Becoming stronger?

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How is it that things take so long to get good and turn bad so fast? I guess that emotional wounds are the same as physical ones. In one minute you are fine and in the next you fall, you cut yourself and there’s blood everywhere.

Is it a fragility thing? Or maybe that is the way we become stronger. Or maybe is just about poetic beauty and wounds are the seed from which the most beautiful art forms are born. Maybe without wounds and sadness there wouldn’t be happiness, love or art.

Is it a black and white thing? Something like “we can’t appreciate good without bad”.

Or are wounds a way to intensively experience life? The way a song makes us laugh or cry. The way a smell takes us to the past. Do wounds make stars shine brighter and make a sunset turn into a work of art?
Is it true that there’s no beauty without sadness?

Market day

market la boqueria mafe roig photography

Rocío is 86 years old. Her platinum hair contrasts with the vibrant colors of fruits, juices and spices that fill every corner of the market.

She’s wearing her fancy earrings, her blue printed silk scarf and uses her shopping cart as a walking stick while browsing through the fresh, plastic-looking vegetables. Someone stumbles with her. Not a single apology. She has to wait 10 minutes to pay for a bag of tomatoes while some tourists take photos to a shinny batch of sweet peppers and pay for a coconut juice.

Trying to get to the seafood and fish corner, Rocío remembered when she was young and went to the market with her father. Every stand owner said hello and called them by their first name.

Rocío asks for some salmon and a couple of shrimps to the lady behind the counter. She tries to make her way out of the market as quietly and as fast as she can. Tomorrow she’ll go to the super next to her house. These trips to La Boquería are starting to take a toll on her.



A Hug for the Soul

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– Are you happy to see me? – I asked him while tears fell down my cheeks.

– Of course – He answered with a smile. There. Just sitting there at his table, that is no longer his, eating breakfeast just like so many other mornings I went to say hello.

I grabbed his hand in both of mine still crying. Tears fought with the smile that was trying to take over but there was no apparent winner.
He seemed happy. Healthy. Like before everything happened. We stared at each other for a little while and more. Me crying, him smiling.
My tears were an unbalanced mixture of happiness and sadness. I was sad because I miss him so much, and happy to see him again. I cried because it has been a long time since he is gone, and I smiled because, once again, after so long, we met again in my dreams.
– Hi, grandpa ¿How have you been? –

One Morning



There were a lot of dreams that night. There were oceans with waves as high as skycrapers; dolphins swimming in underground rivers lighten by the light of a millions fluorescent fireflies.

There were grandparents that are are long gone, gardens that live only in memories and feelings clouded by the veil of the night. The kind that dwell dreams and fade with sunlight and reality.

You wake up with the uncertainty of present mixed with the nostalgia of the past and the fear of future.

Like when someone feels he is falling from his bed and wakes up startled, thinking that somethin happened, just to realize that he was dreaming and everything remains the same.

You look around without knowing what to think and tell yourself that you must get up. And in that very moment its only up you to decide if it will be a good day or not.

Dragging your feet across the ground, very unconvinced of going out of bed and facing the worl, you get that cup of coffee that promises to clear up the fog in your mind and open your eyes for as long as the sun shines outside.

And without even thinking it, like summer sun in the middle of winter, a little, beautiful detail peeks, makes you smile and is no longer up to you.

Its going to be a good day.

Drifting Words



It was her favourite book in the entire world. Reading it became a routine so natural it was like breathing…

She knew every word, every comma, every dot. The book was so worn that the pages were soft and fragile like the petals of a rose.

And even so the pages still had that particular and special smell that new books have.

But now this perfect story reminded her too much of that time… too well, too clear, too painful.

The book had to go, just had to. And with one tear, of it went. Right there in the place where it all began.