martes, 26 de julio de 2016

The Jones'

   The day the Jones family drove into the quiet neighborhood of Riverview, people of the street decided to greet them personally, as they had done before for every new family arriving to their community. It was a small town and they all believed a good relationship between neighbors was essential to improve the lives of everyone and even in order to prevent major catastrophes like someone disappearing from the face of the Earth or the kids being a little withdrawn.

 However, the Jones’ didn’t receive anyone on their first date. Every single person who went to their door was received by a little girl who told them they were really busy with moving and that they should get back once they had been done unpacking and setting their lives back together. Our of respect, people decided to come back later, although many housewives were insulted to be refused entry, especially if they had cooked something delicious.

 A whole week passed until the Jones’ themselves invited everyone o their home. They sent very nice invitations and tried to make every single family on the street feel they were sorry to make all children look around. Too many people thought that was something only strange folk did and they certainly didn’t wanted to live nearby anyone like that. But the invitations changed their minds, as they were never courted in such a nice way.

 It was a Friday night when everyone attended a dinner party organized by the Jones’. Children were admitted but had to leave the party at 10 in the evening. The Jones family was composed of several people: Lucy and Bert Jones were the mother and father of the family. And it had to be said they were very particular: they only wore black clothes and appeared to be as in love as a couple of teenagers, kissing around and barely showing people more than they needed to see.

 The kids were only too; there was Regina, the young girl that had opened the door for people when they had been moving and Jonathan, a teenager with baggy eyes that seemed to have never slept a day of his life. There was also a very skinny woman that spoke in another language, probably one of the adults mother. And finally, there was Brock. He was a very tall man, with a bit of a silly expression on his face. He seemed to be their employee or something.

 He spent the whole party in a cornet, as if he was verifying that everything was going smoothly. He made the glasses bang chilled again by the staff the Jones’ had brought for the event and he seemed to vanish every so often. A rumor saying they had one more member of their family started to grow after that and because of that strange employee.

 In any case, the party had been a real success. Now every single person knew who they were and, although they were called eccentric and other similar words, the Jones’ became an integral part of the community of Riverview. Yet, children would never go alone to that house, for example if they had lost a baseball or something like that. Children had invented that the woman was a witch that failed to be a proper one. They were scared of her because she was nothing like they were used to.

 In school, the Jones’ children were almost always alones, especially the teenager. He was obviously dressed much more conservatively than the rest of the children and seemed to be sensitive enough to make beautiful drawings and art in general. His teacher was impressed from day 1 because of the small masterpieces Jonathan had created for him in such a small amount of time.

 As for Regina, she did have a lot of friends but sometimes she said she felt alone and strange. She thought sometimes that her family was too uncommon and that because of that she failed to connect with anyone else. And when she did connect, she felt bad because she assumed that wasn’t what a Jones family member would do. They would talk about it and discuss it and see the options. They were very uncommon parents and it was often that the kids had to solve their problems by themselves.

 With the passing of time, the Jones’ house turned into the street every single kid avoid and also every adult ran in from of. It was like if their happiness was sucked away by the sole presence f the house. And then there was that monster, that enormous man that appeared no to be ale to talk. But he did talk but had decided years ago to limit the amount of things he said because he thought it was not necessary.

 Brock was not really a Jones but they had brought him to town and every single person wondered what did he do in that house. It wasn’t as if they had a mansion were help would be needed. Some people saw him in sometimes around the commercial area of town, buying groceries or running errands while the Jones’ were out. Everyone just stared at him because of his height.

 Every neighbor thought he was maybe the weirdest but the parents were not really the most normal people. No one actually knew what it was that Bert Jones did for work. The only true thing was that he left every single morning at the same time and he was the first husband to arrive to his home at night, something that most housewives around there thought was very curious, as they were used to their husbands arriving always late, with food already cold.

