THIRTY THOUSAND WATTS OF SADNESS IN THE BLOOD (PART ONE -for non-Spanish speaking audiences)

3:36 AM

My blood boils, sparks of fire lacerate my veins and arteries; my red blood cells scream at me to stop their march through my arteries and veins: “Shut up!” my unbearable silence cries. In these seconds, not even my own monsters and beasts hear me, shhh... they sleep... 3:37... no one hears my cries of despair. I look toward the ceiling of the cavern in which I lie. My temples fire a beam of electromagnetic radiation that moves slowly and illuminates like the body of a jellyfish in the night waters. I am stabbing the blackness, which trembles, writhes as if in an epileptic fit... I infuse it with powerful jolts of light that do not hurt it, do not move it... Air! Air! My nostrils close, no oxygen enters this damned cavern nor the cavities of my lungs.

No one hears the Big Bang of my madness. The world believes me sane. Sane? A smile spreads across my inscrutable face! A smile that foreshadows my future illness, that dreaded, hated illness that petrifies my joints. And the worst part... no one hears me. No one smells my madness. It is useless to cry out for help. Here, a stinging unfolds across different areas of my skin: on my right leg, on my neck, on my hand. I scratch and gnaw at it. Disgusting blanket! Its fibers are infected worms, mosquitoes, larvae. I tear off the blanket as if I were skinning myself. But the cold takes advantage of my vulnerability. I want dawn to break. But not even ten minutes have passed.

Help... help... help... this wretched word is reflected in the thousands of mirrors in my mind, it reproduces itself. A paintbrush paints it on the most hidden walls of my anatomy. It seems as if my DNA were configured with each of the letters of that word: A, Y, U, D, A.

A name finally penetrates me like the sperm when it passes through the egg, its name is Death. Ah, absurd fertilization. Death is not here with me. It cannot hear me. I cannot cling to its flesh. Nor can I help but remember that time when my rocky heart rolled down the mouth of that volcano and disintegrated in its stomach of lava, melted into its magma.

God, are you there? Can you hear me? I abhor my loneliness, my sadness, my powerlessness. I abhor this insomnia that tortures me, and meanwhile you, indifferent, grant the entire world the pleasure of sleeping peacefully, except for me. You are a wicked God…

At this point, his tenor voice interrupts me, cutting off my weak voice as if it were the thread of my life, and answers:

"And if I grant your request, will you cease to abhor?"

And this simple question is enough to annihilate me, to shatter my base desires. The answer is no. To abhor is a law inscribed in my nature.

"Will your abhorrence lessen?" he continues questioning.

"Not at all," I reflect, "I am scarred from head to toe, and the wounds do not heal." The voice of God fades. He is gone, for he understands that this prodigal son will never return home.

I roll onto my left side of the bed, into the fetal position, trying to quell my spiritual storm. However, my physical ailments erupt again! Now it's my rib, which feels like a hammer crushing my organs, pounding them—ah, how much compassion my organs deserve! I feel a tsunami of blood flooding everything inside me, including my soul. Everything vanishes in the vertigo of Nothingness. I mechanically roll onto my right side, and the same thing happens.

The beam of electromagnetic radiation emanating from my temples intensifies and shatters the cesium plates that form the scaffolding of my imagination. Subsequently, the creative electrons take off in opposite and parallel directions, scattering throughout the cavern. It would be a foolish task to try to gather them up. They have an autonomous life; they are rebellious, stubborn, and disobedient.

The beam of electromagnetic radiation emanating from my temples intensifies and shatters the cesium plates that form the scaffolding of my imagination. Subsequently, creative electrons take off in opposite and parallel directions, scattering throughout the cavern. It would be a foolish task to try to gather them up. They have an autonomous life; they are rebellious, stubborn, and disobedient.

There's no way to sleep. I get out of bed and start pacing my gloomy room. I want to break the wall with my fist. I'm distilling hatred. I'm exuding rage. I try to calculate the quantity, although I quickly deduce that it's indeterminable. How can I determine the Planck constants of my fury at this moment? Impossible. How can I determine the wavelength of my anger, worse than that of Achilles, son of Peleus? How can I fix and unravel the number of photons of indignation with wavelengths of cesium that collide with my brain every second? Impossible! Impossible! Impossible! My hair falls out strand by strand. If I were with someone, my urge to strangle a neck, human or animal, would subside; however, to my misfortune, that is not the case, and my sinister feelings are stirred. What if I hanged myself with my own hands? I do it and immediately let go, a coughing fit over me for a brief moment. Another frustrated and impossible task. What if I hang myself instead? There's nowhere to hang the rope, there's no rope either. My sheet? 

There's nowhere to tie it either. What if I smash my skull against the wall? It would make too much noise! ​​What if I take a bottle of pills? I'd have to leave the room, and that would make noise. The same if I go down to the kitchen and turn on the gas to melt into eternal sleep. Furthermore, I would kill my entire family, and no, this sorrow is my burden, not that of those around me. They are unaware of their false consciousness, their fallacious reality; they don't realize they are the characters in a grotesque painting, the notes of a symphony that, when heard, only makes the audience put their index fingers to their ears. That's how most men and women are! And what can I do for them? Wish them good luck.

The meanings with which I tried to embellish my life vanished. They ran away: cowards! To Reason, outraged, overvalued muse, I removed the shackles that bound her to me, I opened the cage in which she was imprisoned, and I said to her:

Go away, little bird, go quickly before I make soup with your flesh!