Over the years in which I’ve thrown myself entirely into this utopia of wanting to live making art until death, ideas keep coming to me repeatedly—ones that try to drag me toward a horizon that horrifies me, an abyss I never want to return to. And the whole ecosystem seems determined to push me to that edge, the kind from which it’s nearly impossible to come back. I’m scared, shitless with fear, and every day I wonder how much longer I can keep holding onto this rope, the same one that has already left my hands covered in sores and wounds screaming to burst out through tears and torrential sobbing.

And well, I suppose every artist born in these lands experiences the same sensations at some point along the way. The thing is, that point appears with every step I take forward. I walk around, looking in every direction, searching for the right doors to knock on—only for them to shut as I get close. I keep breathing every day while exhaustion suffocates me. I’m planning the next few months as if I had the tiniest certainty that everything will turn out fine, like I’ve always believed—but I feel my strength waning, my powers losing their force, surrendering along with my ideas.

Yet, as all this happens, I keep creating. I keep thinking about the next big project, absorbing other people’s stories so I can tell them soon. Because despite everything, I still believe. I’m still clinging to these dreams of bringing my ideas to the whole world. I picture myself in interviews, talking about the creative process behind my book, my films, my experiences on the edge in other countries—building a solid path so others won’t have to cry the tears I’ve cried.

And here I am, venting in the intimacy of my keyboard, pouring everything out and catching my breath so that tomorrow morning, I can find a reason to get out of bed and throw these blocks out the window—the ones that make me think about returning to the absurd monotony I swore I’d never peek into from any corner of a shared living space. Here I am, digging into every crevice for a space where I can stick my head in and find a sign, the tiniest one, telling me that giving up is nothing but pretty words

Jean Pierre.

Colombia is a country in love with bloodshed. No matter in which century you read this message, it will always be this way, because as a nation, we know no exit that isn’t drenched in what we proudly claim the red in our flag represents. Colombia and the entire world are in love with evil, with pain, with all kinds of schemes to seize power; we glorify torture, and when it knocks on our door, we act surprised, feigning innocence, terrified of the consequences for which we ourselves are to blame. Calling the devil is one thing—watching him arrive is another.

It disgusts me, though it no longer surprises me, to read everywhere how people call for the death of those who think differently—some even pay to watch others suffer. I don’t know when we’ll evolve, given that these behaviors never change; they’ve been the same since the beginning of time. Is it so hard to walk a different path? We’ve spent the entire history of humanity killing and contradicting each other, bleeding dry anyone who isn’t like us.

I want to speak specifically about my country in these lines. I’ve never seen it in absolute peace. I was born with bullets tearing through the streets, and now, in my adulthood, they’re still there, chasing other bullets—competing to see who shoots faster, who wounds more lethally, who has more ammunition. And what angers and repulses me most is that, as compatriots, we are accomplices and responsible for these atrocities. Through art, we amplify the deafening sounds of gunfire; we invite outsiders to come and perpetuate the pain; we constantly threaten opposing ideals; in the media, we spread misinformation; and we even mutilate our own just to teach a lesson to those who refuse to trust our words, which are loaded with rage and vengeance.

For years, I’ve traveled far from my land, trying to spread a different message—telling other kinds of stories through my art, seeking to redefine the meaning of sudaca, offering a smile of trust at immigration checkpoints. I want to speak of other narratives that also exist here. But alongside me walk other Colombians promoting scams, drugs, and evil. On popular TV shows, they call for gunfire against game opponents; political campaigns are saturated with death wishes for those who dare to protest; neighbors kill each other because the guy across the street refused to turn his music down; police and military officers make bodies disappear to collect higher paychecks. And so, the insignificant work done by those of us who want a different way of coexisting gets shoved into a corner, mocked and stereotyped by those who cackle at the harm they seek—harm they refuse to take responsibility for.

Logic and integrity have abandoned us. Hypocrisy has blinded our horizon. Evil never left—it was just less restless for a while. Goodness visits now and then, only to get drunk and leave us at the mercy of those who have always been executioners—those who occasionally try to dress in white robes of a purity more false than repentance.

Jean Pierre.

I understand that we live in a world that leaps forward with giant strides every second, and sometimes I feel that at the same speed it moves ahead in some places, in others it goes in reverse without glancing at the periphery and without caring if that means destroying the foundations of what could have been built and solidified. I understand that what means something today will likely be completely different tomorrow. I understand that there are millions of new concepts, and maybe it’s not so easy to internalize them—but I struggle to accept that there are people who can understand, analyze, and interpret life from so many angles, yet choose not to use the tools they’ve developed. They have a blockage rooted in religion, social norms, and hidden fears that refuse to see the light of day.

I can also understand that cultural differences are one of the biggest reasons for diversity in every sphere, and those cultures aren’t distant—they’re right here among us, on our continent. It might seem like we’re very alike, but the truth is, we’re divided by far more than just accents. What I can’t wrap my head around is that there are people who close themselves off to black or white, deliberately ignoring the nuances, textures, scents, and shapes. Going back to the beginning, at times it feels like we’re in the Inquisition, and at others, I imagine the future we see as so distant is already knocking at the door. And honestly, it also scares me a little to think there might be no limit. In one way or another, I’m also a bit like those people I’m complaining about.

A few nights ago, in a conversation in the dark with a friend, he spoke with astonishment about something he finds almost unbelievable—and when I remember it, my jaw drops all over again in surprise. This friend was complaining about public displays of affection, about hugs full of human warmth, about comforting caresses, about enthusiastic shouts of welcome, about words of encouragement from someone who feels love. According to him, these acts are reserved for one person only, and if they come from anyone else, it’s considered a disrespect to manhood, loyalty, friendship, and all the stupid prejudices that square-headed people invent.

