I
like all of you. The idea that I have made myself of you is almost perfect,
perhaps too perfect, and only some defect, which would humanize you a
little, could make it still better. How will I get you to come find me, so I
can discover one?
These are words the girl of my dream
said to me. I always feel them inside of me, I wrote them in a hurry, with
almost unreadable lyrics. I do not lose sight of them. I keep them always in my
heart and in my thoughts.
Yes.
It is true: I fell in love with a
girl, in a dream.
I fell in love with her imaginary perfume.
I fell in love with her imaginary perfume.
Can you dream of a girl who has no
link with the real world? Can you discover in a nightmare the true love? What
strange combinations was able to manufacture my mind, that in the hangover of a
night could simulate the existence of a young girl of whom I guessed a slight
smile that lasted in time, beyond the chimera, neural connections that designed
an unimaginable perfume, that I never ceased to look for? I could not recreate
it, no, I couldn't remanufacture that aroma, but I could live a whole life
being able to recognize it if I ever could feel it again. I could not
describe it, nor could I give any clue to any hunter of aromas who eventually
could want to help me find it, but I could make a thesis of everything that was
not. As for her, the same could be said. I knew nothing of her; ¡it was
such a short time I had her! I woke up in the worst possible moment, and I had
to leave her behind, forever, in her virtual world. She had passed in
front of me twice, two seconds, one while she was going and the
other when she was coming back of a fateful trip. Two instants, though, loaded
with intensity: both of us debating over a conscience conflict.
How can a love grow in such a short time? How can you move from discrepancy to oblivion, from oblivion to sympathy,and from sympathy to love, in the short time that lasts a drama? This is the difference between dreams and reality: in dreams everything seems to be ephemeral and all happens way more discreet and less traumatic, but sometimes, events there, take unexpected turns, and our emotions are more free and honest: we are disabled to interfere, to manipulate them, and they flow despite our dismay. And that is why, since the beginning, I never wanted to detract from the importance of the experiences of that night, when I fell truly in love with a girl from falsehood, convinced that I would be able to pull the ball of thread which goes from the dream world to the real world. I understand if you deem stupid my decision not to lose the girl with whom this story begins, but I assure you that was either taken frivolously, or obstinately, but only as a result of a small light of hope that I wouldn't be able to describe if it is not explaining the facts from the beginning to the end. When dreams are superficial and they do not seem to contribute anything of substance and desirable to our lives, they disappear as simply as they appeared, but when, as was my case, a dream causes a spark capable of turning on a fire that awakening does not put out, you no longer have a choice, you must begin the journey from earth to heaven, and seek help, and be attentive, ready to decrypt any suspect element that may reveal a link, however small it may be, between the two worlds, which will help you climb the thread that unites them. My story was so, I was pulling the wire from a balloon that impelled me towards the sky but it could not detach me of earth. I couldn't afford to let it escape, not even a moment, because in this case, it would fade away forever from my view, just as balloons of fair do, when the children leave, by an instant of negligence, the thread with which theysubjectthem. In order to do this, I needed allies of this world and the other world, and I persevered with a diffuse faith, which little by little took shape, emboss, and life. Otherwise, it would have been impossible. In fact, everything was easier than I thought. With faith, everything is easier than you might think, and if some elements of the story that I now will try to explain, even today, more than forty years later, remain obscure, I think it is because of my ignorance, because of my lack of faith, which still is too small so that I can understand certain things. I am seventy-two; we are in the year 2091, but Istillremember many details of what happened during that time. It was 2050, and I have no intention of either inventing anything or adding anything to my story. I don't need it. With what I remember I have quite a few absolutely amazing facts to explain, which are absolutely historical as well. Sometimes I wonder if it could be my imagination thatisplaying me a bad joke, if over the years, I've made my story grow, giving glamour to the few characters who appear; if I've been forgetting what really happened and I have replaced it by a more fantastic version, a mixture of desire and dementia. But it is useless, the facts are there, and the passage of time will never change them. I will write the story without losing sight, not even a single minute, of any of the material elements that I have kept of that time, of which they are precious witnesses. I will keep them on the desktop, I will take them wherever I find myself typing, on the couch, on the bed, and in the kitchen, or if I travel, or if I write while I’m queuing at the doctor’s: a small crucifix, a piece of puzzle, an eagle feather stained with blood, a flashlight with more than one hundred years of history, a pair of letters, some printed e-mails, many newspapers with specific dates with news marked in fluorescent, which helpto meditate... And if, in spite of all, dear reader, you still do not believe what I will explain, please contact me, we'll talk quietly, Iwillintroduce you to two important players in the history, and if necessary, we will cross the ocean together, and we will visit the major sites where everything took place. There, I'll introduce you to the third and last witness who still lives. Then, ask; feel free to poke, let all of them talk! And, then, if their versions do not complement mine— I don't want to be present while they talk! —, then I will admit it, definitely it will be me, I will have gone insane.