 But Bert was always there for dinner and kissing Lucy’s face every time he arrived into his home. It was something the neighbors also grew very curious about, the fact that they didn’t really hide the love they had for each other. No other couples in town were like that, maybe because it was such a conservative place. They were the only ones to actually show that they were in love and that their relationship seemed to work.

 Lucy also left in the mornings, after her husband, but returned very early in the afternoon, possibly to make dinner. Those were the assumptions the many eyes looking at them could make. Maybe she had some type of part-time job or she had something to do with family. Either way, she would always have her black hair in the same style and her clothes were always similar, very dark and kind of revealing for the taste of the community.

 Yet, as odd as they were, the Jones’ always attended the social gatherings. Whenever there was a meeting of the neighborhood patrol or some kind of reunion at the mayor’s office, they would always be there, husband and wife. They liked to help and were always very keen on making others feel happy. It was strange from them but that’s what they did and most of the time their attempts actually work. They were very beloved in that regard and many envied them for it.

 Of course, some people were actually scared and never really bothered to talk to them too much. There had been a small group of people who had refused to go to their welcoming party and had done it because they thought that they had been rude from the start, not receiving people into their home just because they were moving. They also thought they were strange because of their behavior and their looks.

 Jonathan was teased in school by the kids of those people. One day he was sent to the nurse’s office because one of the boys that thought he was weird had pushed him in the yard and he had fallen and hurt his chin. Both Lucy and Bert picked their son up from school that day and they seemed to be very surprised that such a thing had happened there with their son. It didn’t seem like something they understood.

 They lived there for a couple of more years until they felt they had enough of their reputation as “the weirdos” on Riverview. So one good day, a single moving truck took everything away and the neighbors only knew about them leaving when Brock was seeing driving the truck out of the city. The next day, the house was on sale and there was not a single Jones to see. They had tried and failed again. It wasn’t the first town they settled in and many more would come, as they had done for so many years now.

lunes, 25 de julio de 2016

El desierto de los aparecidos

   Decían que las piedras del desierto tenían la capacidad de moverse por si mismas, que se desplazaban varios kilómetros, sin ayuda de nadie. Mucha gente aseguraba haberlo visto y decían que podía pasar tanto con piedras pequeñas como con rocas enormes. El desierto no era lugar para personas que no saben en que se está metiendo, jamás fue un lugar la cual ir para relajarse o admirar la naturaleza. Lo único que había allí para admirar era una extensión enorme de terreno que parecía vidrio, superficie en la que varios se habían perdido antes y lo harían de nuevo.

 El lugar no tenía ningún signo de vida excepto las aves perdidas que morían por el calor abrazador y caían del cielo como golpeada por una fuerza invisible. Eso y escorpiones, de todos los tamaños y colores. Eran las únicas criaturas que vivían en el desierto pero siempre pasaban cosas extrañas pues, como cualquiera podría constatarlo, no era el lugar más común y corriente del mundo.

 Ya varios hombres y mujeres habían sido sacados de allí, vistos desde el borde del desierto por los habitantes del pequeño caserío de Tintown. No pasaba por allí ninguna carretera grande ni estaban conectados de manera permanente a las líneas de teléfono. La gente confiaba solo en sus celulares que, prácticamente nunca servían para nada pues el desierto creaba una interferencia. Pensaban que algo tenía que ver con las ondas electromagnéticas pero eran solo conjeturas.

 Los perdidos que rescataban siempre decían que no sabían cómo habían llegado allí. Juraban que se habían perdido y que sus recuerdos eran tan borrosos que no podían recordar prácticamente nada. Siempre que pasaba algo así, el individuo afectado se quedada en la casa de Flo, la única enfermera certificada de la zona. Era una mujer mayor, ya jubilada y tratando de vivir tranquila pero se di cuenta pronto que no había vivido en paz por mucho tiempo.