I often wonder about the way I’ve loved all my life—and I like it. It makes me happy. I feel satisfied with what I constantly share. Because there’s no way I can say goodbye without a hug that presses chests together tightly, no greeting without a kiss that lands on a cheek, no farewell without words of affirmation, and no bond without contact that caresses the soul.

Jean Pierre.

A large part of my personality is based on my expressiveness and the little importance I give to shame—sometimes—and I’m often asked where this "ability" to be so free comes from, without external substances altering my consciousness or loosening my body. The answer came to me with great clarity just a few days ago. Last Saturday, I was hosting a small party at my house with a few of my friends. We danced, shared gossip, had dance competitions, and celebrated friendship—the kind that lasts a lifetime and the kind that was born just days before the gathering. And among those present was my father, laughing his head off, watching us so happy, fully aware of the spectacles his son puts on when he throws himself on the floor or dances without any shame.

That night, I understood so much of who I am. I’ve never had to hide to be my fullest self. Since forever, my parents have heard me voice all my opinions, and even if they often disagree, censorship has never been an option in our discussions. They’ve also been accomplices in my adventures, celebrated the rhythm in my body, and even danced with me. My parents have given me the confidence to be whoever I’ve wanted to be without restrictions, and that, in turn, has made me fully aware of my own prudence and truth. I’ve never had to lie to navigate society, never had to run away from home, and they’ve never felt dishonored by my desires—instead, they’ve always been proud of my untamable spirit.

And what a privilege that is! For many, it’s strange to involve their parents in their social lives, yet I’m overjoyed watching my father hug my friends, get them drunk, thank them for loving me so much, invite them to come back whenever they want, get them drunk again, and give them the same love I try to give them. Of course, my personality is the result of being a free child and a teenager without absurd punishments. I am the sum of all the trust they’ve placed in me, the breath that escapes my family when they see me smiling, the tears of pride that well up in their eyes when they talk about their children, my mother’s laughter when we joke around, the trust they’ve always given me—and that we both strive to honor by never breaking our word.

I don’t need to hide to fully express my thoughts, and that has allowed me to do the things I constantly do. I dare say we would all be completely joyful if our homes were free of toxic beliefs and repressive behaviors. Freedom is born within us—to stifle it is the mark of a broken home.

Jean Pierre.

A couple of days ago, in the middle of a typical Colombian conversation about politics, a friend held his ground defending the unmentionable one and praised as a model to follow everything negative for which we are known. Clearly, these topics upset me deeply—I can’t comprehend how there are still people who believe that violence, bloodshed, drugs, and all things evil should be the path we’re condemned to walk for eternity. As if there were no other way forward, as if society couldn’t make a meaningful change to stop being recognized in every corner as criminals rather than artists, thinkers, philosophers, athletes, or whatever else people from other nations are known for.

The curious thing about all this is that those who support the current social norms are the same ones who oppose the popular protests of a people trying to show the true face of our culture—one filled with laughter, jokes, happiness, dance, and song. So my big question is: What do they want? What are they after? They neither act nor let others act. They witness the pain but try to silence those seeking healing; they complain about insecurity but point fingers at those searching for peace; they love the glorification of crime but protest the fire burning in the streets, crying out for justice.

I don’t know how many times I’ve spoken about this, but I’m absolutely certain it won’t be the last. I’ll raise my voice as many times as necessary to defend this land that pains me so, hoping that when I speak of my homeland, the first thought that comes to mind is anything other than the one that sets off alarms in every immigration office. How can anyone agree with the red tides spilled, justified by so-called "tranquility"? It’s strange in my reflections to think that the peace of a few must come at the misery of many more—and that when those many try to find a way out, they only encounter obstacles that mutilate their bodies and ideals.

Luckily, not all is lost, and little by little, a sunlit path is emerging (one that would already be complete if not for the opponents of revolution). Sometimes, when I mention I’m from Cali, the reactions focus on culture—many ask me to teach them salsa, not where to buy something to powder their noses. Once, a Spanish friend called his niece and told her he was in Colombia, and she immediately associated it with the movie Encanto. Many others remember this country for its mountains, colors, people, happiness, and the life pulsing through every street. It hasn’t been easy, but it’s incredibly satisfying to receive compliments for the quality of our food rather than for what’s cooked up in kitchens hidden in the jungle.

Jean Pierre.

A few months ago, I had a sudden breakout on my face that deeply frightened me—I didn’t understand what was happening. It appeared overnight, and whenever I washed my face with cold or hot water, my skin looked like that of a teenager. I was very cautious during those weeks, trying countless creams, and every piece of advice I found online became something I eagerly followed. The worst moment came when I went to the hair salon for a new look, but the stylist’s proximity to my face made me incredibly insecure. She was inches away from my skin, and I felt unbearably uncomfortable, experiencing something I hadn’t gone through at sixteen but was now, at thirty-one, triggering the insecurities I’d avoided in my youth—all without knowing the cause or meaning behind this reaction.

When the creams stopped working, I finally found an excellent dermatologist who explained that the drastic climate changes at my current age were causing this allergic-like reaction. Last year, I’d lived through every season, jumping from one extreme to another in just days. But what was the problem? I never imagined it could manifest like this. "Age," he joked, as he examined my skin and recommended five facial products I now use religiously, twice a day. That word—age—shook me a little, and I may have overreacted. But it’s also why I’m writing these lines.

