14 THE FIRST LETTER

A trillion of trillions of years later …

I was surviving scarcely without artificial support. Already I felt the lack of oxygen and sustenance in my tissues, but even I had time. One night, a terrible noise woke me up. His force set me on edge.
After weeks of absolute silence, this noise was like a cataclysm. In the middle of my confusion I noticed in the soil a paper that had slipped up to me; I thought that I knew about what it was, but I was wrong. I stuck to the wall my ear and perceived in her a very subtle noise, since of you sedate getting rubbed. He was the Emissary going out of the house. Immediately I paralyzed myself, and like that, stilly and tensely, looked at the invading paper: the unavoidable letter on the soil. A few hours later, already less tense, I moved slowly and gathered her. To end in this simple act, hours the curiosity fought in one undid to one the knots of the fear.
These ones were coming from my phobia from seeing accidental the Emissary and the distaste that me his sporadic visits were causing. Actually this rejection was not especially to the Emissary, but in general other human beings (in those epochs I believed that the Emissary tape-worm you form are humanized by you). I was feeling something shoking and obscene in having contact with another person, though this contact had never happened and was possible that it did never happen while I was living, these a few days that were staying.
I was scaring to imagine my own features repeated in another object of the world, it that plays the role me the unique and different from the wall, of the corridor. It that was making to myself understand and to differ from the environment repeated in another being, was a perplexity, as if the world show my banality.
Opposite to a mirror one sees also images similar to one, but they are mere our printings. A type of shade that depends on us to take its form and movement, dependent always on us. But in other human beings I would see with terror a copy independent from me, with will and own destiny. And, me there was turning out to be the most aberrant thing to think, with equal me, to my. And nevertheless, this equal I to my one would be in another side and would feel other things. What a distaste! I of whom perhaps I was the copy or maybe an already useless draft!

Perhaps all the consciences are equal, only the content distinguishes them through what they live, if, probably others equal I have to the my, that is to say, the same one, only that surrounded with other things, and if the consciences are equal, will they be the same and one?
If a repetition of me already exists, for what being? What does being distinguish we of being different or not being at all?
Nothing comes out in the repetitions, and I believe that only the only thing, the unpublished thing, and irreplaceable it has right to being. None of these things I was and could demonstrate it on having felt the Emissary and on having remembered that there was more conscious humanity thereabouts.
Happily, the common thing was the loneliness, since already I have said. Happily I had never run up with another human being, but I know that the last planet is vast and that there must be dozens of these my echoes strolling in his perverse existence.
Maybe it is necessary to make clear that the machines of the Thecnetos make "very similar" men make the of hiser, physical features and, therefore, necessarily of his character. I presume that we all are only variations of the same topic. I ignore if it means the success of the Thecnetos in its zeal to construct a perfect humanity. In any case, this repetition me shames and is the motive of my distaste.
But there is something that I have not annotated yet, a little without explanation. I looked at the letter and tried to read his instructions. Of obeying them my subsistence was depending as always. In end, this one was its mysterious content:

M., I have written for you this:

Your eyes are severe,
They are a half-open door that I have never crossed
For dread, probably...
I have drawn in so many
Papers your eyes
That now will roll in different points of the city.
How many things still I do not understand of you.
I complete them of dreams,
Of recollections,
Of necessary details to my unconscious
And probably, of my power of premonition.
In addition, to conceal furthermore my ignorance,
I have given another name.
I have given in thinking that you are a feline
And because of it you persist
Violent and ingenuous,
Assassin and child.
But it saddens me to know how rapidly the time happens.
Yet remaining still I see to the time to soften these forms with which I remember you.
I am afraid that before knowing yourself
Let's vanish in recollections adrift.
That gets lost this world in others.
And only this sky stays without stars, the drizzle and the cold.
But,
Maybe the time reaches
And one day
One builds bridges among the two,
Fact of some precarious material, as an air or a hope.
A way up to you in whom you also come to me,
And finally could cross
Your look without answers.

Emotionally distant, L.


Immediately I noticed that in the itinerary of the Emissary there had been a mistake: a terrible mistake. Ado instructions it would not survive. It was clear the Thecnetos was looking for my death. Or it was losing interest in my survival, but for that so prompt? This letter was not for me and they were lacking any sense. They could not come from the Thecnetos! It was the correspondence of two beings, human, and distant chance undoubtedly. But it did not seem to be natural that a human being was writing fell
Neither things, nor that were feeling it. Until another world and another life independent from the Thecnetos existed, impossible thing. Another rare thing: I could read his language, how would I have learned it? This communication was not a part of the infinite dialectics that the Thecnetos has with the world, but words apart from this one, and perhaps ignored by this one. Is it that perhaps there was a world parallel to the perfection of the Thecnetos? Perhaps was another life living and swarming in the distance of the last planet? A sparkle of hope ignited for the first time in me on having sensed beforehand the transworld. A hope born in the same moment that was finishing my life.
In spite of my simplicity I noticed another thing more that already it was not meaning only a mistake in the labour of the Emissary but one in the structure itself of the world. I noticed that a mistake in the Emissary had to be also a mistake of the Thecnetos; this one necessarily wandered on having instructed the Emissary, or it was impotent opposite to the infamy of that one, so what was it meaning but the Thecnetos could not prevent that the Emissary was wrong? This blemish was his blemish, and this one could be the evidence of which the Thecnetos, beside not being eternal since me already was going time suspecting, neither it was perfect. Occasionally it was raving. A mistake, in a precarious detail, was sufficient in order that the Thecnetos was not infallible. In addition - I thought with an arid sorrow-, if the Thecnetos existed, if it was not only a myth supported by my confusion, it had to be omnipotent, and the letter was denying that it was. Perhaps simply it was a mistake to think about the Thecnetos. This god of matter and his ángel of meat were getting blurred grotesquely in my worried mind. It had to forget promptly this mistaken letter.
But I couldn’t.
There same it began something disturbing. In my life, up to this moment calm, it started something escaping and going out of me, leaving a space of anxiety. This wrong and foreign correspondence was like a feather of another planet that had entered my window; evidence of a world that existed in parallel to my and that till then had been invisible, I called it transworld. A planet that did not have to exist was floating also in the Ouranos. Or perhaps this planet was floating in me. Soon already I wanted to come to it. But I was separating of the transworld, an infinite of emptiness and silence.
But an infinite of nothing is at all, nothing. So the trasworld had to be nearby and it might be reached, before my poor meats were stopping breathing, I would find it! From my birth I had attended only to my interior voice. Of "others" I knew that they were equal to me, but only theoretically; I had never seen anybody, it nor was probable that I did never see them. And it was a relief that did never see them.
But this letter was a part of others. My first one and probably unique contact this exotic and amazing form of life: the human life and it did not seem to mine to be similar. In addition it seemed to be inoffensive in spite of the initial confusion that caused me, that entire one was mistaking!
Till now the planet was figuratively mine and the vastness of my ignorance was the wide desert where I was crossing my life. But always, in a bend of my calm soul, I was guarding the curiosity for knowing of others. A curiosity hidden under tons of dread and disgust, which now was emerging shyly, but also irreversibly.

Only to come to the transworld, to M and to L, was mattering now.