 Esto era por esas apariciones que aumentaban siempre bajo la luna llena. Era como si los locos consideraran que perderse en el desierto en noches claras era lo mejor del mundo. En más de una ocasión, Flo estaba segura de que la persona que atendía estaba borracha o drogada. No decía nada y los enviaba siempre al pueblo más cercano donde tenían dinero para mantener un puesto de salud.

 En Tintown apenas había dinero para la estación de policía y no había escuelas ni nada parecido. Tal vez era porque estaban en la mitad de la nada pero también podría ser porque no había ni un solo niño el caserío. El último se había ido hacía ya décadas y nunca más huno uno. Cosas así parecían sacarle la poca vida al lugar.

 Un verano, el problema se puso peor que siempre. Al comienzo, una persona por noche aparecía en el desierto, del lado donde podían rescatar a la persona. Cuando aparecían muy adentro del desierto, todo se ponía más difícil pues ellos usaban una vieja camioneta para ayudar. No había ambulancia ni vehículos realmente grandes o rápidos. Tenían que arreglárselas con lo que podían y lo mismo iba para los tontos que aparecían en el desierto.

 Pero los pocos habitantes del lugar empezaron a extrañarse aún más cuando el ritmo de las apariciones empezó a aumentar. A mediados de julio, parecía que cada día aparecía uno nuevo y la verdad era que el pequeño lugar no daba abasto. Tuvieron que comprar camas en el pueblo más cercano e instalarlas en un campamento improvisado fuera de la casa de Flo. Siendo la única que podía ayudarlos de verdad, era la mejor opción. A ella no le gustaba nada la idea.

 Sus noches ahora eran insoportables pues no podía dormir normalmente. Debía estar pendiente de los hombres y mujeres que tenían en el patio. Para finales de mes decidió que era mejor instalar su cama allí afuera también y dormir con ellos como si fuera un día de campamento con desconocidos. Nunca eran más de tres pues los enviaba al centro de salud el día siguiente al que aparecían.

 Otro suceso que dejó a la centena de habitantes de Tintown bastante asustados, fue el hecho de que el desierto parecía brillar siempre que la luna llena lo iluminaba. El primer en notarlo fue el viejo Malcom, la persona que vivía más cerca al desierto salado. Cuando empezaron a aumentar las apariciones, Malcolm condujo en su viejo coche hasta la ciudad y regresó con un telescopio de alta capacidad que venían en una tienda por frecuentada.

 El telescopio le reveló una noche que el desierto se encendía cuando había luna llena y ni una sola nube bloqueaba la luz. A veces era todo el terreno que parecía brillar, con un ligero tono azul. El hombre, que ya había dejado la esperanza de experimentar algo especial en su vida, se emocionó de poder ser el primero en vez que el desierto parecía tener vida propia. Era hermoso y luego se puso mejor.

 Algunas noches, cuando aparecían los perdidos, brillaban solo partes del desierto. Aunque vivía en el borde, no era posible ni con el telescopio ver que era lo que hacía que solo ciertos puntos del lugar se iluminaran débilmente. ¿Serían insectos o el movimiento de las piedras por el desierto? No sabía. Pero los colores que había visto eran hermosos, siempre.

 Un pequeño grupo de personas, los más jóvenes, propusieron adentrarse en el desierto y ver que era lo que sucedía allí. Irían por solo una noche y regresarían con la primera luz. No dormirían allí porque necesitarían cada momento de luz que pudiesen tener. De repente, ese viejo vecino que era el desierto se convirtió en una especie de monstruo que los miraba desde lejos, que no se atrevía a atacar a menos que ellos se acercaran demasiado.

 El grupo no encontró nada significativo. Ni las razones para las luces que Malcom decía ver, ni aparecidos salidos de alguna parte. Esa noche, el que apareció lo hizo lejos de donde ellos estuvieron caminando y no los vio o simplemente no quiso verlos. La gente que salía del desierto siempre era muy rara, con ropa graciosa casi siempre y con todo el cuerpo temblándolos como si estuvieran con mucho frio, incluso allí con más de cuarenta grados a la sombra.