For months, I’ve wanted to settle down, stay put in Cali, and only leave when necessary. I want to build a home, a family, children, and three cats. Yet there’s still so much to resolve and achieve that I remain willing to sacrifice any semblance of stability until I conquer all my dreams. I’m young—there’s still so much road ahead, so much ground to walk, so many people to meet. But my longing to end this zozobra (turmoil) and plant my feet is now battling my hunger to conquer the world. Age, I repeat in my head constantly, and maybe my body is listening to my worries, whispering: "Hey, stay still, don’t push yourself—look what’s happening to your skin." So I return home, recharge, and yet, just a week after reorganizing my room, the urge to leave rises again.

I’d never stopped to reflect on this before. I’d never been tormented by the rush to achieve one thing while letting go of another. Now, I want everything—but it’s not easy. I’d be one case in millions, but of course, it’s not impossible. I want to toss my worries away and make my art, to die living for it. I also want to be with my parents for whatever years we have left. I want to wake up every morning to music, singing, shouting, and dancing. I want to write two books, make one film, and stage one play each year. I want to leave home knowing exactly when I’ll return.

Jean Pierre.

The countdown officially begins. In just a few days, I’ll be back home—sleeping in my bed, hugging my parents, seeing those friends who grow fewer with time—and perhaps in those days, I’ll finally cry all the tears I haven’t shed these past months, the tears I’ve needed to wring out the remnants of uncertainty and fear that have clung to me these nearly six months. This time, so perfect (I can now call it perfect after much reflection), has allowed me to scour my mind and emotions, to arrive at the conclusions I’ll recount at some point in this writing.

I came to Mexico fleeing a broken heart, chasing a dream, and clinging to the hope of my ideal job. Today, I couldn’t fully escape the first, while the other two vanished as swiftly as these passing weeks. Life flipped me upside down: I fell ill more than usual, stayed silent for long stretches, ate little at times, lost my bearings, felt solid ground turn to rubber, cracked my heart open anew, and faced more closed doors than those that even bothered to turn the knob to let my gaze inside. I could stop there, end my thoughts with that, and draw a hundred reflections on what I did wrong. But I’m certain that the mystical thing that happened to me utterly eclipses all that dragged me to bed and bound my hands for so long.

One morning, as I lay literally dying, I lifted my eyes and saw before me countless souls watching over my body, willing my recovery. One cold afternoon, I ran to another city in search of coffee and words that tell endless stories. Many weekends, a pair of green eyes reaffirmed their love and admiration for who I am. One April day, I embraced the strong skin I’d waited two years to touch again. One Saturday night, I danced surrounded by my people, thanking God for all He gives me. I have no reason to feel defeated—no words to explain what this country gives me every time I step onto its soil. No language holds the right expression to tell the world how I feel each time I’m met with a hug and a smile thrilled to see me arrive. No one is as lucky as I am every morning when a large body throws itself onto mine with the first "good morning," transforming my energy until nightfall when I close my eyes again.

What do I do now with this latent desire not to leave? What do I tell my thoughts that don’t know how to quiet down? What will I say to my eyes when they can no longer see so many gazes filled with such tenderness? What do I tell my skin so it won’t miss the hands that caress it now and then? What will I say to my vocabulary when it can no longer shout the slang it loves? What will I do with the two beds waiting for me in two cities? What will I do with the families who love me every day? What will I do with myself?

Jean Pierre.

In my constant desire to honor those who touch my deepest fibers, this piece is born—imperfect yet enough to lay bare what I feel whenever their memory lingers in the warmth of my safe space.

Three years ago, by the whims of some unknown god (or perhaps all of us conspiring), he appeared amid a party—wide-eyed, with a smile so bright it could belong only to who I now dare call my brother. When he introduced himself, his name echoed mine, leaving me momentarily disoriented. And ever since, the way our names entwine evokes, at least to me, a river gliding peacefully over sunlit stones in the greenest of mountains.

It’s curious: in these three years, I’ve spent more time with his family than with him. Yet in love, the weight of moments outweighs the mere fact of a bond. I’ve hated him in fleeting bursts—when he vanishes for weeks, when he’s late, when promises dissolve into air—but then those almond eyes and the thought of puppy-like innocence collapse my frustration. The urge to strangle him softens into a need to hold him tight, this time forever, chest to chest, breath to breath.

How could I not love him? His magic wove me into his family. His brothers are mine; his mother tends to me as my own does; their blood feels like my blood. How could I not love him? He spins reasons to make me feel essential. He sheltered me when I didn’t realize the world was crumbling, flew to my city to chase dreams beside me. How could anyone not love him? He is love incarnate—a word I’ve etched into my skin to carry his warmth. My Angel. My David. My Champy. My friend. My brother.

He’s not expressive, no—but his eyes betray every lie. Not communicative, yet his hugs whisper sagas. Not one for constant touch, but he leans into the hugs I invent each time we meet. Sensitive, even when joy or pain stall in that vast body. Shy, but when he dances, his invented moves hypnotize. Quiet, yet when he speaks, his voice trembles. Maddening. But he’s him.

Jean Pierre.

Every culture, population, and society—anywhere communities exist—is undeniably different in countless ways. They vary profoundly in every conceivable aspect. Yet there is something even more distinct, something that sets us apart beyond how we eat, dress, speak, or interact: the way we love, feel, and express those feelings. Drawing from my limited understanding and modest life experience, I’ll share my perspective on this—something I grow more certain of with each passing day.

I avoid discussing cultures I’ve merely lived in, and I refrain from opining on things I haven’t experienced since birth. To me, it’s deeply disrespectful to judge other societies based on fleeting personal encounters, as if dismissing the identity forged by those who truly belong there. When it comes to nations, it’s even harder to speak, since every region contains subcultures with entirely distinct realities. But feelings—those I will discuss, because they are so visceral, so undeniable, that I feel compelled to voice my thoughts.

