Waking Dream, a Flight and an Angel

Fictional short story by Cristina de la Concha

English version by Glenn Gardner

Thursday, April 2.

A secret happiness comes over me, one doubt, one uncertainty seems to vanish or seems to be vanished by me.  Is it, then, that God exists? Because it’s like seeing, without further ado, without setbacks, that miracles do indeed exist, that Peter Pan is not just a fairy tale, that Jules Verne traveled in other dimensions, that Jesus cured the sick and walked on water, that an angel really visited the Virgin Mary.

         My doubts, my greatest doubts, stop me and, finally, allow me to perceive better, not to lose myself. And now everything looks different... and I want to explain my own reality to myself, this new reality of mine… because everything now is different.

         Flight, fly... what is flying, can you really? My voice responded, yes indeed, recalling the book by Taisha Abelar The Sorcerers’ Crossing, read years ago. Science fiction? And we can submerge ourselves there and feel something strangely marvelous.

         To fly...

         I flew. Under no effect other than that my organism produces, with a hyperthyroidism slipping into hypothyroidism and the corresponding symptoms and medications, and with the vitamins I tend to take ever since my thyroid began to act up.

         I traveled, I flew notwithstanding all my suspicions, all that this materialistic world dictates I should believe, all my uncertainty, with everything I have been telling myself: “Don’t be fooled,” against my agnosticism.

         And with all my skepticism, with all my capacity to discern, my reasoning and the utmost degree of pragmatism possible, I jot this down.

         The reader will judge.

Wednesday, April 1.

I went to bed somewhere around 11:15 PM. An hour earlier, I had tried to get to sleep but couldn’t and got up again. I turned off the light and don’t know how much time went by, but it was pretty long, an hour and a half approximately, in which this was all happening and which seemed to me but a few minutes.

I closed my eyes and began to see things, like a dream wide-awake, but in that strange way which brings up a question about how can it be to dream having closed your eyes just a second before.

These eye sockets haven’t stopped appearing for several months now  every time I close my eyes, they stare at me as if they were far but close. They are sockets,  like those of a mask, like a face in the negative of a photo. Then, a series of images, objects that move, as if there were a lot of photographs, one on top of the other, or slides, and I can’t quite make out clearly what’s in each one. In an instant, I see myself stretching out my arms as if to fly. It’s dark and I’m there with someone I can’t make out. I just know it’s there. We’re like on the edge of a tall building, facing the horizon. Dressed in white, with veils and my hair that waves in the breeze. I witness myself bend over without consciousness of myself, as if I weren’t me, and take a stance to push off and fly. And I ask what, how, why? Something tells me “You are able to flying. You’re capable of doing it, flying,” “How, why” and then “You’re an angel” enters my head. I try to take a look at this someone, but something impedes it. I feel that it talks to me with its thought, and I recognize then that it is the voice I hear in my mind. I’m able to look out of the corner of my eye, but I continue in the same stance toward the firmament, which is a light seeming to float at my side. It doesn’t move, just twinkles, but paralyzes me, excites me and I realize it is the reason I don’t dare look right at it.* “Fly?” “Why, then?” “You can do it, you can fly.” "Who are you?”  I hear no reply.  “Are you an angel?" “You are an angel.” “Me, an angel?” “No, no. I’m no angel,” I answer. What’s happening? “Don’t think, don’t question, just fly!” “Like this?” referring to my stance. “Yes, though it’s not necessary.”  So, I don’t question and just push off and… I’m airborne!  Then I reckon the stance wasn’t necessary at all. The voice, the light answers me, as if I were asking,   that I can fly just like that, without flapping my arms… and I’m flying!!!!