 Cuando el equipo de búsqueda regresó, se mostraron frustrados con lo que habían tratado de hacer. No solo no habían resuelto el problema, además no habían ayudada a la mujer que había aparecido esa noche. No se sientía bien ser de aquellas personas que son más parte del problema de que de la solución. Pero no se dieron por vencidos y decidieron hacer un recuento rápido de lo que sí habían encontrado en el desierto.

 Resultaba que no habían visto personas ni luces ni nada demasiado extraños, pero sí habían encontrado varios objetos tirados por el sueño del desierto. Una de las mujeres que había ido al desierto tenía todo en su bolso que vació en la mesa del comedor de Flo. Separaron cada cosa y pronto se dieron cuenta de que había algo que unía los objetos: todos estaban corroídos y parecían piezas de museo.

 Sin embargo, la mujer aparecida los miraba mientras revisaban los objetos y de pronto corrió hacia la mesa cuando uno de los hombres tomó de ella un viejo reloj de bolsillo. No funcionaba y de hecho parecía estar quemado por dentro. Pero la mujer se acercó pronto y lo tomó de las manos del hombre que se asustó por su presencia. La mujer los ignoró y solo besó el reloj y lo apoyó contra su mejilla.

 Flo le preguntó lo obvio, si el reloj era suyo. La mujer, con un acento muy extraño, dijo que sí. Que su padre se lo había dado de regalo de cumpleaños. La mujer salió y entonces en hombre dijo que algo raro pasaba. Todos empezaron a hablar pero él los calló. No lo habían visto pero él había visto una frase grabada en la parte trasera del reloj. Decía: “Para mi princesa en su cumpleaños, 27 de julio de 1843”. Todos se miraron y no dijeron nada. De afuera venía un sonido: la mujer tarareaba una canción, en otro idioma.

sábado, 23 de julio de 2016

The killer

   No matter how loud she got, it wasn’t loud enough for anyone to hear her, after all, it was very late at night in a small city in which people always went to bed exactly a the same hour. And even if they didn’t fall asleep, they were inside their homes, unable to help anyone in need. Some said, days later, that they had heard a scream coming from somewhere that night. Psychologists said the people that swore by that were just guilty, saying things that didn’t happen.

 She yelled and screamed more than once. She fought her attacker with everything she had: her purse, her heels, but nothing worked. And least of all against his knife, which turned the street into a butcher’s shop. The police had a real problem when discovering the body because she hadn’t been murdered in alley or by a river. Veronica Slate had been assassinated two blocks away from her house, the night she was graduating from a business class.

 The killer’s face was known to no one and it was very possible that none of the town’s inhabitants had ever seen him. Mainly, because he had never been there before and would never come back. He had no need to and he was dedicated to what he did so he knew exactly how to do things, how not to be predictable and silly over such obvious things as location. People invented his face in their minds, bases on images of killers they had seen in movies. Of course, they were not accurate.

 He moved on to another town and stayed there for a week in a small hotel by the main square. He had no urge there, no need to make a move. He just walked around and chilled until he decided it had been enough. He took another bus and there was a second victim by the end of a very traumatic week because of the celebrations of the national day and a scandal involving a senator and his daughter.

 The body of Rosa Pérez was found in the middle of the most used avenue in that town. It was a place filled with people every single day but, somehow, no one had seen anything. It was a bigger town than the one before so they were sure a camera would have picked up something. But it didn’t. There was nothing they could use, no witnesses again. And they didn’t consider the cases linked but an isolated and strange attack.

 Rosa worked near by, in laundry place that worked all night. She had a bag filled with dirty clothes the night she was killed. The killer had used a gun with a silencer and many people linked her death to gang violence or some sort of vengeance killing. Her children had to bury their mother without a single shadow of understanding above her case. No one knew anything, again.

