Copyright © 2019 MARIA TENACE
All rights reserved.
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This book is a work of fantasy.
Characters and situations are the result of the author's imagination and have the only purpose of giving truth to the story.
Any similarity or reference to events, places or people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Each reference to the Cuban people and folklore, especially of Yoruba origins, wants to be a tribute to this extraordinary land, rich in historical, cultural and religious references, present and past.
- I think I've been here before. -
The girl, walking along the corridor, touched the white wall and followed the path with two fingers of her right hand.
She remembered the feeling of the cold floor, the feeling of his bare feet coming off and rising slowly, alternating in steps.
She also felt the long white nightgown, lightly brushing her ankles, as well as the light weight of the dark braids that fell on her shoulders, just as she wore them as a child.
She sensed the presence of a person by her side, but could not understand who it was.
All that white bothered her a lot.
The reverberation of the cold light of the neon lights attached to the ceiling did not allow her to have a clear vision but she continued, dazzled and confused, with her gaze fixed on her.
- Have you ever had recurring and detailed dreams, so realistic that you cannot understand if you are sleeping or are awake? - Asked the girl.
- I think you shouldn't make confusion between dream and life. -
The calm and reassuring voice answered. Then she continued:
- I will ask you another question and I know you will forgive me: have you ever been on a train and from the window see the one next to it move? -
The girl nodded with a nod.
- Well see, we've all had at least once, the distorted perception that our train is leaving. Instead it stands there, motionless.
We are still and also our train.
It is a bit like life, we believe it is something personal in constant movement and evolution, but only when the empty tracks are revealed, beyond the glass, do we end up realizing that we are still stuck in the same place.
In the same way, only when we perceive the emptiness that we have in the soul, can we realize how deeply we are bogged down in our pools, made of fears and regrets, disappointments, anger and all the ballast of negative feelings that we carry with us.
We take for ourselves some episodes stolen from the life of others, we put them together with crumbled parts of ours and we have the illusion of an authentic experience.
But that's not our life.
It is the life that we would like but that we do not have, and it is this lack that creates that emptiness.
Perhaps there is not even a remedy for that black hole in the soul and the human being, too greedy and curious about everything, should not waste precious time looking for it. -
- What do you mean? I don't understand ... –
The girl stopped to think.
- I mean, basically, if every person, man or woman, looked inside, deep inside, who would ever admit to being completely satisfied or happy, one hundred per cent, of the life they lead?
A car, a job, a family, a full fridge, a new sofa, a dog or a cat.
It doesn't matter if you have all this, all you need and even the superfluous. Man will always feel that something is missing, there will always be a hole, large or small that he will not know how to fill. For some it is the evil of existing, others will call it psychic pain, others with still different names. The time has come for you to understand how to fill that void. Try Stella, maybe it's the right time. -
At the end of the corridor, in front of the fourth door, the presence handed her a small golden key which she grasped with some hesitation.
Open and look who or what is inside, just like you did with the other three doors before. -
So, as if she were projected onto a screen, she found herself living someone else's life.
Looking at her figure reflected in the large mirror in her room, standing in front of her, Martha asked her: what do you want, what are you missing?
But she already knew that she would only move her lips and eyes in sync.
She stopped looking, she understood that all she needed to pass the time was a new canvas, a brush, tempera paints and Valium's bottle of her mother.
That bottle, that modern elixir that allowed her to appear so perfect and socially "acceptable", so much so that she too was a drug addict.
And this was the ritual of the evening, before the shadows entered their room. She looked out the window and thought it hadn't been long. She would have liked to feel the metallic smell of the rain that, at that moment, was drawing fractures on the glass that seemed to be sending it to pieces, at any moment.
