I'm Pablo E-me a.k.a. Pablo Mera and some chums call me "trompo". A bit of an odd duck, I suppose—a stutterer with A+ blood, a rugger man who loves Metallica and Oasis, and not a single one of those things is about to change.

The following text is a reflection on the subtle tyranny of our upbringing, a kind of inherited intellectual chloroform. It’s a bit of a personal one, so bear with me.

We've been utterly bamboozled by the prevailing commandments of our time. It’s a generational affliction, a mental straightjacket woven from well-worn platitudes: "Boys don't cry," "Girls are this, girls are that." Life, utterly and brutally simplified. But that simplicity, you see, was nothing short of devastating.

It was, of course, far easier not to think. Absolutely. Especially for those of us who came of age in an era where certain questions were strictly verboten, and obedience was the order of the day.

Then, one day, with the passing of time, a dreadful realisation dawned upon us: "What if everything we've been told is a complete and utter lie?" Some of us managed to reboot. Others, sadly, remain trapped in an inescapable labyrinth of these inherited mandates, clutching onto a life that isn't quite real.

As Mariano José de Larra so astutely put it: "The heart of man needs to believe something, and it believes lies when it finds no truths to believe."

And so, mental health became just another taboo—another item on the endless list of tools used to manipulate us. Because if you think, if you question, if you dare to feel pain... well, you're just a bother, aren't you?

We dutifully honoured the philosophies of our elders because "one simply must obey." Fathers, grandfathers, priests, vicars, professors... If they were alive today, if they had to face the dizzying complexity of this world, they wouldn't have a clue where to begin.

Yet, the record plays on repeat: "Boys don't cry, girls are such and such." And so, many choose ignorance, others numb themselves with drink and drugs, and those who think too much find themselves drowning in their own mental tempest.

Because, at the end of the day, the command remains the same: DON'T THINK.

My name is Pablo Mera—Pablo E-M to the Anglophone world—and some chums call me "trompo." I'm rather fond of Metallica and Oasis, I play rugby, I'm A+, and I stutter, and none of the above is ever going to change.

mailto:tromp@tromp@hotmail.com

• Pablo E-M is the artistic name of Pablo Mera ,a man who has lived many lives in one. Born in Montevideo and shaped in Asunción, he has been an entrepreneur, cultural curator, soul DJ, keen observer of human nature, and emotional architect of language. Today, he writes, reflects, and creates from the threshold between memory and desire.

His work — be it in words, music, or thought — delves into the subtleties of human behaviour, the unseen forces that shape the tangible world, and the quiet beauty found in contradiction. With an urban sensitivity and a cosmopolitan spirit, Pablo E-M weaves past, future, and the miraculous into each phrase he pens and every idea he sets free.

He believes in what cannot be seen, but can be felt.

And in that which goes unspoken, yet moves the world.

Today, ego and comparison govern the lives of several generations, on Earth as it is in the Matrix. They are the new invisible forces: a religion with no gods, yet with algorithms.

Ego—that digital cocaine we snort with every scroll—has us addicted to vapid validation, to the desperate need to appear beautiful, happy, and successful in the treacherous mirror of social media. And comparison, that shadow constantly whispering, "look what the other chap has," pushes so many into reckless decisions, into running races with no finish line, into attempting to reach standards designed to be utterly unattainable.

But this didn’t begin with the Internet, oh no.

Back in the '70s and '80s, long before Wi-Fi and Instagram filters, the television series Little House on the Prairie was peddling a fantasy just as toxic: the ideal family of Charles and Laura Ingalls, eternal love, the exemplary father, and the obedient mother. Its script, as simplistic as the Westerns that influenced our grandparents, was an emotional blueprint for an entire generation. Sweet, yes... but lethal.

Because in that perfect postcard, so many of us felt we were outside the frame, impure, mistaken, incomplete.

And that, my dear reader, is where the great disconnection began.