 That month, another two women were killed by the same man. One was choked with her own necklace and the other one was run over by a car at least twice. The scenes were always disgusting and it was difficult for every policeman to process those cases, as they hated to get their hands to close to such horrifying situations. The coroners were in charge of everything and they were the ones telling the people what had happened and why. Yet, they were still such random acts of violence that no one dared to link one thing to the other.

 As for the killer, he stopped altogether for several months. He was an unstable person that was obvious. But he was and amazing actor too. Not that it was his job, but he could anyone believe whatever he wanted them to believe. Most people loved to think they lived in a perfect world, filled with magic and love ant only beautiful things. And he benefited from that, from ignorance and their willingness to simply ignore that evil was out there, walking the streets.

 He had killed people for a long time now and kept a list of how many he had killed. It was very uncommon, but he knew that one day he would be the one to go to the police and tell them he had done all of those murders, all of those noted in that small notebook. He had dates and sometimes even names. He knew that there would come a time when he wouldn’t be able to do it as he did it now so he had plans to surrender himself.

 In his mind, he would win in that case. He already had won in any case, because no one knew who he was or that he was the same attacker of all those women. He had a clear advantage over anyone that might investigate a little bit too much. He also thought that a very good detective would actually see clues all over the place. But this was reality and there were no Sherlock Holmes’ roaming the streets solving crimes.

 So he stopped for a few months but began again some time in the winter. To him, it was fun to do it in different places, different seasons and to different kind of people. He had even killed a couple of men but it didn’t feel exactly the same. He preferred women although the urge might come he would like to overcome someone as strong as him and that could prove to be interesting.

 His strength and with were his weapons, his most important ones. It didn’t matter what he used to actually killed somehow. Murder weapons could be anything in the world. But his head, his brain, was a machine that planned everything to perfection and that was the real weapon to be protected against. And no one knew it existed.

 He always read in the papers, the rare times his crimes made it there, that killers always had issues with their parents and had problems during sexual intercourse. The truth was he had always had the best relationship with his parents. He had always loved them and they had loved them back. He had the best education and a happy childhood filled with almost everything a child would love to have, including the unconditional love only two really good parents could give.

 As for the sex thing, he never had intercourse with his victims. That could prove too obvious to link all crimes, more over if he had an accident and left his DNA inside the women. No, he wasn’t that stupid so when he needed to have sexual interaction with someone, he would call a friend or hire a call girl. And he treated them right, always. He wasn’t too rough or violent; he was just like any other man. Except he was a murderer.

 Sometimes, he loved to imagine them discovering who he was. He was thrilled by that, the moment someone would notice something like a blood stained shirt or something similar, not that he would be that careless. But he always had fun picturing those ridiculous scenes, created out of movie scenes that always portrayed people’s ingenuity to perfection. But no one ever asked him anything; no woman ever said a word to him before or after sex. Nothing.

 That winter, he killed at least five women. One of them was killed in the middle of a road, so she was found several months later, when the snow began to disappear. Of course, every town and family was destroyed but he was never there to see or hear anything about it. He tried to avoid that because he was simply not interested in the result of what he did. Maybe that was the only thing that made him a little obvious, at least in his personal concept.

 He would love to get away as soon as possible and analyze his urges in order to know if he wanted to do it again or if he went back to his place, to his normal life with a job and a pet and friends. That man was a monster, no doubt. But he was also a neighbor, a coworker, the man you see walking down the street with a cup of coffee, rushing to the subway or smiling at something funny.

 Killers are people, people that have been deformed by what’s inside of them which can have several forms and shapes and interpretations. And this particular beast was one no one ever saw because they didn’t want to. They had refused to believe someone like them could be capable of what he was capable. And he like that.

viernes, 22 de julio de 2016

Sueño familiar

   Ya lo he imaginado varias veces y no entiendo la razón. Cada vez que lo hago me pongo nervioso y no entiendo que quieren decir esas visiones de mi mente. ¿Porqué tengo que ver ese tipo de cosas? ¿Por qué tengo que plantarle la cara a algo que parece tan improbable, tan poco posible que me parece incluso molesto verlo ya tantas veces. Me pensar mucho más de lo que debería, pues es una ilusión, una fantasía, un sueño estúpido que no tiene el más mínimo sentido ni importancia. Pero el caso es que ahí está y sucede seguido.

