fit in. But isn't that adaptation also part of who I am, even in solitude?
Experiment of Honesty?, I find myself pondering that rhetorical question from user @marabuzal: “Who are you, really, when you undress?” A question that I believe I answered a couple of months ago, with the initiative of my friend @marylink: “How honest am I when no one is watching?” I write this and honor the invitation extended to me by my friend @iriswrite in her post.
Image generated and edited using Canva Pro's Magic Studio and Magic Capture tools.
They say character is revealed in solitude, without witnesses. However, my solitude is relative. My visual impairment makes me live with the constant doubt of whether I'm truly alone. At about eight meters, faces blur, gestures are lost, and privacy becomes an illusion. What does "no one is watching me" mean, then? Does the absence of witnesses liberate our essence, or is it self-awareness that never leaves us?
When I'm alone, I let myself go: a shameless yawn, a laugh, a fart. These are small freedoms. But thoughts also arise that I don't always share: mistakes made, words spoken without a filter, impulses of youth. Could it be that this brutal transparency is, deep down, a way of searching for and forgiving myself?
The arrival of my son Matthew opened a window into a dark room. I saw myself reflected in his curiosity, his precocious vocabulary, the way he questioned his teachers. Matthew is autistic, with his own rules, and in his intellectual rebellion I see my own reflection. Children force us to look at ourselves again, to recognize ourselves in forgotten gestures and words.
Image owned by me and used in other publications.
Questioning myself…? I wonder if transparency is a virtue or a burden. Saying what I think without considering the consequences has brought me both satisfaction and problems. In academic settings, I change my vocabulary, adapt my jokes. It's a social code. Does that make me less authentic, or is it a different version of myself, adjusted to the context?
Visual impairment has taught me that perception is partial. I don't see faces, but I hear voices, perceive silences, feel the atmosphere. Who am I when I can't see others? Perhaps more myself, without the distractions of appearances. But also more vulnerable, exposed to my own thoughts, without the shield of visual interaction.
In solitude, unanswered questions arise. How much of who I am depends on the gaze of others? Would I be different if I could read other people's gestures? Or is true freedom in not knowing, in moving guided by one's inner voice?
I like to think I'm the same person, but I recognize that life has taught me to modulate myself. It's not hypocrisy, it's social survival. As Oscar Wilde said, "A man is least himself when he speaks in his own person. Give him a mask and he will tell you the truth." Could it be that, in private, we all wear some kind of mask, even if it's the mask of absolute sincerity?
Image generated and edited using Canva Pro's Magic Studio and Magic Capture tools.
Matthew has taught me that authenticity is challenging. His way of facing the world reminds me that honesty isn't always comfortable, but it's necessary. By raising him, perhaps I'm learning to accept my own differences, to reconcile myself with the parts of myself that don't fit into societal molds.
In solitude, memories become clearer. I return to my childhood, when transparency was innocence. Over time, I learned that honesty can hurt, that words carry weight. Have I changed, or have I simply learned to disguise my impulses?
Sometimes I find myself talking to myself, rehearsing conversations, apologizing to those who are absent, celebrating secret victories. Isn't that the real me, the one who allows themselves to feel without witnesses, the one who faces their ghosts without fear of external judgment?
My visual impairment has given me a unique perspective: the gaze of others is only part of it. There are my own gestures, unshared thoughts, emotions lived in silence. Who am I when no one sees me, when I lay myself bare? Perhaps freer, more authentic, but also more vulnerable and aware of my limitations.
Transparency, that quality I value, is a double-edged sword. It allows for honest connection, but it exposes me, leaves me defenseless, as it has caused me problems at HIVE. Is it better to always be oneself, or is it necessary to protect oneself, to keep something for private moments?
Matthew, with his inquisitive gaze, reminds me that authenticity is a journey. Each day is an opportunity to discover new facets, accept contradictions, learn from mistakes. Who am I when no one sees me? Perhaps just a human being searching for answers, leaving breadcrumbs so as not to get lost in the darkness like Hansel and Gretel.
As I walk through the house, guided by the memory of the furniture and the sound of my footsteps, I wonder if someone is watching without my noticing. I've always been transparent, without masks, even though life sometimes forces us to adapt, to fit in. But isn't that adaptation also part of who I am, even in solitude?