Today, all of that still vibrates, only multiplied tenfold. Social media—which are neither social nor truly networks—have woven an invisible and sticky web where the real, the imagined, and the fake are all tangled up. Many of us live there, dancing on a stage of hypocrisy, pretending that everything is perfectly fine while being devoured by the hunger to be someone else.

And thus, the intangible—the image, the appearance, the empty promise—continues to have a brutal effect on the tangible: the body, mental health, our choices, our very lives.

And without us even noticing, happiness has become a private spectacle that no one truly feels, but everyone applauds.

My name is Pablo Mera—Pablo E-M to the Anglophone world—and some chums call me "trompo." I'm rather fond of Metallica and Oasis, I play rugby, I'm A+, and I stutter, and none of the above is ever going to change.

mailto:tromp@tromp@hotmail.com

• Pablo E-M is the artistic name of Pablo Mera ,a man who has lived many lives in one. Born in Montevideo and shaped in Asunción, he has been an entrepreneur, cultural curator, soul DJ, keen observer of human nature, and emotional architect of language. Today, he writes, reflects, and creates from the threshold between memory and desire.

His work — be it in words, music, or thought — delves into the subtleties of human behaviour, the unseen forces that shape the tangible world, and the quiet beauty found in contradiction. With an urban sensitivity and a cosmopolitan spirit, Pablo E-M weaves past, future, and the miraculous into each phrase he pens and every idea he sets free.

He believes in what cannot be seen, but can be felt.

And in that which goes unspoken, yet moves the world.

If we dare—even for a moment—to step into the protagonist's shoes, I sometimes find myself convinced that certain cognitive ailments aren't a curse, but a sophisticated prize that evolution, in its obscure wisdom, bestows upon us.

A keen memory, once one reaches a certain stage in life, can become a rather elegant trap. For memories never arrive alone: they're bound by thick threads to emotions, and those aren't always sweet. Some memories burst open like rusty tins; others fester with unbidden nostalgia. Thus, almost without warning, we become prisoners in a time that no longer exists. We cling to a fashion, a rhythm, an ideology like castaways from our own history, unable to release that floating piece of driftwood, even when it's utterly riddled with termites.

And that, you see, is where forgetting appears not as an adversary, but as an emergency exit. A sort of merciful amnesia, a slow anaesthetic for the soul. The only non-surgical door out of the labyrinth of perpetual resignation.

I believe the secret, then, is to live as well as possible with what we're given, to give thanks even through gritted teeth, and to look forward… and upward. For on the day we must depart—as I understand is the case—death will arrive like someone who's been waiting for us for a long time. It will take us from one state to another without us barely noticing. Without a sound. Without any prior warning.

The pain or the relief, in any case, will linger for a while—just for a brief moment—in the memories of the few who are still alive... and happen to remember us.

My name is Pablo Mera . I love Metallica and Oasis, I'm a rugby player, A+ blood type and a stutterer, and none of that is ever going to change.

* Pablo E-M is the artistic name of Pablo Mera ,a man who has lived many lives in one. Born in Montevideo and shaped in Asunción, he has been an entrepreneur, cultural curator, soul DJ, keen observer of human nature, and emotional architect of language. Today, he writes, reflects, and creates from the threshold between memory and desire.

His work — be it in words, music, or thought — delves into the subtleties of human behaviour, the unseen forces that shape the tangible world, and the quiet beauty found in contradiction. With an urban sensitivity and a cosmopolitan spirit, Pablo E-M weaves past, future, and the miraculous into each phrase he pens and every idea he sets free.

He believes in what cannot be seen, but can be felt.

And in that which goes unspoken, yet moves the world.

My name is Pablo Mera.

I'm a rugby man, blood group A+, a stutterer, and a great admirer of both Metallica and Oasis. None of this is likely to change.

In my time, I've had my share of successes, but I have also, I'm afraid, committed nearly every mistake imaginable. This is precisely why I write: so that some small part of what I have learned, through countless stumbles, might serve another soul. Or, at the very least, to serve as a record that one can live with all of these burdens and still, against all odds, continue to dream.

