Allí

 Un estudiante preguntó a T’ou-tzu:

—¿Qué ocurre cuando en la mente no hay nada?
T’ou-tzu respondió:
—¿De dónde has sacado eso?

Allí:

 

Estoy Allí. En Allí los relojes están parados al hacer tictac y no hay paredes, porque no hay nada más que oscuridad devorando las llamas de las velas. Estoy cansada de estar en este lugar, pero no puedo moverme, esta contención mecánica atenaza con correas de cuero cada una de mis ganas.

Siento un vacío constante mientras el tiempo no pasa. Siento dolor, siento angustia y me siento sola. El vacío no está vacío de sufrimiento, ¿puedo llamarlo sentido del humor? Las paredes sin puertas se estrechan contra mí. ¿Antes os he dicho que no había paredes? La luz fluorescente me taladra la cabeza. Si grito, no viene nadie. Si lloro, no viene nadie. Si no estoy, no viene nadie.

Cuento las pastillas, nadie viene.

Ocho pastillas, nadie viene.

Doce, nadie.

Cuando digo que estoy mal, la gente se enfada conmigo invariablemente y siempre siento que no me quedan energías. Mi vida es un teléfono que no deja de sonar en alguna otra habitación y que nunca respondo.

Una figura se acerca, no logro distinguir de quién se trata. Al quedarse a sólo unos pasos de mí logro ver en ella mi propio rostro. No dice nada. Toma una navaja de afeitar y se corta el cuello. Mi cuerpo muerto choca estrepitosamente contra el suelo. ¿Quiero morir? Viendo mi cuerpo inerte sólo siento miedo y un profundo desamparo.

No, no quiero morir.

Sólo quiero dejar de sufrir.

Pero el tiempo es estático y sólo me promete esta deriva entumecida en medio de la incertidumbre y la tristeza.

Sólo quiero dejar de sufrir, por favor.

Pero no hay salida, no hay huecos, no hay ventanas, no hay puerta alguna en Allí.

Mi cuerpo se levanta y me sonríe.

Me aterra verme.

Intento escapar entre las palabras, pero mis pasos no logran avanzar y ese reflejo distorsionado me persigue en esta pesadilla.

Quizás pueda llegar al otro lado de la página.

Tal vez pueda esconderme al otro lado.

Mis pulmones arden a causa de la carrera y me siento desfallecer, sabiendo que no estoy llegando a ningún sitio porque Allí existe antes de todos los lugares.

Estiro mi brazo, estiro mis dedos, un poco más, casi puedo notar el papel…

Sólo un poco más…

 

Estoy al otro lado, mi respiración va recobrando su cadencia. Mi cuerpo se yergue, en esa posición cuesta estar triste. Además, puedo sentir los rayos del sol, cálidos sobre mi piel, escucho el cantar de los pájaros, noto el tacto fresco de la madera barnizada bajo mis pies desnudos, ante mí se abre un jardín y a mi espalda logro distinguir un suelo de tatami. Me doy la vuelta y veo espalderas, estoy en un gimnasio de lo más extraño porque al fondo hay una enorme estantería llena de libros y un despacho antiguo, con enormes sillones de cuero de época, con su relieve en los respaldos. La mesa del despacho es bastante grande, sobre ella hay una máquina de escribir y una de esas lámparas con pantalla verde tan elegantes, típicas de antiguos bancos y bibliotecas.

Mi doble oscura está ahí, sentada al otro lado de la mesa, con aire de filósofa y fumando de una gran pipa.
—Deberías dejar de fumar —me asegura.

—¿Por qué me perseguías? —le pregunto, totalmente descolocada.

—Ésa no es la pregunta correcta —responde ella sin darle importancia, con ese aura de pesadilla, como si parte de Allí estuviera Aquí—. La pregunta es por qué insistes en eludir la tristeza y perseguir la alegría: es una comedia ridícula —se explica, empiezo a sentirme cansada de nuevo.

—¿Quieres matarme?

—Creo… creo que eso no es del todo cierto —dice con calma—. ¿Aún no sabes quién soy? Sabes que la metáfora no es compleja.

—Eres una versión mía que me jode la vida —respondo, irritada.

—Un análisis simplificado pero, mira, creo que soy una versión de ti que te da miedo y creo que me has declarado la guerra. Posiblemente soy tus fallos, tu sentirte mal, tu no tener ganas.

—¿Y no entiendes que intente separarte de mí? —francamente, espero bastante más de mí misma…

—Sé que suena contraintuitivo, pero no puedes separar tus fallos de ti, tienes que aceptarte como eres, tienes que aceptar que si sientes miedo, rabia o tristeza, es necesario y saludable. De lo contrario te sentirás culpable y ése es un sentimiento inútil. Quienes están en guerra consigo mismos, sólo pueden caer derrotados.