Certain emotions manifest universally: pain, sorrow, suffering—all are inevitable. Only the intensity of their expression shifts from place to place. We assume we know how to love, but what is love? I ask because the act we call "love" takes infinite forms across the world. Love itself may be subjective, but loving is not. Loving is bound to the fabric of our environment, and through that lens, we define its meaning. Perceptions vary. Expressions diverge. Consequences differ. And so, I wonder: Have I ever truly loved, or been loved? My native culture taught me one way to love, and in that context, I feel assured. Yet elsewhere, I’ve witnessed what I cannot recognize as love. But who am I to judge? I don’t know if I’m even qualified to say. Perhaps, to others, my own understanding of love is nothing but illusion.

Now I stand at a crossroads, torn between doubt and conviction. My thoughts clash, then reconcile, as if reaching uneasy truces. I question the love that surrounds me, even as my heart swells with its warmth. It’s like breathing underwater, half-convinced the next gasp will bring air instead of drowning.

Jean Pierre.

In the days just before writing this, I was traveling with a close friend and her family. Among them was her granddaughter, a three-year-old girl with a remarkably expressive personality who kept us laughing constantly. We were amazed by how someone so young could be so firm in setting boundaries—so much so that those few days together led me to reflect deeply, drawing conclusions that have now brought me here to write about it. Time and again, the little girl would grow upset and cry over whatever had happened. As her frustration mounted, she would press her whole body against her aunt or grandmother and, through tears and tantrums, demand to be hugged. That simple act sparked something in me.

When we’re in the throes of emotional turmoil, what we truly need is containment—yet we rarely know how to ask for it. We don’t know how to tell someone, Don’t let go completely; let me fall apart here, where my body craves warmth. How often have we run away, secretly hoping to be held back and forced into the shelter of someone’s arms? Yet how much better it would be to emulate that three-year-old, who understands instinctively that an emotional outburst simply needs a safe place to spill over—no hiding under the bed or disguising tears in the shower.

The solution to pain could be so simple, yet we’re conditioned to endure ridicule for wanting what we needed as children. Society insists that adults must be made of iron—that we shouldn’t admit our hearts ache or beg for a hug to soothe the anger that, if left unhealed, will eventually explode, leaving destruction in its wake.

But I refuse to comply. I’ll stand firm in my right to cry when I must and to be weak when I feel it. I’ll ask for help when I need it and seek hugs when I’m unraveling. And I’ll offer the same to anyone who needs it, because no one should fear that honesty will lead to irreversible consequences.

Jean Pierre.

Among the many things I despise—things that make my blood boil until I could melt stone—there is smoke. Any kind of smoke. Two things make me loathe it vehemently: the reek of cigarette smoke, and the way smokers exhale it in enclosed spaces, aiming it straight at me. I endure this constantly, watching people ignore how their actions poison others. We’ve built such rotten societies that we’ll trample anyone to stand out.

I admit my words are harsh—perhaps because I’m writing this still raw from the last time it happened. But I stand by it, because this is just one of countless examples. Drivers swerve to block others; on packed trains, we sprawl across three seats while strangers are cornered; when we could act, we’d rather film disasters than prevent them. Blowing smoke in a face is merely the spark that lights my fury over how vile we’ve become.

What warped logic insists strangers should savor the rot from another’s lungs? It’s utter disrespect—like mocking bodies, mocking voices, cutting lines, or leaving without a thanks. These might seem unrelated, but they’re threads of the same sickness: our worship of self-importance. We’re raised to believe we’re protagonists in some horror story, where the world owes us tribute and people should flatten themselves like rugs so our feet never touch soil others have walked.

This isn’t about empathy. It’s simpler: common sense. The understanding that wanting something doesn’t force others to want it too. We declare purple the world’s favorite color, blind to the spectrum beyond. We assume everyone craves the sun, forgetting some cherish shade. We drag people to beaches, never asking if they dream of fog-draped forests instead.

Jean Pierre.

My earliest memory, from as far back as I can remember, is my childhood self gazing out a window as rain poured from the sky, while Inevitable played on the radio in the background. So I can say that from the very first moment of awareness, I have been a follower and devotee of the greatest artist my country—and perhaps the entire continent—has ever produced. Shakira isn’t just my favorite artist because of the lyrics she writes and sings, but because she became my ultimate role model in every possible way. She embodies everything I aspire to be—not just as an artist, but as a person.

There comes a time in adolescence when we search for role models to identify with, ideals to pursue, and figures to idolize. I found all of that in one person—the same one who has accompanied me since the very beginning. I grew up wanting to dance like her. Then, once I trained as an artist myself, I admired her discipline and her ability to be everywhere at once—how she insists on taking full responsibility for her projects. I adopted that mindset the moment I stepped into the world of performance. I also became obsessed with learning, inspired by her sharp intellect. Of course, I’m nowhere near that level yet, but I’m on my way.

It’s a huge fallacy when artists shrug off responsibility by claiming they don’t influence others, saying everyone is free to do as they please. My idol understands this perfectly, and I know she strives to be a positive example for her followers. Her audience spans all ages, from children to the elderly, and as a mother, public figure, human rights advocate, and philanthropist, her choice of words and actions carries immense weight for those of us who look up to her.

I’ve always told myself that once I met Shakira, I could die in peace—my life would have no further purpose. And on March 30, those words nearly became reality. That was the day we finally “met.” She didn’t know I was there, of course, but I knew it was a magical night—both of us in a country not our own, yet one that felt like home. When the concert began, something unprecedented happened: my body felt strange, the adrenaline dried out my lips, my heart raced, and for several moments, I was on the verge of passing out. Even as I called for help, on the brink of fainting, my body kept singing and dancing uncontrollably. I managed to shove a few chocolates into my mouth and gulp down some water, desperate to stay on my feet for the remaining two hours. My vision blurred a few times, but through my phone’s camera, I saw myself grinning wildly. I felt like I was dying, and I didn’t care—my body was exactly where it wanted to be, and my voice didn’t miss a single syllable. What better way to go?

