Once upon a time... This is how all the great stories begin with happy endings, the epics of centaurs that reach legendary glories, and yet, in the century where painting has been considered an art that has already died, I decided to be a painter... and of all my loves, this is the one that has hurt me the most...

The intoxication of my first paintings was such that when I finished them, I would sit in front of them to watch them as if I admired a sunset, and there I would remain immobile whole mornings, observing every detail, idiotic, with the same sensation in the chest that lovers have. , the devil seemed to haunt the house, whispering ideas of greatness and glory, which, along with the nicotine in my cigarette became part of my system, I remember sleeping late but never waking up tired, although ironically I remember being blinded, not knowing anything else beyond what I poorly painted...

I also remember the birthday gifts, the only ones I received in my life, pencils that I still keep with me as if they were relics, the music sounded loud and I kept listening, and danced amid the joy of feeling part of something, swimming in a fish tank, being king in a cardboard castle, while the reflection of my mirror became more diffuse, and my face fell apart with the passage of time... Where did my way go? Well, as the mist dispersed there was no path, and there was no more Joel González...

The hangover of my paintings was confusing, the mornings lengthened and I stood there, in front of an empty canvas, watching how little by little I grew old, flying out the window, swimming through the storm that fell violently on the untamed old Merida, and the colors became opaque and cuttlefish just like life, I hardly ever slept, although I was beginning to understand a little more the fundamental flaw of the matter, since I am not the one to define what is art, but I can say with certainty what is not , and what I was doing was not art...

And when the hangover passed, the loneliness came, the colors were still opaque for no reason, the canvases turned into mirrors, and what little was left of me escaped between feverish colors, I could say that I left home, wandering through a Merida between two wars, seeing how I died a couple of times... My home was also lost, as was my path, leaving me only a few colors and thousands of nuances. How beautiful can life be when it has no meaning? I painted then what my already corrupt essence dictated to me, the pure solitude made color, made relief, my face was still blurred and my way was far, but I can swear by the god of my parents and my grandparents, that I never felt so alive…