BLURRED

Certain blurred or fuzzy images charge a singular beauty, unused, because reality shows in unusual geometries, in informal abstractions that surprise us.

The blur can be beautiful, even more than the clear, because it shows us what is or what it has been with a lazy light -timid, hesitant or fugitive, unusual.

The blur is human. Essentially human. We are blurry.

Tears blur out our eyes, tears born of pain and joy.

Our world is blurred out in remembrance, in memories, as time marches on, as we evoke biased emotions.

The contour of our bodies and our features are blurred by age.

We are slowly erased, blurred yielding at our borders, as time passes. And we are just erased, leaving only our footprints firmly in the memory and hearts of those who lived and loved us.

Perfection is a form of death, but life in its beat and evolution needs of the fuzzy boundaries as they emerge in permeability that generates the hybridizations and synergies. If all boundaries were rigid, if any outside were firm fascia, there would be no meeting.

Our lips, when kissing, smudge, merge, become one.

How sad this definition is: a kiss is the mechanical contact of four lips with exchange of saliva and other oral substances.

Perhaps precise. But very, very, very boring. It’s ugly.

I prefer this one: a kiss is you and me in one, without borders, a beating heart that is worth two who feel like one at time.

Sometimes, blur gives beauty and meaning to life.

Hugs and kisses, all blurred.

Álex