Only an illusion

On a Spanish fairytale I once read, which smelled like rust and gold of chocolate, a gilded preface I could observe, gilded

and it had a ghastly illustration, and a vague header: 
"The prophesy of the faerie", in sanguine red typed.


Tranced in overpowering terror, I started reading intrigued
this portion of sick folklore, from distant ultramarine kingdoms:







«In a forest known as the jungle of the ocelot; in a clearing where the trees drip oil

across a pathway called confusion; toward the garden of your blue sky-ed dream
you'll reach the galvanic river plugged; and meekly try and cross its electric stream

while the valley of the bleeding canary sheds; its pulmonary blood on the thirsty soil

because
and as you should know... it's only an illusion.

Only an illusion! Ha ha ha!
And upon the hill of your day-by-day; you begin to wonder if it's real
or if it's only an ill... »



Reached this paragraph, a powerful access of nausea assaulted my epiglottis and, in automatic spasm, I downloaded a massive torrent of yellowish vomit on the ancient pages of the noble book, which stayed terribly soaked with the disgusting gastric liquid, in which some undigested pieces of rice appeared scattered.

With clumsy hand and soft towéls
I removed the juice of my bowéls

carefully, with reverence al-móst
from the venerable book of ghóst

and once the ignoble liquid evaporated
and the old-fragile paper ameliorated

I turned the pages random-ly
to the center of the sto-ry:







«... And as you arrive to the country of your eyes; on the hill of your feared mind

yellow glorious flags will salute you, prince; or princess, bisexual androgynous lass
and beyond the wood of the ogre Lami Dozo, deafened by the fanfare you'll trespass

the palatine gates of this crystal chateau, where your languid treasúr you'll find.

but never forget... it's only an illusion.

Only an illusion! Ha ha ha!
And upon the routinary fatigue; you begin to wonder if it's real
or if it's only an ill... »



On this point of the narrative a creaking sound distracted me brusquely
a noise, as of broken bone of man, or fractured beak of goldfinch:

I turned my back to see:
through the open door of my cabinet, the gloomy corridor just threw the image of itself, burning blue under the ossified moonlight coming through a tall and open window

I was completely alone.


With my nervous psyche saturated in 1000 superstitious presentiments I closed the book violently, making the august pages of the volume expectorate a tender cloud of dust or talcum that floated in the air of the room.

Standing up, I walked some long steps through the dormitory, and turning out the lights, left that terrible place with my mind overwhelmed by delirious speculations






























far away, from behind the wall of sleep, from another life, in the subprogrammed order of your days
you observed me walking away forever, wondering if it was real
or if it was only an ill...