When Elías Woke Up
Memories of a time that does not yet exist — Introduction
The first time it happened, I thought I had simply had an overly long dream.
My name is Elías. I am neither a scientist nor a prophet, nor am I someone particularly inclined to believe in the supernatural. Until a few months ago, my life could be described with almost offensive simplicity: I worked, came home, made something to eat, and fell asleep with a book open on my chest. There were mornings when I didn't even remember what I had dreamed. Then came that sensation.
I woke up one Thursday with sand under my fingernails.
There was no sand in the sheets or on the floor. Just a dark line in the creases of my fingers and a thirst that two glasses of water couldn't quench. I checked the clock: seven hours had passed since I’d gone to bed. Yet, I was exhausted, as if after a trek lasting several days. I felt a longing for people whose names I did not know.
The memories didn't surface immediately. During breakfast, light streaming through the window forced me to close my eyes, and suddenly I saw an expanse of cracked earth beneath two uneven shadows. Later, as I walked past a flower shop, the damp scent of soil brought back an even stranger image: a warm, green wall that seemed to breathe.
I thought it was a lingering nightmare. But it happened again.
Every few days, I would wake up with the impression that I had been away for a very long time. Sometimes I recalled only a conversation; at other times, an entire city—its streets, the taste of its food, and the face of someone who had offered me shelter. The calendar insisted I had slept for only one night. My body and my memory seemed to be keeping different tallies.
I began to write down what I remembered. At first, they were isolated words: moon, water, thorns, doors. Then came entire scenes. I learned I had to write them down before the noise of daily life erased them. I also discovered something unsettling: there were places I kept returning to. People seemed to recognize me, and in some of those impossible lives, I remembered having made promises to them.
I do not know if I travel while I sleep. I do not know if my mind invents futures with the precision of an eyewitness, or if those places exist somewhere we do not yet know how to reach. I have sought explanations in neurology books, in ancient tales, and in conversations that end with an awkward smile. None of them explain why I miss a city that, as far as I know, has never existed.
What follows is neither a prophecy nor a report. It is a written account of what I remember. I do not intend to convince anyone; I am not even sure I believe myself.
This morning, I woke up thirsty again. I closed my eyes, and the image of a huge moon over the desert returned. Beneath its light stood something that, from a distance, looked like a misshapen building. Now I remember what happened when I drew closer.
And this time, I am going to write it all down.
Continued in "Home of the Cacti".