Wish Letters To My Future Self

During my childhood, I wrote letters asking to Santa or baby Jesus what I wished to receive for Christmas. And I diligently listed all those toys that would allow me to materialize my imagination, and grasp a pinch of my dreams: driving a race car, pilot a plane, travel through the entire space.

For many years I thought—like most of the children—that the toys were the most important thing I had back then, because they signify my dreams.

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Paper Birds

All mornings, bright birds show up at my window. Their jubilant canticles light up my room like sunbeams, displacing darkness back to its recondite corners. All the habitants of my dreams recluse themselves in the oniric reflection of my vivid reality.

My eyes adjust to the light, while my logic mind still battles to discern if my nightmares were just a product of my imagination. If people had truly visited me last night. If the events I witnessed were indeed an omen of the future. And if the fears embodied in beasts haunting me, were, in fact, real.

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The Man with the Thousand Names

“Since immemorial times the man has been aware of uncanny forces that surround him,” the presenter addressed the public cramming the theatre. “Forces imperceptible to the naked eye, but that nobody dares to refuse their existence—Magic!”—said raising his hand scenically—“It’s an honor for me to introduce to you the person whose name it’s synonymous of mystery.”

“My queue,” I muttered to myself standing behind the curtains at the backstage, making sure my bowtie was properly aligned.

The presenter stepped aside and waved his hand, “Please welcome, the magnificent Harvey and his fabulous magic show!!!”

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