Fireworks lit up the sky as the concert ended. The audience was wild, electrified by the ritual that had stolen a piece of our souls. When the lights came on, there I stood, surrounded by people rushing toward the exits. I was alive—I’d survived against the odds—but something inside me had died that night. A part of me will remain in that stadium forever: the years of longing to share the same space and time, the frustration of not being able to scream the lyrics alongside her. A child, a teenager, was left behind on that floor—finally, the cycle had closed. Maybe it’s time to grow up a little… or maybe later.

Now, I dream of weaving together all my projects under what I’ve dubbed the “Jeanpiverso” over the years—and my muse is at the center of it all. I’ve used her music in my plays, drawn inspiration from her movements in my performances, and the book I wrote (soon to be published) is filled with references to her. In this piece and in everything I do for the rest of my life, I will strive to honor the woman who has inspired me most—the one who will undoubtedly walk beside me until another surge of emotions sweeps me away.

Jean Pierre.

When I was a child, I remember that I was afraid of the rain and everything that comes with it; The sound of water bouncing off roofs, sidewalks, glass, and whatever, made me hide under the bed and cry while I covered my ears with my hands, while screaming until it was all over (not to mention the sounds of rays and lightning). Last year I went to live for three months on an island where there were thunderstorms very often and when nature decided that it was time to rain, it did not walk with middle grounds, it released all its power and lightning fell on the sea or very close to us, the wind knocked down the umbrellas and stole some seats; There were times when we had to close all the doors and windows because what was inside was going to be damaged if we did not cover it in time; The rain was coming in very black clouds and it seemed that they were charged with anger.

Throughout these years I discovered the beauty of rain and how beautiful the sound of lightning is. I discovered the joy of bathing under a torrent of water that comes directly from the sky; I decided that those thunderous sounds would lull my nights and help me lose myself in them, forgetting all the outside. I even became defiant, while I lived on that island I sat in the place closest to the sea at night to feel the inclemency of the wind approaching me while whispering to me that all its power was coming; I was seduced and hypnotized by the white shapes that were created in the sky in the distance and with each passing minute they approached me, as if insinuating that they were going to envelop me in their ritual of chaos and just as the water began to fall on my head and those electricity lines were surrounding me,  I would move a few meters away and dance to the loud music that was interrupted by the sounds of the sky when the storm was already inexorable, and so on, many nights in a row, challenging her and she inviting me not to fear her, but to thank her, because if she did not exist we would not be able to bathe, the plants would not grow and the unique beauty would not exist.

There are fears so irrational that they are absurd to explain, but only when you are wet by the water of the rain that you are afraid of, will you know that in reality we believe we are afraid of it and that beliefs can disappear, or transform, in my case, I went from fleeing to adore it, because on the other side of that fear, life itself was talking to me in the form of lightning,  which I thought were screams to scare me and they were actually singing lullabies. In the same way it happened to me with the fear of heights, I could only overcome it when I threw myself several times from trees into the river or when I used paragliding twice; I am still afraid of the sea, but there I am at every opportunity diving where I am invited, or living in a place where everything around it is infinite and deep water.

I am very afraid of many things, but I think that almost all my fears I have already faced, some were reinforced, I am not going to deny it, but others vanished and transformed me; others are still there, but they give me the adrenaline necessary to feel the excitement of the proximity to leaving the earthly plane. There are fears that I want to continue having because they make me respect and value who I am, and there are others that I need to caress from time to time to know if they are real, or to awaken the desire to move my body that at times resists activating and prefers to hide under a blanket.

Jean Pierre.

Trying to explain and understand the issues of the society we inhabit is as difficult as being able to describe what water tastes like. I have a question with this liquid, and that is that I could say that I am addicted, and it fascinates me; I can't imagine my day to day without many liters of this inside my body and throughout life I have come across many positions in front of my opinion. For some it does not taste like anything and since it does not have its own flavor, according to them, they do not consume it and prefer other types of liquids (full of sugar); there is another group that consumes it but once or twice a day; There is also another sector that thinks it is better not to drink it because they do not want to go to the bathroom often and they feel that they do not need it and there are many others who can affirm with one hand raised and the other on the Bible, that water tastes different depending on its origin, its packaging, its source of birth, its city and even what the sun,  confinement or exposure generates it.

We will never be able to agree on this question, something that seems so simple, much less can we agree on everything that happens. I could spend the whole day talking about the benefits of water and others could argue with me, for their strange reasons, that it is not necessary to consume it, then we can only refer to the evidence, the facts, the science, the studies and everything that makes us understand that we have to consume water several times a day and assume what this implies.

Well, the same thing happens with everything that surrounds us and issuing judgments or opinions without prior knowledge, leads us to cataclysms already known. Opinions are valid and welcome, but if what is going to be said does not have a floor that supports it, it will collapse at the end of the first word, we would only be saying things out of the pure need to always want to say something. It doesn't matter what the water tastes like, you have to drink it; it doesn't matter how much politics bothers us, we have to do politics; it does not matter to be believers, you have to respect those who do not; There is no point in shouting powerfully if the argument is empty and detracts from the strength of the discourse.