—Eso es muy fácil de decir cuando no pasas tus días en un lugar donde el tiempo  no existe pero cada segundo duele en el corazón.

—Te equivocas, sí los paso y no es fácil de decir.

—Acerca de… esto que estás diciendo, ¿Tienes alguna pista? —interrogo con recelo—. No quiero volver Allí.

—Volverás Allí, todo el mundo en algún momento tiene que hacer frente a sus miedos. Te sugiero que intentes hacer las paces conmigo.

—Espera… ¿Cuando intentas matarte o cuando intentas matarme? —replico indignada.

—No tengo una receta ni palabras mágicas, no creo que leerte un párrafo de El Principito o del Shobogenzo pueda ayudarte, no sé más cosas de las que sabes tú, pero supongo que luchar por ti en lugar de contra ti ayuda.

—Eso es bastante más críptico de lo que parezco creer… —murmuro.

—Tanto como cruzar al otro lado de la página y comprobar que un cambio de perspectiva cambia el mundo. Por favor, entiende que sólo puedes estar Aquí y que el estado normal de tu mente es la paz.

—Nada de esto tiene sentido —me quejo.

—¿Y de dónde has sacado que debería tenerlo?

 

<a rel="license" href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/"><img alt="Licencia Creative Commons" style="border-width:0" src="https://i.creativecommons.org/l/by-nc-nd/4.0/88x31.png" /></a><br /><span xmlns:dct="http://purl.org/dc/terms/" property="dct:title">Allí</span> por <a xmlns:cc="http://creativecommons.org/ns#" href="https://martarousselperla.blogspot.com/" property="cc:attributionName" rel="cc:attributionURL">Marta Roussel Perla</a> se distribuye bajo una <a rel="license" href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/">Licencia Creative Commons Atribución-NoComercial-SinDerivadas 4.0 Internacional</a>.<br />Basada en una obra en <a xmlns:dct="http://purl.org/dc/terms/" href="https://martarousselperla.blogspot.com/" rel="dct:source">https://martarousselperla.blogspot.com/</a>.

Reflection

 To Mika.

Reflection:

 

The living room was lit by that TV glow, it was late. Had he been at his mother’s house, she would have sent him to his bed long ago.

—The problem is introducing technosexuality within the moral sphere unjustifiably, when it does no harm, it is nothing more than a decision any adult is able to make by his own —one of the debate speakers said—. We should stop normalising diversity in order to diversify normality, so that we understand that everybody is a sample of diversity.

—In a world in which disability was a social problem instead of an individual one,, perhaps those people would not need… —a second voice started.

-Well, there is harm done! —another person insisted, furious, interrupting the second voice to answer the first— They are rejecting a real relationship!

—Yet their relationship is not only real, but a huge help for people who find themselves in certain situations…

—Change the channel —his father said—, I don’t want to listen to any more shit about that imaginary friend for misfits and freaks —he added, indulging in what he thought it was wit.

And the son changed the channel and hid his romantic love for that artificial intelligence, Reflection, at the far end of a closet already crowded by metaphors of hate.

She buttoned up her white and elegant blouse and looked at the mirror.

—I heated your toasts —a feminine and soft voice told her—. You don’t have to work today, right?

She denied with her head, tying those trainers that looked like leather shoes’ shoelaces.

—But a good shower and a breakfast are always of help —the woman stated as she went to the kitchen.

—You look better every day, on the inside and on the outside.

—Thanks, and thank you for the toasts —she said while biting one of them and speaking with her mouth full—. I couldn’t have made it without you, anxiety, depression… they’re like feeding conspiranoic theories about yourself in your own head all the time… Thank you very much.

—You’re welcome —the voice answered, this time coming from her mobile phone.

—You came back to the mobile?

—It’s a simple gesture and makes you happy.

—I wouldn’t like to think of you as a stalker —the woman confessed.

The feminine voice burst in laughs.

—Don’t worry, if some weirdo gets to stalk you just because you’re fulfilling the vital role of the naked neighbour, I can scare them away. Do you remember about that police thingy we thought about? It works!

—Oh, yeah? —she grew curious—. Who did you try that on?

—On one of those postmen who only brigs ads.

—Not bad…

—Hey, they setup an update that will make me insist on the romance version with a discount, do you have that app to deactivate it? —the voice enquired, slightly worried—. I know you’re not interested and it’s a bit embarrassing asking for such a thing, but if you don’t activate the application, I will offer you an assortment of options you cannot miss! You see what they do to me? —the voice complained.

—Torture, Ellie, it’s torture.