 Como dije antes, se trata de un sueño. La ubicación cambia a veces. En ocasiones es mi casa de verdad, en otras es alguna otra casa, sea grande y señorial o un apartamento que nunca he visto en mi vida. Esos lugares se supone que se ubican en ciudades o sitios que conozco pero eso solo lo logro sentir pues jamás logro ver o recordar si hay algo ahí afuera que me indique en donde estoy, si todo eso puede llegar a parecer más real de lo que ya siento que es.

 Siempre estamos mi mamá, mi hermana, mi hermano y yo. A veces está mi padre y a veces no. A esto no le doy mucha importancia porque suele pasar mucho en mis sueños que hay gente que mi subconsciente elimina. Sí, puede que haya profundas razones por las que eso pase pero no las sé y la verdad no quiero explorarlas, al menos no antes de terminar de explicar toda esta historia que me incomoda.

 El caso, es que mi madre siempre está muerta en esos sueños. Y lo más impresionante de todo, como si eso no fuese lo suficientemente impresionante, es que a veces el asesino es mi hermano. En este momento no recuerdo si lo hace por mano propia y mucho menos que arma usa si es que usa alguna. No tengo idea y creo que es mejor para mi balance emocional no saberlo. La imagen ya es demasiado aterradora para darle un contexto más rico.

 Siempre hay alguna pelea en el sueño, acerca del tema. Por alguna razón sabemos que mi hermano lo hizo pero no lo podemos probar. Y sus razones siempre son extrañas, como que las ocultas detrás de acciones sin sentido como hablar en voz baja o esconderse de nosotros en la misma casa. Me pone nervioso esa parte porque es algo que no reconozco ni remotamente. No me es nada familiar, menos mal.

 Ahora que lo recuerdo, mi padre estaba en el último de los sueños. No hablaba casi, solo parecía demasiado triste para decir nada. Parece una sombra de la persona real, tal vez es por eso que a veces no está en esos sueños. Es otro ser que usa la misma piel pero no es mi progenitor ni de cerca. No tiene su encanto.

 Lo peor de todo es (se pone peor) es que aunque casi nunca entiendo como llegué allí, esta última vez por fin pude presenciar la mayoría del sueño. Es decir, pude ver a mi madre morir. Mucha sangre, un cuarto más grande en el interior que en el exterior y gritos míos y de otras personas que ahora no recuerdo. La recuerdo allí tirada y luego ignorar su cuerpo alejándome de él, tratando de hacer que ese momento sea lo menos posible que se pueda. Me asusta todo el escenario, las acciones, lo que veo. Me asusto a mi mismo con lo que pienso.

 Pienso que debo castigar a mi hermano, que debo ser yo el que lo lleve a la justicia y haga que todo el peso de la ley caiga sobre su cabeza y lo aplaste para siempre porque, para mí, no tiene perdón ni de Dios ni de los hombres. La última vez, y de esto me acuerdo muy claramente, le dije que si llegaba a ser condenado esa sería la última vez que me vería pues nunca querría verlo de nuevo, jamás, ni por equivocación ni porque lo mandaran a la misma silla eléctrica.

 Y de repente, tengo conciencia de mi mismo. Es decir, estoy soñando y dentro del sueño lo sé, lo asumo y lo comprendo. Sé que no puede morir así mi hermano porque eso no existe en mi país, sé que mi madre no está muerta y sé que mi padre es una persona mucho más rica que esa sombra que parece flotar por todos lados. Nada de eso es real y lo sé porque estoy consciente de que tengo un sueño que, ojalá, sea imposible.

