Luis Saldana Runs Out Of Sleep

When a problem turns out not to be one

Luis Saldana woke up 17 minutes prior to his alarm going off. He was done sleeping and felt unusually at peace. On subsequent nights, he woke up earlier. This became a routine.

He grew to adore the vast emptiness of the morning hours. Luis began doing things he’d been putting off.

He wrote a letter to his deceased father.

He created a garden in his kitchen.

He read books and authors he had always wanted to read.

He took regular walks and his blood pressure plummeted to normalcy.

As he began waking just over 4 hours earlier than he used to, he started writing stories, capturing ideas from the ether and releasing them onto his pages. He entered competitions and at age 60, Luis Saldana appeared on literary shortlists.

‘Maybe it’s a chemical imbalance in the head?’ Mrs. Saldana guessed.

‘No, it’s a gift from God’, replied Luis. ‘Everybody receives at least one gift from God.’

He purchased a telescope and stargazed on cold nights. He relearnt the names of the stars, constellations and galaxies he had known in his youth. He considered moving somewhere with less light pollution.

Unlimited by the physical libraries of his youth, his mind went further and in directions choosen by him. He experienced the pleasures that came from pursuing the desires of his youth.

When time is abundant, we turn to the skies. Eventually we turn inside and we speak with God. And so Luis arrived at God, who seemed different during the wee hours, more approachable and generous with answers. Life was never the same again.

While he did not move house, Luis Saldana was content with his life’s unexpected detour and the pleasures it brought, right until the day he did not get up anymore.

Photo by Ihor Malytskyi on unsplash.com

Death & Papin

Papin was waiting for Death although he wasn’t sure which version to expect. His faith had taught him so many interpretations of the end that the anticipation was getting too much for him. He was propped up against a rock wall with his buttocks on soft, black soil. Aside from the pummelling in his unnaturally angled, cracked left leg, he felt lucid and alive. Behind and above his head was the moss covered ridge from which he had fallen. He knew the nearest town lay too far down the mountain-side. Feral beasts would begin prowling the wildwood soon and Papin didn’t fancy passing the night where he lay.

Where was Death?

The crowns of trees and shrubbery swayed in a prolonged breeze. The sun was dropping over the mossy ledge, and the trunks and boughs in front of him became imbued with a transient golden hue. Papin wondered why he obsessed about Death instead of angels. After all, his faith had taught him about those as well. Perhaps the idea of begging angels to save his life seemed beneath him. Or perhaps he already knew he was beyond their reach. He waited nevertheless. Night appeared from the roots of trees, stealing upwards and seeping into and smothering every other colour in its melancholy cloak. High above, angels passed by, ignoring him. God remained otherwise engaged.

Death continued watching Papin as darkness came.

photo from unsplash.com by Tom Barret