I have had endless discussions with people who cling tooth and nail to a posture and in the face of the evidence shown, some prefer to become blind, because their ego is bigger and more powerful than universal history itself. Some prefer to live in anger and shouting for the defense of the indefensible, rather than feel that they lost, when in knowledge everything is gain. I want to close with a phrase that has haunted me since my adolescence "for our truth, to give our lives, but to be willing to change of truth".

Jean Pierre.

Last weekend I was with friends at the birthday celebration of a very close friend; We were dancing, singing and those who know me know that I always end up doing a show with all my histrionics, so in that space I could not miss that show that has been accompanying me for years from party to party. At one point in the night, when the body could not take it anymore, the throat was ready to sing while the legs took a breather; I had an improvised microphone in my hands and someone put on Antología, and together with two friends, including the honoree, we began to sing with all the passion that this song represents, I could see them in the eyes being them, I was at a point of maximum happiness and I could feel everything that went through the icy air; my skin and my senses were predisposed to love, and I perceived everything that happened, the looks that smiled when they saw us sing and previously dance; I could feel the alcohol circulating in the blood of those who were drinking and how it made them free and uninhibited as I had never seen them; I could feel the happiness generated by sins and the excitement of the forbidden; I felt myself, relieved, happy, tired; I felt my muscles vibrating at the speed of the salsa that I put on to remember the Fridays on the boulevard in Cali and I saw myself in the eyes of those who were watching someone who still does not renounce the joy generated by sincere and pure laughter.

It is incredible how parties, dancing, shouting, throwing oneself on the ground and extreme tiredness manage to exorcise the sorrows and evils that we carry. Happiness is a process of construction in solitude and of sharing the final result in private with our resilient mind and with the public present, witness to the changes, pains, transformations and, to a large extent, cause of that overflow of sensations that are spread through the skin, hair and all kinds of secretions.

Obviously, everyone has their own process and their way of healing, mine involve an excess of explosions in which what needs to be destroyed is destroyed and from which the excess pieces are collected and, from there, built again. To put an end to everything that is necessary to end, without fear, without worry and with the full certainty that the new dawn comes with the necessary tools to build the human being I want to be. No matter how many times you have to start, even if it costs me my own life, after all, cats have enough to risk.

There is nothing better than the proximity to death to understand that clinging to this incarnation is a good reason to greet it from time to time while your hands sweat, your heart accelerates and your legs tremble and reminds us that all these sensations are as necessary in everyday life, as eating and breathing.

Jean Pierre.

For many years I have carried three flags with me, all three weigh the same, they are of different colors, but they are waved with the same force and I try to hold them as strong as the rituals of the homeland suggest. It is curious because the three nations are very different from each other and when I am in those that are at the ends of the continent I have to defend them, because between them there is a kind of social and moral war which does not allow each one to understand that from those great differences comes born that which moves the fibers of patriotism every day. I have confirmed with my skin and my experiences the things that I dare to affirm and there is no greater proof of what I feel than this love and deep pride that gives me when I say that, from the adoptive side, I belong to three nations and I feel as much part of each one as if on each arrival I had been born in that place.

I am the living proof of syncretism, although some may call it with somewhat derogatory adjectives, but in reality it is not something that keeps me awake at night, I care more about finding ways to give back everything I have received, honoring at every opportunity the lands that have allowed me to plant and grow in soils that have made me who I am today. Someone said that nationalisms are cured by traveling and in some way it is true. It is a reality that our place of origin is the cause of our way of thinking, behaving, speaking and giving our opinions, but when we manage to have our hands open and our minds naked without any restriction, we manage to impregnate ourselves with all that I mentioned, but coming from a culture opposed or similar to the one we know and there it is impossible not to transform ourselves into a new "me".  the one who understands that there are things that do not work everywhere; that social and political contexts lead to very different results from those we thought would happen on our soil; We manage to understand that there is no single way to communicate and we hit our nose the ground knowing that we are not the only ones who do what we believe makes us special.

My accent has changed and is expressed depending on where I am, there are words that I know will not be understood and so I use the ones of the region; there are other words that I love as they sound and I carry them with me everywhere; there are expressions that have more strength and power than the ones I was born with, so I have turned them into my filler words; There are shapes that I have engraved on my skin by osmosis and I enunciate them wherever I go. Due to idiosyncrasies there are things that I cannot change and they betray my nationality just by saying hello and that fills me with pride, but it also makes me feel proud to carry on my shoulders the nations that have made me part, that give me their art and their history; that embrace me so warmly that a trip of a few days has turned into one of months and that the unknown streets do not make me feel, because wherever I step, I feel at home.

Jean Pierre.

I was always a faithful believer in going back to where you went happy, but now I am very confused and with the update in beliefs, I almost dare to affirm that I could never return to a place where I already existed and where there is nothing pending. To return to wanting to embrace a latent memory is to ruin the feeling of warmth impregnated in the soul and wanting to relive that emotion only achieves, most of the time, is to push it to a slow and deteriorated suicide.

I say that I am confused because in the same space several ideas converge, that of not repeating the crossing of so many kilometers and several in which it is known that there will always be something new, and that which is just beginning will become days after departure the sensation that I began talking about, which makes us want to return in the near future,  and it becomes a kind of circle that ages in a very strange way, which puts me in this painful situation called confusion.

I am that type of friend who travels thousands of kilometers with the desire for a reunion that reminds me of those times when I was invaded by love and happiness, but when I arrive, the streets are empty, some justify themselves by saying that there is no time and others feel that 30 minutes on public transport are an eternity; for another 5 kilometers they cancel the amount I said at the beginning of the paragraph. Clearly this is a claim to myself and an invitation to calm my impulses when I decide to buy a flight, but those same impulses are what have led me to fall in love so many times with other lands and with smiles that promise many unforgettable moments.