How can a love grow in such a short time? How can you move from discrepancy to oblivion, from oblivion to sympathy,and from sympathy to love, in the short time that lasts a drama? This is the difference between dreams and reality: in dreams everything seems to be ephemeral and all happens way more discreet and less traumatic, but sometimes, events there, take unexpected turns, and our emotions are more free and honest: we are disabled to interfere, to manipulate them, and they flow despite our dismay. And that is why, since the beginning, I never wanted to detract from the importance of the experiences of that night, when I fell truly in love with a girl from falsehood, convinced that I would be able to pull the ball of thread which goes from the dream world to the real world. I understand if you deem stupid my decision not to lose the girl with whom this story begins, but I assure you that was either taken frivolously, or obstinately, but only as a result of a small light of hope that I wouldn't be able to describe if it is not explaining the facts from the beginning to the end. When dreams are superficial and they do not seem to contribute anything of substance and desirable to our lives, they disappear as simply as they appeared, but when, as was my case, a dream causes a spark capable of turning on a fire that awakening does not put out, you no longer have a choice, you must begin the journey from earth to heaven, and seek help, and be attentive, ready to decrypt any suspect element that may reveal a link, however small it may be, between the two worlds, which will help you climb the thread that unites them. My story was so, I was pulling the wire from a balloon that impelled me towards the sky but it could not detach me of earth. I couldn't afford to let it escape, not even a moment, because in this case, it would fade away forever from my view, just as balloons of fair do, when the children leave, by an instant of negligence, the thread with which theysubjectthem. In order to do this, I needed allies of this world and the other world, and I persevered with a diffuse faith, which little by little took shape, emboss, and life. Otherwise, it would have been impossible. In fact, everything was easier than I thought. With faith, everything is easier than you might think, and if some elements of the story that I now will try to explain, even today, more than forty years later, remain obscure, I think it is because of my ignorance, because of my lack of faith, which still is too small so that I can understand certain things. I am seventy-two; we are in the year 2091, but Istillremember many details of what happened during that time. It was 2050, and I have no intention of either inventing anything or adding anything to my story. I don't need it. With what I remember I have quite a few absolutely amazing facts to explain, which are absolutely historical as well. Sometimes I wonder if it could be my imagination thatisplaying me a bad joke, if over the years, I've made my story grow, giving glamour to the few characters who appear; if I've been forgetting what really happened and I have replaced it by a more fantastic version, a mixture of desire and dementia. But it is useless, the facts are there, and the passage of time will never change them. I will write the story without losing sight, not even a single minute, of any of the material elements that I have kept of that time, of which they are precious witnesses. I will keep them on the desktop, I will take them wherever I find myself typing, on the couch, on the bed, and in the kitchen, or if I travel, or if I write while I’m queuing at the doctor’s: a small crucifix, a piece of puzzle, an eagle feather stained with blood, a flashlight with more than one hundred years of history, a pair of letters, some printed e-mails, many newspapers with specific dates with news marked in fluorescent, which helpto meditate... And if, in spite of all, dear reader, you still do not believe what I will explain, please contact me, we'll talk quietly, Iwillintroduce you to two important players in the history, and if necessary, we will cross the ocean together, and we will visit the major sites where everything took place. There, I'll introduce you to the third and last witness who still lives. Then, ask; feel free to poke, let all of them talk! And, then, if their versions do not complement mine— I don't want to be present while they talk! —, then I will admit it, definitely it will be me, I will have gone insane.
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