Experiment of Honesty?, I find myself pondering that rhetorical question from user @marabuzal: “Who are you, really, when you undress?” A question that I believe I answered a couple of months ago, with the initiative of my friend @marylink: “How honest am I when no one is watching?” I write this and honor the invitation extended to me by my friend @iriswrite in her post.
Image generated and edited using Canva Pro's Magic Studio and Magic Capture tools.
They say character is revealed in solitude, without witnesses. However, my solitude is relative. My visual impairment makes me live with the constant doubt of whether I'm truly alone. At about eight meters, faces blur, gestures are lost, and privacy becomes an illusion. What does "no one is watching me" mean, then? Does the absence of witnesses liberate our essence, or is it self-awareness that never leaves us?
When I'm alone, I let myself go: a shameless yawn, a laugh, a fart. These are small freedoms. But thoughts also arise that I don't always share: mistakes made, words spoken without a filter, impulses of youth. Could it be that this brutal transparency is, deep down, a way of searching for and forgiving myself?
The arrival of my son Matthew opened a window into a dark room. I saw myself reflected in his curiosity, his precocious vocabulary, the way he questioned his teachers. Matthew is autistic, with his own rules, and in his intellectual rebellion I see my own reflection. Children force us to look at ourselves again, to recognize ourselves in forgotten gestures and words.
Image owned by me and used in other publications.
Questioning myself…? I wonder if transparency is a virtue or a burden. Saying what I think without considering the consequences has brought me both satisfaction and problems. In academic settings, I change my vocabulary, adapt my jokes. It's a social code. Does that make me less authentic, or is it a different version of myself, adjusted to the context?
Visual impairment has taught me that perception is partial. I don't see faces, but I hear voices, perceive silences, feel the atmosphere. Who am I when I can't see others? Perhaps more myself, without the distractions of appearances. But also more vulnerable, exposed to my own thoughts, without the shield of visual interaction.
In solitude, unanswered questions arise. How much of who I am depends on the gaze of others? Would I be different if I could read other people's gestures? Or is true freedom in not knowing, in moving guided by one's inner voice?
I like to think I'm the same person, but I recognize that life has taught me to modulate myself. It's not hypocrisy, it's social survival. As Oscar Wilde said, "A man is least himself when he speaks in his own person. Give him a mask and he will tell you the truth." Could it be that, in private, we all wear some kind of mask, even if it's the mask of absolute sincerity?
Image generated and edited using Canva Pro's Magic Studio and Magic Capture tools.
Matthew has taught me that authenticity is challenging. His way of facing the world reminds me that honesty isn't always comfortable, but it's necessary. By raising him, perhaps I'm learning to accept my own differences, to reconcile myself with the parts of myself that don't fit into societal molds.
In solitude, memories become clearer. I return to my childhood, when transparency was innocence. Over time, I learned that honesty can hurt, that words carry weight. Have I changed, or have I simply learned to disguise my impulses?
Sometimes I find myself talking to myself, rehearsing conversations, apologizing to those who are absent, celebrating secret victories. Isn't that the real me, the one who allows themselves to feel without witnesses, the one who faces their ghosts without fear of external judgment?
My visual impairment has given me a unique perspective: the gaze of others is only part of it. There are my own gestures, unshared thoughts, emotions lived in silence. Who am I when no one sees me, when I lay myself bare? Perhaps freer, more authentic, but also more vulnerable and aware of my limitations.
Transparency, that quality I value, is a double-edged sword. It allows for honest connection, but it exposes me, leaves me defenseless, as it has caused me problems at HIVE. Is it better to always be oneself, or is it necessary to protect oneself, to keep something for private moments?
Matthew, with his inquisitive gaze, reminds me that authenticity is a journey. Each day is an opportunity to discover new facets, accept contradictions, learn from mistakes. Who am I when no one sees me? Perhaps just a human being searching for answers, leaving breadcrumbs so as not to get lost in the darkness like Hansel and Gretel.
Well, I have no choice but to take advantage of this opportunity and invite my friends @josegilberto and @chironga67. I would like to hear their views on this broad and never-ending topic.
Cover of the initiative.
Growing as a person, seek and find what you need to be a better person in the Green Zone Community. Surely, there's a topic that will catch your attention.
Green Zone Community Banner
Dedicated to all those who, day after day, make the world a better place.
Dedicated to all those who, day after day, make the world a better place.
Es hermoso ver como has creado una especie de dimensión donde equilibras las cosas de tu vida. Éxitos y gracias por acudir