Just last night, I had an extraordinarily vivid dream—almost cinematic in its scope. In it, a thought struck me with the force of a revelation. And upon waking, I knew with absolute certainty that I must share it.

The idea itself is rather straightforward, yet it holds a certain power: that we all develop, almost organically, certain strengths that arise to compensate for our inherent weaknesses. The secret, you see, isn't in denying our shortcomings or becoming obsessed with being the best at things we were simply not built for. The real secret lies in accepting our shadows… and learning to truly shine in what we were.

An epiphany, indeed. And while it may sound rather self-evident, I assure you, it is anything but.

In my particular case, this epiphany has a name: the stutter. For many years, it was my cross to bear, a private torment. Every word was a battle, every conversation a minefield. I trained myself in the rather dark art of avoiding certain phrases, certain sounds, certain social situations. And so, almost without realising it, I began to build alternative bridges to the shores of understanding

The Architecture of a Happy Destiny

Life has led me to believe.

Not in rigid dogma or exact formulae, but in the good, the miraculous, the unexpected that plants itself amidst the chaos with the face of possibility.

I have learnt that, much like one's country or religion are personal constructs shared amongst those who also choose to believe, so too is a happy destiny an intimate architecture, built brick by brick with desire, with sorrow, with faith.

My name is Pablo Mera, and some friends call me "trompo." I follow Metallica and Oasis, I am a rugby player, my blood is A+, and I stutter, and none of the above will ever change.

I have chosen to construct a stable, pleasant future, full of gentle pauses and joyful discoveries. Not because the world has promised it to me, but because I have desired it enough to make it so.

Pure stoicism, with its cult of endurance, has not saved me. Nor has the draconian, with its cult of punishment. Not me, nor those whom I hold dear.

Stiglitz said that the financial level of the 99% does not change. And perhaps he is right. But I maintain that there is a crack in that statistic, a margin where the improbable blossoms. Therein resides the strength of desire, the faith that asks no permission, and the daily miracle of continuing to believe in the impossible.

For though the system was not designed for me, I, in fact, was designed for hope.

The Lucid Misfit's Handbook

One doesn't partake, you see, in the usual trifles: no smoking, no tippling, no illicit substances. Nor does one seek refuge in the raucous clamour of football, or dissolve into those bellowing throngs, all to paper over some existential void. The latest gadget? Utterly beside the point. Catalogued "experiences"? One finds them rather… vulgar. One takes care of oneself, of course. Not out of some tiresome moralistic bent, but purely, you understand, for self-preservation.

My singular indulgence — if one must insist on having one — is to think. To read. To doubt. To investigate. To scratch beneath the surface until it quite frankly burns. I know, I know how it sounds: frightfully elitist, terribly solemn, utterly insufferable. But no, not at all. There's no plinth here, no ivory tower. There's the grit of the street, the very skin of experience, and the rather fetching dark circles under one's eyes from philosophical insomnia.

One did try, mind you. Years spent masquerading as "normal," donning the guise of levity, forcing affiliations that pinched like an ill-fitting suit. I sampled insouciance, and it gave me rather ghastly indigestion. A resounding failure, then, in the art of feigning indifference.

And I've come to realise it's not some grand act of bravery or rebellion. It's simply an incapacity for anaesthesia. I cannot not feel, not think, not question. And in this rather peculiar world that applauds the distracted and quite simply punishes the intense, to be thus is almost a criminal act.

But here I am. No shortcuts. No tiresome charades. With consciousness as my sole addiction. Ready, as ever, to bring another challenge to a successful conclusion.

My name is Pablo Mera.

A man of Peñarol, a rugger bugger, A+ blood group, and, well, a bit of a stammerer.

None of which, you'll be pleased to hear, is likely to change.

In this life, I've had a few rather splendid successes… but I've also managed to commit nearly every conceivable blunder. And that, my dear fellow, is precisely why I write: so that some modicum of what I've learned, often through the sheer force of repeated stumbles, might serve someone else. Or, at the very least, to leave a record that one can indeed live with all this baggage, and yet, quite remarkably, continue to dream.