THE FEAR TO BE NOBODY

I listened to the sounds of the forest. I looked through the bars of the small window. I could see almost nothing because of the thick fog. I closed it. I entered Facebook and thought about telling my experience, but in the end, I did not do it, I am not one of those who confess their life in social networks. Then I tried to read to reassure myself. I took the book 'Walden', where Henry David Thoreau chronicles his life in the forests of the United States in the nineteenth century. In fact, the American writer had been one of my inspirations to contest for the 'Edgar Allan Poe' scholarship. However, the things were seriously not going well, something in the mist of the old forest wanted my death. The evil, dark, sharp-claws raven, which haunted the mouldering structure of the house and lurking me in the shadowy woods.

I inspected very well my dwelt, and went into my bed in heart sad. I had been thinking that I could write an inspired novel in a place like this, but the marvelous dream had become into dreadful nightmare. I fall not asleep for one hour around, because the fear was getting ghost in my mind. At last, I fell into a stormy and distressing sleep. The frightening first day rose up again in my dreams; the sense of dark all-pervading menace seemed to destroy out the source of my happiness, and I felt again the cold air beating in gusts about my face, saw the raven rising from my own skeleton, and heard the dreadful squeaked of the bird. The raven just vanished into the mist and I saw a big grizzly bear eating a dragon, I saw a large snake climbing up the Himalaya Mountains, and at last, I saw Jorge Luis Borges lost in the woods and his blind eyes try in vain to pierce the shadows filled with monsters. He shone with an awful light, looking far away, and a look of surprise fell upon his face, and his hands stretched out as if to touch what was invisible; but in an instant the wonder faded, and gave place to the most awful terror. The muscles of Borges face were hideously convulsed; he shook from head to foot. The soul of the elder seemed struggle and shudder within the weird breath of the forest. That appearance of madness on Argentine writer face got me out the nightmare and I woke up trembling. For a moment, I did not know whether if the lost one into the woods was Borges or Borges was myself. The fear to be no one brought me back to my senses in less than a minute. I turned on the light shaking from fear and walked with wobbly footsteps to the desk, continued writing my novel on Borges. I turned my bad dream on a new chapter of my book. Nearly at dawn, I fell asleep on the keyboard of my computer.

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