I know perfectly well what is going to happen when I go through migrations and even so I continue to hope that this time it will be different, ultimately, that is what we artists live on, we hope to live from our art and we believe that everything can become a field of roses, why not hope that love is still intact somewhere where it was happy? I have been encountering this cold reality for the last seven years and I still cannot understand why someone who was once so close, now no longer feels the desire to laugh until he cries and cannot breathe. My feelings don't die, they accompany me wherever I go and multiply in the farewell, because I always cling to the promise of a reunion that makes me want not to leave or to return at every opportunity.

Jean Pierre.

I have always made a great show of the great system of defenses that my body has, now I constantly wonder what is happening that fails weekly and no longer wants to obey my orders. Maybe it's a direct response to age, talking to me loud and clear and mentioning that, although I look younger, I'm not or maybe it's my skin begging me to let it rest, to make peace with my restless mind and decide to somatize everything that goes through this brain that in one way or another, wants to surrender.

My legs are faltering, my balance went on a trip, my head is heavy, creativity is in a corner as if I were scolded, I want to sleep many hours in a row, I get dizzy often, I eat small bites to pretend I have something in my stomach, the bathroom is tired of seeing me enter and my throat does not want to tell the same stories. At the same time I have the pressure to respond with all the commitments I acquired and weekends no longer mean anything. I die slowly hugging a couple of pillows, silent, listening only to the sound of the planes that remind me every five minutes that I am still breathing.

It's strange because I don't have the motivation I had all these years, today I don't care what I always cared about, but my mind clings to satisfy everything that is pending and my immune system tells it no, that it can't keep up with the pace it has taken all its life, that we rethink everything and let it rest because it has already lost its way and does not know what day it is today or what time is the right time to get out of bed. How difficult it tends to be to pursue dreams, dreams in which I faithfully believe and that I will pursue even if I have to build a new body, or give up, is also a valid option.

And then, when I am already weak and without wanting more, a flash of life appears, I recover, I feel good and I get up quickly to eat and to want to do everything that is pending; A strange energy takes over my being and here I am again writing with poetry at my fingertips and building plans to stay alive, at least until I achieve what I want so much to achieve. Here I am looking for the positive in the deep darkness and putting together the infinite ways to get resources to finance those projects that the whole world should know. Here I am looking for bodies to hug and that warm my frozen soul. Here I am singing with sobs in my voice the songs that have walked with me so many thousands of kilometers. Here I am, I´m still here and I hope to continue.

Jean Pierre

This writing can be a mixture of several analogies and it will also be the narration of something that happened recently, so recent that I have not been able to process my thoughts and perhaps I will be able to purify them while these letters are reflected here. The weekend immediately before, I had to travel to Querétaro, a city located in a kind of semi-desert, with a climate that reminds me a lot of my hometown and with several patriotic stories; I went to this place to present in a cultural space that had previously been a convent, my documentary called "El Búho", we were invited by the administration of the space to have two screenings, one on Friday and another on Saturday, so we scheduled the trip from Friday to Sunday and in the latter it would be our return to Mexico City. At the same time, I planned a date with someone whom I had great intentions of continuing to meet, such a meeting would be on my return to the city, on Saturday walking through the place we found a flea market and I fell in love with some plants that were sold, I assumed that it would be a good gift to take this person on that kind of date and I bought it and at that moment the story that gives it meaning begins to these lines.

When it was Sunday and we had to start the return trip, everything was an accumulation of mistakes that always become funny anecdotes. To get home I took 5 buses, for a trip of more than 6 hours, with little food in my stomach and with the anxiety of being able to arrive on time to this meeting for which I had been waiting for a week. The plant fell 4 times and my friend Jaz helped me plant it again the times we were together and when I was alone I sat in a bus terminal to try to revive Plantifera, as I called her, I spoke to her, I asked her forgiveness for not taking care of her as she should, I told her that I have never had plants at home because I am a disaster to take care of this type of living beings and I said to myself a thousand times that it would be absurd for a desert plant to die.

The white stones that adorned Plantifera were already black and gray and mixed with the sand and now she was sown in a kind of cement, you will have to be very strong, Plantifera, to take root in that mixture of mud, stones and falls. I arrived home dragging fatigue and uncertainty because the messages I sent were not being answered, I showered, shaved to return to before I was 30, I ate something and I prepared to go out again to meet what was stimulating my heartbeat in the last few days. Many hours passed and when it was too late, between laughter and sordid apologies, that message arrived saying that it was not going to be possible to exist in the same space for a couple of hours.

Now there is one plant in the bureau of the room that does not know that it is orphaned, because soon I will leave and I will not be able to take it and the reason for its purchase has already reached an agreement with me not to see each other again, you know, because I do not want to lose my dignity anymore looking for what is not destined to be. And then as I was thinking about how to write this tragicomedy, a lot of cheesy ideas and metaphors came into my head. One of them is that I am that plant in one way or another, traveling from here to there, battered, fallen, with dirt, but clinging with my nails to the idea of one day being able to water my roots in a sunny yard and stay still while I continue to grow. I mean, I don't want to be a vegetable, but I want some of those properties that I think I already have a couple of, like I need to photosynthesize to survive.

Jean Pierre

Enough of hiding vulnerability, enough of drying tears in secret to avoid feeling weak, enough of not asking for help, enough of containing all the emotions that are ready to be released, enough of being afraid of public scrutiny and the freedom to let go. We are taught from a young age not to be vulnerable because it is the open door for others to take advantage of that, but I see it from another angle; When I am vulnerable it is for me, for my pain, for my tears, for my feelings, for my health in all aspects, what do I care if there is a spy watching my weakness? I am weak when my body asks me to falter and strong when I need to be; I am love when I want to love and I am hate when I must embody it so as not to allow the passage of damage again. I don't find anything wrong with showing yourself naked and defenseless in the middle of everyone, it's that we are not what the world wants us to be, we are what is left at the end of the day put on the pillow, that's where everything we build falls and with which we will start the next day.

