Jellyfish

Blink. Gazing at the sunlight in the vast blue sky, I recall childhood mornings, filled with laziness and daydreaming. I would then discern strange shapes in the vast milky clouds, which I would photograph to later store in the vast storehouse of my imagination.

Blink. Now I observe the innocence of the moon, its scarred surface. Its sight replaces the mirror in which I gazed until the first tear welled up.

Blink. An old fishing boat sails toward me. A small boy on board waves cheerfully, eager to greet the island's inhabitants. I don't know why, but I raise my hand and wave back. The ship approaches a sandy shore surrounded by lush greenery, in which a small wooden hut can barely be seen emerging from the thicket. A scantily clad woman with long black hair emerges from the interior of the house, greeting her son and husband. I stop waving. I change the channel.

Blink. The journalist glances at me from the screen. His gaze irritates me. I cover my face with my hand. I change the channel.

Blink. The rabbit runs away from the fat little hunter. Eventually, it hides in a small hole. I've seen this happen many times. I change the channel.

Blink. Flipping channels, I created my own movie, whose characters changed with every second. They existed as blurs to which I bestowed my indifference. When the programs ended, the movie ended as well. A poetic image devoid of emotion. A work so close to life. An Oscar-winning performance for a pale blur with a sad gaze.

Blink. Immersed in the semidarkness of the room, I drown in the delicate softness of the purple sofa. Behind it, on a high table, sits an aquarium, in which a tiny jellyfish floats. Whenever I watch TV, the glow from the screen hits its glass home, casting my roommate's shadow against the white walls. Before bed, I always turn on a nature program about the deep sea so my companion doesn't feel shut in and alone. It floats with its relatives in the ocean of my imagination.

I stare at the ceiling. Squinting, I see a black spot begin to form above the lamp. From beneath the lampshade emerges a yellowed arm, its skin tightly taut, and a stream of black liquid with the consistency of mercury trickles down it. Single drops fall from the tip of my index finger, then, shattering on the hard floor, soak into the carpet, creating an ever-widening puddle. Blackness begins to engulf the entire ceiling and streak the walls.

Long, luminous tendrils emerge from the screen, undulating in the air, wrapping themselves around dust motes before settling on the rough surface of the wall, nestled in the jellyfish's cold shadow. After a moment, I too fell asleep.

Bombarded by sunlight, I stroll through the desert, shielding my eyes from the grains of sand. Through my fingers, I watch the weary travelers without a shadow of my own. The strong wind, constantly changing the landscape, revealed a rusty tram stop sign a few meters ahead of me. A moment later, the relic, gliding across the sandy surface, stopped near the sign. I boarded the empty tram. The tram moved. The freshly painted yellow handrails perfectly complemented the red seats and the leather handles suspended freely from the ceiling.

Admiring the light spectacle unfolding on the floor of the tram, I noticed a human shadow at the very back of the car. I lifted my head, but I couldn't find its owner. Then I noticed more shadows. Some were reading newspapers, savoring the poison of a cigarette, or waiting motionlessly for their stop. Feeling like an intruder, I awoke at the next rest stop. The sound of the door closing transformed into a nightingale's song, born from the fertilization of a doorbell switch in the hallway by my finger. I rose from the couch to greet the guest with my indifference, then, offering my bare feet the roughness of the carpet, collapsed to the ground.

I opened my eyes. A conical chandelier suspended from the ceiling dimly illuminated the room. Unsure who had turned on the light, I avoided any sudden movements, fearing a confrontation with a possible intruder. I tried to survey as much of the room as possible, but the numerous refractions of light caused by the chaotic interior furnishings created restless, shadowy spaces, simultaneously exposing the dysfunctionality of the surrounding reality. I slowly rose to check if anyone was hiding behind the couch, then, with relief, found the room empty. Then I checked the other rooms, but they too revealed their loneliness.

The front door was closed. Perhaps the light had been on all the time; I simply hadn't noticed.

Tired of searching, I collapsed to the ground. Only then did I see the books and torn pages scattered across the floor. The entire apartment was in ruins. I don't know what had happened. Then I saw my shadow sitting on the floor in the doorway to the kitchen. Leaning against the doorframe, he stared at the ceiling, which had become the home of a tiny jellyfish. Meanwhile, leaning against the cabinet on which the overturned television rested, I gazed at the corpse of my companion floating limply in the aquarium. I began to choke on air. I longed to immerse myself in the blue ocean where I longed to find my lost childhood photographs.

I lay down on the purple couch, letting my body sink into its softness. I fell asleep... I fell asleep... I fell asleep

- Doctor, what's wrong with me? -

You suffer from a split personality.

- Doctor, what's wrong with me?

- You suffer from a split personality