Her paranoia woke up every time just before her, to make sure fear appeared intrinsic to her days. Like a ghost dragging a dusty cape, it would follow her every second so she’d be reminded of its existence. It would sweep along the untold words that, curled up, would clog her brain at night.

Everyone told her “Follow your dreams” but hers were not like the ones she saw in the movies.

Her dreams had spiders of insane proportions that felt safe playing in her bedroom. Although harmless, their mere presence was enough to suck the energy out of her reserve. One step further and her foot would meet them on the cold tile floor. One step back and she’d hit the wall.

Her dreams had sadistic images of impossible accidents that defied the laws of physics. She had never been in one but felt like she had experienced hundreds. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference.

The lines between the parallel worlds seemed to not want to draw themselves and her survival skills were contaminated with doubt.

She had heard “God is in the detail” but the devil must have taken its place.

The creaks of old humid floors and inflamed bleached doors haunted her weak ears right before she entered the dream world. She thought of wreaths and popcorn to not think of herself. She had expressed to her sloppy memory the dissatisfaction of its presence and committed to forgetting.

But in those first ten minutes, after her eyes start to get dry, reality was nothing more than a word someone invented hundreds of years ago. A word we use to refer to a thing we cannot explain but somehow understand.

And still, her weight laid useless on the mattress while trying to figure out who she was.

What she had felt the day before, what she believed in. The rather impractical but inevitable endless questioning was always interrupted by the snoozed alarm. And there was just no more time to recall if her feelings that day matched the ones from the day before.

Her dreams were not to be followed but to escape from.

And even so, the impenetrable shadow of knowledge would sit on her shoulders and wait for its turn. She recognized the smell of burnt flesh that tormented her thoughts minutes before she brushed her teeth like her organs were slowly withering one night at a time.

She had learned all these mantras that were supposed to personify silky Gods and fight the evil monsters of cognitive death, but they all starved and vanished. She forgot to feed them every single day. In the mornings, she took a scoop of her reserve and wondered how much longer it could last.

Her paranoia woke up every time just before her, in case she wanted to wake up earlier.

She plugged in cheap earphones and listened to that same Crystal Castles song in repeat. She thought the singer mumbled “This must be the end”, and the end looked more appealing than just trying over and over again.


María spaces out. A lot. She’s inspired by impractical objects, bored commuters, and the sun. She’ll embroider your shirt and stuff you with creamy food. She loves discovering parallel universes, telling stories in the dark and capelettini.


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