IN THE MIDDLE OF MIDNIGHT

Here, you cannot sleep. What remains is the zero degree of writing, the implicit reader: generic presence, in a corner of the room, looking elsewhere. Like Clarice Lispector in A Breath of Life, the author invents another author who invents a character, Chinese boxes of solitude. I remembered when I thought being happy was the worst of all. No doubt it’s easy to be bad when you’re happy. With the dull heart of guards, you have to defend a sand fort from the plague, and the order is to shoot on sight. Happiness is fragile, it does not tolerate the existence of pain, and therefore we end up taking our eyes off the dog’s eyes looking from the side of the road. I wish this cruelty had a price, only out of a sense of justice. What do you want to be? The Shakespearean spectrum. Tomorrow in the battle think of me, and let your sword without edge fall. But I would have to die a lot of times to appear in a dream to all those who have been unjustly cruel to me, and the first death is already complicated. Since I believe in symbols, it is symbolic that V. has appeared now. I have all the respect in the world for his rough suffering, for his open hands without weapons and without gifts. V. has the pain that serves not to hurt, and reminds me that in the light of judgment I am like that too. Orphans of the future, sad farewell animals. I am grateful for all the unfulfilled promises, because each is a promise not betrayed. For once, I see the symbol of innocence inscribed on the air sheet.

MY HAUNTED HOUSE

Have you ever heard rumors in your home? Someone calling you? Strange shadows? Strange things happen and you don’t understand why? Our house is perhaps cursed. It is a stagnation of very negative past events. In our house the partisans who tried to escape from the Nazis were hiding. Our house is full of people, even a child among them. A lady who let me find her perfumed scarves and in our attic every now and then the survivors of the world war dance.
Every time I dream I return there, in that devastated country of which only white rubble and souls without a body remain. I walk without memory through its streets, I rarely meet you. Then when I find you, you tell me how much you would like to rebuild everything, start over. Then you frown, hold back your tears out of pride, but I know you’re crying. Suddenly you pull me away, I follow you, but you push me away. Why can’t I stay? You scold me like a mother, telling me that remembering will kill me. How I would like to kiss you when you do this. I am desperate for your fragments in the soul of others, but I never find you. What looked like a shard of diamond turns out to be another shard of sharp glass that hurts me with disappointment. It destroys me not to remember your name. I would like to sleep forever, stuck in a dimension where your death doesn’t exist, but I can’t. Please come and see me again tonight.
I think I have had some signals from my spirit guides. It happened about twice: The first time happened last week while I was drawing: I heard a loud whistle, similar to that of a bell in the whole room that came from a specific point, and when I moved away from the room the sound decreased in intensity, and then increased in intensity. time returned. I asked my mom if she heard that sound too, but she said no. The second time happened last night, just before going to sleep: I was looking at the phone, and I heard that whistle again, but this time it was weaker. I ignored both of them not knowing what to do, because I don’t know how to interact, how to get in touch with the spiritual guides, but the point is that now I’m afraid they won’t contact me anymore, since I silently screwed them up. What a shit figure in front of myself, I think if the spiritual guides trample me I would apologize.
I have a little question to solve, or rather, a question that I can’t answer. I’ll explain better: There is a relative in my family that I have never met (he died in ’44 at 20), and his death was a tragedy for my grandfather’s whole family. Although I have never known him, and knowing very little about him, I burst into tears as soon as we talk about him or think about him, as if I had seen him die in front of my eyes. When I think of him an immense nostalgia rises, I miss him to death even though I have only seen him in photos, sometimes I dream of him during the night, and every now and then it happens that I feel a kind of presence around me, as if something or someone was watching on me. Also, when I think of him I feel a kind of spiritual connection with him, as if we are tied by an invisible thread that holds us together, or so I think. A month ago, by the way, I saw a spirit. Yes I know it may sound strange, but I have seen it. It didn’t have a human form, in fact, it was a kind of concentrate of white energy with slightly blue edges, but it wasn’t too bright. It was only for a few seconds, just long enough to open your eyes and light the lamp, and the spirit disappeared into thin air. A week or two later he appeared again, and he left the same way as the first time. Now, I would like to know: – Is that a spirit I saw? – Why do I feel a spiritual connection with this relative of mine? – Why do I miss him without ever having known him? – Was he the spirit? Here, these are the questions I’ve been asking for quite some time, and I sincerely need an answer. If there are any witches among those who will read the post, please answer me according to what you know, as I believe in magic and spirits.

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