The Desire and Beauty in the Artist Self

Desire. You are our Sun: distant, but warm; the beginning of all that exists and the end of all that we will ever see.

At the beginning, darkness was absolute perfection. There was nothing to discover, until the stars were born, those favourite factories that lit up the Universe. Everything was possible among the galaxies formed by the first travellers from the immeasurable spaces of the Cosmos. However, among that luminous crowd, a question arises for me: Beloved Sun, at what point did you decide to breed us under your care? You had more faith in us than the farmers had in fruit through time.

Without you, we would still be lost dust, meaningless, floating on planets with no purpose. Thousands of stars would have failed in their attempt to conform, to feel what was previously impossible. Because in perfection, having everything, the intention to dream of what is not possessed is denied. We would have returned to the age of darkness. Perfect, but absent.

Would the stars have cared that their matter could never produce dreams? That would be a counterfactual story, 'what if?'. Precisely, there is the secret door of desire. Everything is born when we move it to a desired future: 'What would happen if?'.

Here we are, in a world that grew under your light. You, our nearest star, brought us out of the darkness and kindled our desire.

Why did the monkey decide to leave the groves? At what point would he rise above the meadows, rife with danger? Like the stars, only a madman would dare to indulge his desire to explore the unknown. Driven by need or longing-which are ultimately the same-we venture forward.

We walked mountains of wrinkled rocks, where every rock claimed its victims. We resisted their extreme cold summits that could make us give up. Nevertheless, something moved us to continue creating our own ways. We challenged jungles that hid treasures, guarded by dragons of water and shadows. We spread through deserts of sand and ice, where the world seemed to end. Even the oceans, plagued by hungry creatures, failed to stop us.

Today, we continue to reproduce that world of hostilities. Dreaming is a community act, but making it a reality is a privilege. We choose between two paths: the simple and paved, transited by others, but unable to give us complete happiness, and the complicated and unexplored, full of reasons to retreat before it ends up destroying us.

At first, no one seems determined to leap. Doubt is the death of desire. Down below, we can expect swords or hearts, fortune or misfortune. We are driven by the same thing as the first stars, who dared to create something even if they did not know exactly what. In our case, a word, a thought or an image. Something that shows us that others also dreamed of the same thing, and encourages us to follow.

Dreams are the favourite fuel of the soul: they invite us to seek what has not been revealed, but which we feel has been perceived. " Perceiving", what a beautiful word for that which is observed in parts, carefully, with fear of breaking its charm.

We are so vulnerable to desire. We are a form that has been cooking in time for millennia. Many would say that there lies our strength, but anything can shake our foundations. We learn that nothing is sealed. We are transformation and change, like the water of the river that flows into the ocean.

Let it be so, then. I desire to rise from the earth, pour over the steep summits and travel through a world made possible by the creative word. In it, I discover the power of beauty: the consequence of believing that the farthest can be reached if we pursue it with firmness.

That in the midst of that search, flowers will be born, strong trees will grow, insects will be swarming in my words and fill the corners of your new world. Everything arises from water, even the earth that contains it, like stars that appeared from that primordial and absolute darkness.

To desire is to surrender oneself to the chaotic force of creation. In our case, as writers, it is to attract a thousand stories waiting inside the rocks of ink. We must break the shell that imprisons them, prevent them from being hidden. The other option is to forget them. That’s why they will be what we do with them: suffer or grow under our will.

Who are we, if not desire? Desire to be more than human. Desire to break with the world from within. Desire to get lost in the mountains.

The words are our stardust, waiting for us to run beside them, fast as jaguars in the jungle. With them, we will reach the heights of eagles or glide through the grass like snakes. To desire, we must release the spirit: that craving as hummingbirds are called by nectar.

Here are endless beautiful images, because in them is the sense that we give them. Some will find more beautiful the greenish sheen of the emerald, or the calm that brings a lapis lazuli. Others will desire the reddish of blood and the mundane of guts, that which would make my stomach curl. All to say that everyone finds beauty in what they desire, because that is what attracts them.

Beauty is in the honesty of art: putting a stone on another, building houses on suspended logs in the air, in a planned balance, even if one day a missing piece makes everything collapse. The first to do so were the stars, and they were not afraid to disperse themselves into what exists, even though this means that at some point they will consume it all again. Therefore, it is necessary to want to share an honest world, because from there the most beautiful universes are born.

Let our writings be what awaits our return on each page, or the trace of images that we manifest with the pen. That we give ourselves to a journey as the stars did, and create things that can surprise us from desire.