It was the last Sunday of July – though the date is entirely irrelevant. My friend Luti and I were at the beach, soaking up the sun and the breathable breeze of an exceptionally gentle Valencian summer afternoon. Between mate rounds, Lu suggested we play a game she had brought along—something to connect with our creativity and give our minds a moment to just unwind.
The game is called Bretón, a deck of illustrated cards by Argentine artist Pablo Bernasconi. Each card features a character, an object, or a scene, and offers different ways to spark writing through visual prompts. We chose the automatic writing mode: one and a half minutes of uninterrupted writing for every card we pulled from the deck.
Automatic writing is a wonderful exercise to drain the mind of judgments and ideas of what’s right or wrong—and to simply play, following the thread of whatever thoughts arise without questioning them. It’s a surrender, really—a walk through the mind’s labyrinth to let the unconscious bloom.
Today I want to share the two texts that came out of that game, as a kind of invitation to wander through the lush diversity available to us whenever an image—like so many other events—opens the doors to our subconscious. The curious detail? Both my friend Luti and I share the same name. So here you go: two mirrored labyrinths called Lucía.
< Sitting in my emotional world, I pause—and if I stop breathing for a moment, I can see the shapeless species that inhabit me come to the surface. My body is still, but my mind has been colonized.
They pulse, expand, stretch, frighten, calm down—we share.
The sphere that holds us below sways, depending on where my mind and the species move, where they tilt.
The entire Earth is contained in this seemingly quiet sphere. Oceans at peace while my mental lagoon storms.
Still, I paused, and I looked down and inward into the globe.
A cluster of little houses, a hidden neighborhood peeked out beneath my feet.
Of course—from up here, my mental and abstract world, life looks like a magical story populated by subtle, miniature beings.
To snap out of this introspection, we’re going camping in the mountains with the girls. Following dreams. To live the stories we love with our bodies and our souls. To look up at starry skies between mountain peaks, and visit little princes, elephants, hats, and all the magic in between. To climb up and down—body, dream, spirit, and mind—as many times as steps to count on the way to a summit in the Pyrenees. >
< He’s been sitting for so long that a dark stain has taken over his face.
Some say he went around the world so many times that one day he wanted to see it all from above. The muddy rivers he swam in, the lush forests he walked through, the fruit he picked, the traces of his footprints on dirt roads.
But what no one knows yet is why his face disappeared into that stain.
I suspect that in all that darkness, his eyes have learned to see in the dark.
I imagine him soaring in his mind while everyone sleeps down below, feeling eternal in an ethereal, weightless body.
Opening doors into feather worlds and polka-dot ones.
There are nights when I dream of him—we meet in some story, and we write ours. The one we long to live in order to remember, to walk, following our hunch, our pulse, the time of our own. >
Each story is an excuse—just like any event can become a story. The beauty in knowing there are as many possible narratives as there are voices and subconscious labyrinths, is that each tale confirms how infinitely rich our existence is.
Like nature itself, we are both the source and the witnesses of that richness. And the more we share and listen, the more we nourish the vast garden that lives within ourselves.
*Gracias Luti 😉 🤍✍🏼
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