Han tomado la parte del fondo.

I am a lawyer, during the COVID confinement I suffered a vocational and existential crisis, from which I managed to get out through the self-portrait, immersing myself in the depths of my unconscious.

The physical isolation resulting from the covid19 pandemic has a devastating effect on one's own personal structures. As a clinical laboratory technician, I analyze the samples extracted from existential anguish, identifying through the symbolic self-portrait, the inhabitants of an archetypal universe, inhabitants of a house in ruins, who claim to manifest themselves from the darkness of the unconscious. A deformed mythology forgotten by its creator emerges strongly fighting for a transformation. The descent into the mental depths is the only way to uncover sewer obstructions, from an animal that has been sacrificed in the temple of productivity, to desire in an office, to pleasure in a file, to the pulse in a clock. I come face to face with the germ of another silent pandemic, the collective alienation of a society separated from its own essence, entrenched in the individual who blindly fulfills a social role.

In this case the method cannot be overlooked, since the identification of the archetypal universe can only be achieved through the symbol. Conscience is not a guide on this excursion, rationalizing is an elusive path during the process. The symbol operates by itself, alien to me, and only in the hands of whom it manifests itself.

The key to traversing these rooms of the mind is meditation, sleep, trance, all to embrace the mystery of a mental place, of an underlying reality, that flows beneath the layers of superficiality of the "me."

In short, it is a work of a psychoanalytic nature, Jungian in nature, which points from the individual to the collective, adding symbolic combinations to a blind world lost in the capitalist maelstrom. The descent exercise is revealing, it becomes with more light from the mental darkness. It is a praise of the shadow, a path of identification of contained drives, which serve as a mirror of a society on the verge of expiatory holocaust, for personal and collective redemption.

A judge stammers a sentence imperceptible to my ears. I have defended myself in this trial and now I must sign the record as legal representative and as convicted. The blurry eyes of the reviewer produce tenderness and contempt in me in equal measure, but above all a feeling of familiarity, like someone who recognizes a childhood friend behind the bark of the years that have passed. He looks at me with complicity, keeping an old secret that I don't know but unites us. A feeling of distrust clings firmly to my spine, like the cat struggling to get out of the river clings to the rescuer's arms, claws digging violently into the flesh of its benefactor. Mistrust is a cat afraid of drowning clinging with all its might to my nervous system.

I raise my voice bitterly requesting to know the terms of the sentence, but the words bounce awkwardly off the walls of the now completely empty courthouse. I demand to know my condemnation, I scream, without reaching any ear. The blowing of the arid wind is barely heard outside the dais, a desert that advances on the old buildings of the town. I demand in vain that at least the sentence be carried out, but there is no recipient for my claim, nor anyone, I astutely warn, that prevents me from going out as if none of this had happened, the deaf sound of a tree falling in the deep night from the forest without witnesses, I declare myself acquitted, I declare that I have done a good job, and with my head held high, I leave the compound through the desert, with the pride of having overcome an injustice, of having put things in their place, as an operator of an ancient system, who greases the gears and watches as the machine heavily reactivates its mechanisms, I walk with my chest puffed out, my gaze forward, my steps safe to the rhythm of a growing hymn that rises from within my soul , an ode to success sung by a chorus of stuttering old men, the internal joy barely appeased by the pain that tight shoes and sweltering heat cause me to walk in a suit and tie in such an unfortunate place, during the long walk to I went to the city, where my home awaits at the end.

There's an oiled crow on the side of the road,

a busy mattress starts to catch fire,

the vibration of the motors poisons the glances,

in the distance the crowing of a rooster is heard,

it's already night,

heavy foreheads arch backs,

a path of miserable ants,

a pilgrimage of abject insects,

the city lights already spread my shadow

I open the heavy door of my house suffocated,

inhale, exhale,

among the bills that have been left under the door,

I pick up a summons that warns me to introduce myself

tomorrow, in the same court, at the same time, for the same act that is imputed to me and whose nature I do not know,

I take off my lawyer's clothes and my shoes,

I wash my face in front of the bathroom mirror while designing a defense again

with lost thought again, tomorrow,

I look at my face and I am surprised by my blurry eyes that produce tenderness and contempt in me in equal measure, but above all a feeling of familiarity, like someone who recognizes a childhood friend behind the bark of the years that have passed.

I perceive a complicity grimace on my face, as if I were keeping a secret that I don't want to hear but I have a feeling, what is my sentence I ask...

a child looks at me from the other side of the mirror and screams for his mother.