"The time is now tracking the broad spectrum of syn drome Bartleby en la literatura, hace tiempo que estudio la enfermedad, el mal endémico de las letras contemporá neas, la pulsión negativa o la atracción por la nada que hace que ciertos creadores, aun teniendo una conciencia literaria muy exigente (o quizás precisamente por eso), no lleguen a escribir nunca; o bien escriban uno o dos libros y luego renuncien a la escritura; o bien, tras poner en marcha sin pro blemas una obra en progreso, queden, un día, literalmente paralizados para siempre”.
Vila Matas
crossed the border as a stray dog \u200b\u200bthat wanders around his nose between any odor, the heat was unbearable heat call, the forest soto biding time seemed to engulf the entire path, a path rough, dry and cracked by an infinite, without a shadow presence that surrounded and jealous. Without a hat, at least, a piece of cloth to the skin over their heads, there seemed to be hell. But he had decided, if followed, later, was only a matter of time I would reach the vultures, thirst, fatigue and early death. He saw me walking and then tumbling down without even rolling, dry fall, round without making a sound of agony, like a log but with the crushing of a faint, whistling face relief. Nothing was left behind, had long since ceased even thoughts, I can only hope it was dark, a breeze soporific paradise and give me a little more deception stand.
The harshest self boundaries are ever read, but the truth at this point, I could believe with all the atheism of the world that borders are passages simply that one is invented to get back to the same starting point, in any case this is also a lie, one is a border. I lived in the most atrocious, was behind the region of boredom, nothing new could motivate my life, everything would be back and dump debris was behind me was the ruin: the desert panic comes from the geography of our forgetfulness marginal and contempt, so one is a long border.
Next was the unknown, anxiety, a feeling of mystery, fear of something that kindled me courage. The dizziness that began to swirl in my gut called a jump of faith to leave everything. Everything smacks of risk and the first step is a chasm that has ever breathed air. One is a border.
Every place in the world is the center of self, initiated arrival. Inside, only those who hesitate, who yearns, who supplied the blood strength to continue and the heart was not discouraged.
The fate of every impulse is to dream, to speak with the shade of small relics and a putrid carefully treasured wealth of swimming. Vacuum was impossible, after a cargo version of oneself in love there is nothing that can be done to extinguish it. Dying is delivered to the resignation of failing to fight against yourself but to live is to conform to bear what could not, it is best forgotten, become a border and begin to strain the memory until you abort all, insist that any day will be spent really the border and then you have to start all over, start by going to a mirror, touching the skin, eyes, look at that face and begin to discover the unknown being who reached the border, which is now in an inhospitable place.
I crossed the border but failed, on the other side there was only one dead.
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What part of Christ I find it?
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me I was too tired to suggestible by tales of ghosts. I said good night and I fell on the mattress with the heaviness of sleep suddenly collapses at the slightest pressure. I fell asleep instantly, a thick dream that left me unconscious in a heartbeat.
how I woke up, then I could not sleep ever.
Nightmares has the habit of leaving a bitter one with the disappointment of discovering that they were just nightmares, but there are certain feelings in the dream that seem to come from a parallel dimension. My dog \u200b\u200bhad turned to me with such pleasant and graceful pose with dogs sleep on their backs.
That was my last vision, then the horror.
The Indian crushed me and woke me up in full panic, I tried to scream but something would not let me utter the slightest whimper, the Indian's face was determined, his bare, sweaty back was pushed upon me with violence, I wanted to catch me in my body, I could not get out but not all, the Indians knew and immobilized me with his whole body. I was terrified.
I suddenly realized it was my hand that clutched my throat and his hand grasped my wrist so failed to desatenazar hanging.
stretched forth my hand and as I hit her stomach, hit him with the force of a child unconscious but seemed to work, the Indian was gone and I could breathe and scream and gritaaaarrr.
something back to me, my dog \u200b\u200bwas standing watching me, but another dog identical to it was lying on his back, motionless, absent from the world.
As I recovered, I realized I was beginning to dawn and that me there was only one animal.
I could never go back to sleep. India had defeated that night but forever haunt me in search of a body to inhabit. Mine was I had waited. The story was not horror, it was horror.
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A written more, product for nothing, a useless entertainment.
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had too much to say. The world was silent.
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presence When most amazed and astounded that anyone breathing, when it is granted the shadow color to ponds is lost by another mirage that is paper vanished into the clouds, when one just starts to believe that anything served in that body to know everything we adore, when anxiety to escape from the childhood depopulated all the flavor and feel loved so folded skin on the ribs, when all this started, as soon as we I ended up burning, then it seems to surprise assault the question: What now do so hang on the sides?
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