Me/I.

«It was while yielding to the jaws of the unknown, while every second elapsed through my mind, that, by my side, from my back, a beast with faint eyes prostrated itself in the sky, pointing to a mass of blood, dreams, and will on the ground, showing my martyrdom. The illusory flight begins with a "crash."

Thus, it was that this beast, with a thousand nearly identical faces, argued with the tower of each countenance of that me, which rose over the sunset, prioritizing truths, trying to decipher the moment of my betrayal. At first, it was a torment to see all my versions debating among themselves, but if a horrendous death awaits in ten seconds, it's better to inspect whether I deserved to live. Of course, it no longer matters, as three seconds ago, it was decided for me.

Let's start with the self-nine seconds into the future: To nonsense, an answer has already been found, and while it may not save him from the pavement, at least with Socrates, in his apology, he has been equated. Within nine seconds, he will have solved the enigma that has us thinking here, and undoubtedly the purest, not because of his past but because of his argument, he became of all of us.

Yes, death will be beneficial to him. As for me, I don't believe I am deserving.

But it's not what he already resolved in the future, it's what I did to afflict him from his past selves, what they all debate without knowing what I seek, without knowing what they hope to find of me.

To the self that is being born, and that emanates from my mother, the judgment is most severe, for his sin was to enter into absurdity. There is nothing more stupid than nonsense, and that is all there is. It is this self that has the most sins, for if it had been nothingness, Thomas Aquinas would not be judged, nor would the distressed Heideggerian.

Perhaps Berkeley was my worst self, but he never met my beautiful love, for whom I was sentenced today, so I limit myself to those who of love, with Marcela were in trade. Marcela, oh, Marcela, sometimes Ana Karenina, sometimes a Quiroga, you find a thousand problems like the giants to “El Quiojote”, and although in my mind Dulcinea, facing my needs Lenina. I forgive you the offenses you caused in my body.

When your hands touched my mustache, I entered Pangea, with the contact of your hands to the Plateau of Leng; "Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Seas" every time I sought you and received a kick.

Marcela, oh, Marcela, like Nabokov's goblin, I prefer to believe that throwing myself out the window was just your desire, and the artifice of the sunset the result of my work, that neither Camus nor Dostoevsky forced me to fall.

It was while falling among reflections of myself, while gusts of air and letters were stabbing into my being, that each of myself screamed with my soul, that mortification was deserved for something I will do yesterday.

I didn't like to see her like that, with her fate hanging on a bottle and her joy residing in alcohol, that's why at her lonely celebration, I made the decision to lead her to better things. That was my job, Kant told me, while Rand cursed my actions from the dirt, but I, who am Cid Díaz Campeador, Marcus Aurelius, and Odysseus, would save Avellaneda, petite Murphy, and Roxanne from the dominion of the efrit. I knew little that by breaking the curse that kept Marcela in lethargy, her actions controlled by Melkor would disown me.

I almost fell to my death, I see there are two seconds left, but I go back five, and since then I know: I will die, but I will die as a noble. Although I must say that as I am thrown out of the frame, I question if it was worth it; that self from seven seconds ago does not merit salvation, and one more in the future I found the solution.

The pavement is approaching, my question matters little, my sigh escapes me, and I find no salvation. I dedicated so much time to Marcela, so many hungers and devotions, I obtained few things, barely two years of her love. If her life were different, surely, she would love me for longer, but the vial I broke, that thing that annihilates, took her away in troves of tequila.

And now I understand, at the feet of the Grim Reaper, what Borges tried to say with his "What God, behind God, the plot begins?" Seeing that morally, death is indifferent to me, the real question is if it is equally strong in substance.

Goodbye, beautiful Apollo, I will never see Hati devour Máni, I will never see Quevedo's bloody moon, I will never meditate on when I first looked up at the sky, or the great bird Sinclair envisioned in it.

It's too late now, I'm dead».

Suddenly, from the bloody mass of clots, viscera, and bones, a figure rises, vomiting pure hair. It takes a breath and stretches, looking at the sun, licking its genitals, and forgetting the pain.

«Indeed, it was never about whether I deserved death, but whether Marcela, my beloved, could surpass me. And with this, my last of my seven lives, I will return to her side, and I swear, with Baruch Spinoza as my witness, that Marcela will be cured of the curse that looms over her. I don't care if I am thrown for the seventh time and find my end that way, as long as it is my mistress who finds forgiveness within herself, and if she does not, even after I am dead, I will remain by her side. That, more than a curse, is my duty».

At six in the evening, Cyrano de Bergerac, Ali Baba, and the mythical Sinbad left the sunset and returned to apartment 38, where, in the form of a mangy cat, they set out to cure Marcela, their mistress, of alcoholism.