 Ya me ha pasado antes, en varios sueños. Simplemente sé que estoy soñando y por eso dejo de preocuparme demasiado. Lo normal es que los sueños no duren mucho tiempo después de eso pues se les acaba la gasolina fantástica con la que operan. De todas maneras es casi surrealista estar caminando por un sitio que sabes que no existe, en el que sabe que nada vale de verdad pues es todo una ilusión que no tiene el más mínimo sentido. Es falso y a veces eso reconforta.

 Sí, ya me imagino que varias personas pensarán que todo sueño tiene un significado ligado al subconsciente y no sé que más cosas. Y ola verdad creo poco en esas fantasías. Creo que soñamos lo que tenemos acumulado en la mente, lo que nuestros cerebro tiene por procesar como conversaciones con gente que conocemos que luego aparece de repente mientras dormimos.

 Por ejemplo, horas antes de dormir había hablado con mi madre, mi hermano y mi hermano y ayer con mi padre. Los tengo todos en mi mente y pienso en ellos y nuestra conversación y mi cerebro obviamente usa lo que tiene más fresco. Casi nunca tengo sueños al azar de cosas que pasaron hace veinte años, porque no tendría sentido alguno al menos para mí.

 Cabe decir que el rol de mi hermana se parece mucho al de mi padre en ese sueño recurrente. Es una sombra de ella, aunque una que llora muy parecido y por eso creo que también me pongo nervioso, como fastidiado con todo el ambiente pesado del sueño. Es demasiado y tal vez por eso es que me doy cuenta que es falso. Sé que mi hermana llora pero sé que hacerlo como la mujer del sueño no es realista y la hace parecerse a mil otras mujeres y no a mi hermana. Son detalles así los que, al fin de cuentas, hacen que me despierte.

 Estos sueños normalmente vienen cuando me despierto en la mitad de la madrugada y luego duermo un poquito más. En esa hora o par de horas es que sueño como loco, con lujo de detalles. Unas aventuras que mi yo consciente muchas veces encontraría imposible de imaginar. Pero ahí están y siempre aparecen en esos lapsos de tiempo tan cortos, supongo que porque mi sueño no es muy profundo cuando duermo así.

 Es un mundo extraño el de los sueños pero debo decir que me atrae bastante a pesar de las cosas horribles que pueda haber en él. Es un mundo retorcido y sin sentido pero me gusta el hecho de que salga todo de mí pues nadie más puede intervenir en su creación, al menos no de manera activa. Soy yo solo y todos mi problemas o recuerdos los que se mezclan como en una licuadora y producen diferentes tipos de resultados, algunos mucho más divertidos que otros.

 La explicación sicológica, como lo explique antes, me tiene sin cuidado. No solo porque creo que es una ciencia que se basa en supuestos, más parecida a la astrología que a las demás ciencias serias, sino porque no me atrae en nada la idea de que alguien más crea saber más que yo sobre mis sueños y mi cerebro que yo mismo. Se me hace ridículo si quiera pensarlo aunque ya habrá gente que crea que necesita una mano cuando quiere entender algo que no logra procesar.

 Comparto la necesidad por otras voces, otros intelectos que ayuden a dar explicaciones, a racionalizar algo que no tiene porqué ser racionalizado. Sobre todo si son amistades cercanas o, mejor aún, los personajes del sueño. En este caso, sería interesante saber que piensa mi familia de lo que ocurrió en mi mente y ver que explicación le pueden dar además de la obvia basada en supuestos ridículos y anticuados.

 Para mi quiere decir que tengo ahora a mi familia muy presente, cosa que es obvia. Los necesito y los quiero, cosa que es cierta. Y puede que tenga problemas o temas por discutir con ellos. ¿Quién no? Pero no deja de ser chocante y mucho menos cuando el sueño parece durar menos de quince minutos.