I travel the countryside. To my surprise, it’s daylight. “Where’re we going?” “For you to see!” Trees, a meadow, flowers, people, old houses, stone wall raised up high, people on riverbanks, women scrubbing clothes. And there’re more and more people, many more, a lot of people dressed really strange, old clothes, really opaque clothes... you walk among the people, wander about.  The day, covered with clouds, gray. It’s like a marketplace, a town square, tables with a lot of different things, and trees and flowerpots. Seeing you drifting away, it occurs to me you’re like real stiff, like a doll. “What’s wrong, what’s wrong with you?” My angel tells me to observe and I figure out all the people walk like that, like really stiff, like mannequins. Inquiring why, I can see behind their backs because of this ability to fly, gliding from one place to another, up and down, just with my thoughts, and discover that what makes the move so uneasy: a thin, vertical rod from head to foot and another shoulder-to-shoulder, forming a cross!  I’d like to take it off you, but my voice stops my momentum, telling me I can’t do it, that it’s just like that. And how I wish you didn’t have it: “Why?” resounds in my mind. “That’s the way people are,” my angel insists. You walk like that, so impeded from being natural.  The attitude of the people is inward and almost indifferent to each other. Further ahead, you’re with a small child, some three or four years old. You hold him in your arms. It’s your son. You put him on the ground, show him something, he talks to you, and you smile at him. A real head of hair, straight and light, in green shorts and a loose-fitting shirt, brown or red. But he doesn’t have that rod down his back. You pick him up again, put him on your shoulders, and go around that place where there’s a lot capturing your attention. You’re happy, but your face is serious, concerned. You turn around and walk off into the distance, I notice a rucksack is hanging from your shoulders. My angel tells me: “Let him go. It’s for the best.” My astonishment grows. “You don’t have any children!” Will you have any? Did I peek into the future? And I’m overcome with the symbolism of the peoples’ rigidity, just what the angel is telling me with all that, but I shouldn’t let it all out now.

Suddenly, I’m in another place. It’s dark and one can see the stars, a lot of stars. It’s sidereal space.  Far off, a cloud with celestial bodies, with a myriad of colors, but like pink veils painted on, and luminaries of different pigments, far-off comets crossing in the immensity of space. I continue on and, before my very eyes, quite close, some curved masses quite open, as if they were small hillocks. But then appearing as if they were part of something else, of straight lines.  It gives me the sensation of an impressionist painting. I can make out their texture, which is like a tight weave, threads that are interwoven. I go off a bit and… it’s you! It’s your chest!  And I stay right there. I don’t want to take off because I don’t want to move a lot. I wouldn’t want to startle you though, in reality, I don’t know if it’s a dream or if I’m really there and you can perceive my presence. You’re lying down, asleep, your head leaning to the left and your arm on your stomach under your chest, with a blue shirt. I appreciate then that my head was on your shoulder when I first saw your chest. I, on your right, speaking to you, but you don’t hear me.  I call out: “It’s me. It’s me. I’m here!’ I take a step away from you and, then, I think I got all excited because the whole image changed.  Now, I’m on your left and it all looks like a negative. I can’t make out the features of your face any more, just your shape. Your eyes look just like shadows, but everything is dark, so I can barely make things out. Yes, I’m there, right next to you and I don’t know if I should believe it. But, it’s all so clear. The scene is so vivid. The sensation of your presence is so real. I can feel everything emanating from your essence, so that I can’t but be there. Can one dream essences and souls, in fact, feel their touch?  I hold back the ideas, remembering that my angel told me not to question. But I can’t help but conclude I’m here because of the call of love, hurdling the distance that plagues us. I try not to reach out to you with my hands though I’d like to, to not disturb you. You wake up, sit up a bit on the bed, like looking for something. I keep on talking to you. I want to kiss you, I want your hug, but my angel says it’s not possible. You seem to sense something is going on, but don’t quite know what. You’re sort of puzzled, as if you were asking what’s happening. You bunch up, knees up high. “It’s me. It’s me. I’m here! I flew. I can fly! I can fly!  I’m right here, next to you!”  But you can’t hear me.  You move the sheet, uncovering yourself a bit and then you cover up again. I think it’s the right moment to leave. You should rest. You couldn’t hear me anyway. I say good-by: “I’m off, darling, sleep tight”.

I think I should go back but, at the same time, I’d like to see more. I’m thinking about going to my father’s house and, in a wink, I’m there, in his room, which is really dark, and his presence can be felt. I can’t see him. Everything’s black and there’s a tiny sliver of light in what I suppose, then, is the wall where the bedroom window must be. It’s got to be moonlight entering for a crack between the curtains, so I infer I must be standing close to the door. And his presence is so strong that there can be no doubt he’s there, sleeping, all of him, with all that energy exuding from him, flooding the room, and I can’t bear to continue in his space.