Now seen from the other angle, you have to be completely miserable to see someone destroyed and want to take advantage of that, in any case, the one who is wrong will continue to be innocent for only wanting to drain his suffering and whoever dares that line, is condemned to the irrevocable absence of forgiveness. I have always said that what is not released, gives cancer, I don't know how real this is, but that there are implications, there are and I have no doubts about that, in my case, my tonsils become inflamed and then the cascade of words and expressions has to begin to be able to release that rope that chokes me little by little in each silence and in each person it works differently,  some need to scream, others cry, others talk and so on, each one in their process of liberation from that which can generate collateral effects that when they all join together would lead to an implosion, where the only collapse will be ours.

I have already written many times on this subject, but I think I have not yet finished saying what I have to say about the fascinating world of emotions. A few days ago I got angry with someone because I was afraid to show their pain, for God's sake! What have we come to? Why do we have to put our heads under a stone to be able to shout that which burns in our chest? The pain must come out completely, like a tsunami that will probably end everything, the screams and tears are part of that injured animal that wants to lick those wounds and no one can give an opinion regarding the way we carry out our process.

What to do? The answer is simple, accompany, allow, support, shoulder absorbing secretions, sharp ear and give an opinion only when necessary. The empathy that is so lacking is necessary at all times and pretending to be blind when we see the pain of others, only proves all the theories of human behavior.

Jean Pierre

Whenever for the slightest moment, we stop being the oppressed, we do not hesitate for a single second to become the oppressors  we can see this on different scales, from those who do it at home to those who govern a nation. Maybe it’s be the unstoppable thirst for power or the unquenchable desire to be noticed, or it’s simply  the desire to hurt. I have said it before and I stand by my position: evil is the primary quality of the human being, but it can be hidden sometimes, and even perhaps disappear.

How it bothers us to be attacked, but we are happy attacking others, unaware immediately of what happened, what has just happened to us. I want to take this writing to one of those scales that I started talking about and I will focus on culture, but making it clear that at some other time I will take it up again and put it on another surface. We inherit possessions, character, genetics and idiosyncrasies and these inheritances are what give us a social, economic, and cultural status that we cling onto to be perpetrators of evil or meritorious of it.

There is a collective indignation for what one society says about another and this leads to strong positions and makes us raise the flags of pride and dignity, but at the same time we replicate that model with those we consider inferior, and so on, in an eternal cycle that has proved psychologists and anthropologists right for decades. It is as if the evil we receive is proportional to that which we must return to another, to another who is not to blame for what we do or the responsibility for what others do to us, and there I go back to the beginning. This happens in everywhere form the intimacy of a couple to the globality of existence.

To not do what we don't want to be done to us, but... could it be that we want it done? Is it not rather that we unconsciously seek to continue the social order established long ago? Do we like to feel anger so that we can unload it on the person behind us? Are we afraid of neutrality and look for extremes? I don't know, I have more questions than glimpses of answers, but many of the answers I have are no longer worth giving, they are obvious and palpable with the actions that I see, have and hear daily.

We are a little sick of power, why? I can’t say for sure, so much damage has been done to us that we seek the suppression of another, different and unequal, regardless of the collateral or the linear and we end up with our hands, conscience and soul full of blood, hatred, resentment and revenge, either by direct action or by complicity by silence.

Jean Pierre 

I don't understand how there are artists who don't seek world revolution, it's a utopia, I know, but isn't that what keeps us alive? Art has told the story of humanity since before we knew we were telling it and that same art is what motivates us to create new versions of life in which we all fit. In itself it is rebellious and vulgar, generating pleasures and passions; telling of wars and seeking peace; painting with blood and sowing seeds of restlessness.

Recently this obsession with the history of South America, dictatorships, supposed democracy, war, pain in other words, everything that has formed us as peoples united by the Amazon and the Andes has returned to me and it has all led to the same thing. Art allowed us to stick our heads out in the midst of deep tyranny and was a precursor of the conquered battles. Those crazy people with guitars, banners, messy hair and with the idea of a better world were responsible for keeping those ships that were more flooded than afloat sailing and it was the revolutionaries who, through their art, put  ointment on our wounds of abandonment, hatred and what was left when they wanted to steal our identity more bearable.

The artist seeks to make the viewer uncomfortable, but that discomfort is because he also wants them to open their eyes and understand that what they are seeing is a reflection of their lives. I don't understand this mania that some people have of wanting to tell stories that do not belong to us, when ours are enough to fill the libraries and theaters of the entire world. All art that does not move consciences will be nothing more than empty entertainment not far from what religions and manipulative seek. It is necessary to delve into our past and to be able to tell it through the expressions of the soul, it is important to be able to know where to direct our present and what mistakes not to make again and what successes to try to relive.

Singing, dancing, acting, interpreting, writing and all that we have called art, is responsible for embodying the experiences of its author or those of his imagination, giving rise to thousands of people who identify with it. The artist what others cannot because they still live in a prison that is not permeated by freedom, it is revolutionary to break chains, open doors, create awareness, lend one's throat and skin to show the feeling of others. If only the world knew how cathartic it is to bathe in sweat on stage, or to lose your voice while singing with tears in your eyes, or to bleed from your fingers while passion is poured into an instrument, or to write thousands of lyrics while the mind seeks tranquility, then weapons would not exist even in their version of play.

Jean Pierre