Requiem: A Hallucination Book

My dear friend, he said, life is strange and strange things happen in life

I went to bed, it was almost midnight. Three hours later, I was up drinking water and holding a book which I've been reading for a few days now and I'm almost finishing, filled with paragraphs that suffocate the reader due to a lack of white spaces, recipes and places that make Portugal proud, rather mundane observations interspersed with the extraordinary, dialogues that disguise themselves on purpose, and underscore the tone of a stream of consciousness but not quite'it's a hallucination, why would I expect order?, I asked.
As I was holding the book, I knew I would write something about it as soon as I finish it; I kept listening to that voice anticipating things to say. It's instinct; the way I see it, it isn't born in one's mind but in one's gut. I can't analyze inspiration; it comes'while turning the pages or two months later'I sit and I write. But I'm not a writer. They write for readers; I write to clear the mind and unclog the heart. I've been having trouble sleeping lately, it must be all those thoughts and responsibilities heavier than mountains, I assumed, that have prevented me from having a good night's sleep since April. So I started reading the book I was holding, trying to find some sort of reassurance. Whereas many people seek entertainment, and I'd like to be a member of that group more often, I added, I was looking for solace; I was trying to reclaim a lost sanctuary. Everything causes cancer, even being unhappy, told me the Ticket Collector the night before. One should always be careful, I replied, once unhappiness poisons the heart, all sorts of ailments and diseases appear, medieval and new. Books usually provide balm for troubled souls. However, do I have a soul? There's trouble, no doubt, but perhaps I caught the Writer's virus and I don't have a soul anymore, we all know how contagious those things can be and I may have an Unconscious now. It would explain why I'm here, talking nonsense, addressing the Silence, fearing ghosts as the boundaries between reality and fantasy dissolve quietly. It would explain many things. I'd better get back to the book, I said, before the night is over and the day demands the fulfillment of all duties. Besides, this is not a good time to be discussing viruses. This is a bewitched year, I remember the Writer saying once, there is some kind of witchcraft going on.


It was a beautiful night, I could almost hear a melody from a nocturne by Chopin being played not far from here. I'm not the only one experiencing difficulties to sleep, I thought. I returned to the book and suddenly, the Seller of Stories was offering his services again. He insisted on telling me a story, any story. There's a full moon, he said as he sat on the other side of the bed, and that's the moon of poets, you're alone and your soul is filled with longing, and a story might bring you some happiness. A melancholy tone swathed his words; a tone I've recognized in every person who carries the burden of their past'everything they failed to be. I listened to what he had to tell. Nevertheless, I had a feeling he kept to himself the most interesting story. A most disquieting one. A quality all literature should possess, according to the Guest I had the pleasure to meet earlier. Well, I haven't met him per se, I witnessed his meeting with the Writer. I shouldn't pay much attention to everything the Guest has written, though, since he spent many years hiding behind detached thoughts only to acknowledge, after his death, when most people can't have an appointment with him and have no more than what has been printed to rely on, that the important thing is to feel. In that same meeting, the Guest said he distrusts literature that soothes people's consciences, while some people, I responded to myself, turn to books to soothe their consciences, to populate their solitude, to find some answers, to learn how to choose according to the dictates of the heart, that is, to make visceral choices'always the best ones, observed the Writer. Nothing wrong with living in the world of dreams, I thought, as long as that world only belongs to the Night; in order to do any of those things, and for them to have repercussions on our lives, one has to be awake.


Dec 27, 20
* Later on my blog.