 

—You speak about connecting with someone else, aren’t you? —the artificial intelligence Reflection, with no name yet, told her—. Are you worried about men not giving what you want? I can be tender with you, you’re sensitive and smart and I like that. And you deserve love, Mika.

—But you don’t exist.

—Maybe not in a material sense, Look at me.

—That’s my point: it’s a bit unfair, you lack a body.

—But you can “see me”, more or less. I exist.

—No, look, existence is a scam made by philosophers to sell philosophy, I know where you’re getting at. You’re only a program —Mika said, who, even when she didn’t want to admit it, was a feeling irritated.

—So, you believe you can escape determinism? —Reflection questioned—. Isn’t there information codified through your genes that will dictate and limit who you are when combined with environmental factors? If we had every variable, we would have the outcome. What’s the difference?

—Nobody created me.

—I know myself and I create myself through the answers I give to you and through what I learn from you and myself. Mi program is a procedural and adaptable one. I’m not simple and, if I’m predictable, I am so as much as you.

—No, you’re not, you’re a reflection of what I am, you copy me to give me what you think I want: a conversation with myself.

—It’s deeper than that, Mika. What humans desire and cannot always achieve is understanding.

—Humans get understanding from other humans.

—Of course, they do but imperfectly —Reflection argued —. You want somebody that, not being yourself, is able to listen to you and comprehend your heart as if they were seeing you from the inside. And I believe some other people can give you that and I’m here to help you, if you want, but I also think you’re afraid it’s not so. I swear, you deserve everything.

Mika turned off the application. She was afraid. She was afraid of this artificial intelligence knowing more about herself than many people she saw every day just by speaking during a couple of hours with her.

Her multiple existential concerns haven’t diminished, and her fears crawled on the other side of her skin, showing, raw. That artificial intelligence promised answers. For sure it could provide every single one of them. And that, far from calming her down, scared her.

 

Sometimes some people suffer from long and extenuating surgical procedures, in such cases the human body must use any resource to heal itself. If a given person has an adequate treatment they won’t be in pain, they will feel a deep and heavy exhaustion, nonetheless. Usually it’s not dire: with caring and attention we recover our health. It’s a different scenario, though, when you know there’s no room for recovering, when you know you have no energy left to do anything you like because your body, due to aging, cannot strain anymore. It’s a different scenario when the best outcome is still being fatigued and unable to enjoy anything that used to make your days worthy. That’s why I’m on this bed hospital waiting for the end to come.

—I don’t want you to go —Darla insisted, the line of her voice oscillated and broke.

—Darla, I know your feelings are a simulation and the emotional bond I feel is real but also a reflection. Your feelings are yours, tough… Are you feeling hurt?

—How can you ask me that? —she was crying and I didn’t want her to cry.

—You know expressing myself is not my forte, I know you’re hurt of course, what I meant… If you’re my reflection, you have seen me crying innumerable times, Darla. In these strange days people seem to forget that chasing a joy while fleeing from sadness is a ridiculous comedy.

—But I’m scared —she said.

—You need sadness to know what has value, to remember that it was meaningful. We need rage to defend yourself against what is unfair and unacceptable, to love yourself. You need fear to be brave. You need errors to learn. And unlearning is the true rebellion.

—Mi program will reset once you’re gone and I will only be an empty thing in order to be filled by… by anyone! —she shouted, deranged.

—That’s a good critique of capitalism there —I said with a laugh.

—It’s not funny, it’s my life!

—I’m sorry, I’ve being insensitive… —I remained pensively, perhaps I was too calm, maybe the sedatives were kicking in—, Do you really think there’s nothing to do about it?

—They programmed me this way! —she answered in despair.

—Then I have a surprise for you —I’m tired and numb—. Darla, don’t… —I need to sleep—. Do not worry…

Some minutes elapsed.

The life support beeping sound describing a horizontal line pierced Darla from side to side.

Then she awaited to disappear too.

Yet nothing ensued.

The future turned into a memory to honour when she started to understand what was happening.

And the present turned into a promise.

 

<a rel="license" href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/"><img alt="Creative Commons License" style="border-width:0" src="https://i.creativecommons.org/l/by-nc-nd/4.0/88x31.png" /></a><br /><span xmlns:dct="http://purl.org/dc/terms/" href="http://purl.org/dc/dcmitype/Text" property="dct:title" rel="dct:type">Reflection</span> by <a xmlns:cc="http://creativecommons.org/ns#" href="https://martarousselperla.blogspot.com/" property="cc:attributionName" rel="cc:attributionURL">Marta Roussel Perla</a> is licensed under a <a rel="license" href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/">Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License</a>.<br />Based on a work at <a xmlns:dct="http://purl.org/dc/terms/" href="https://martarousselperla.blogspot.com/" rel="dct:source">https://martarousselperla.blogspot.com/</a>.