sábado, 22 de diciembre de 2012

Cuando despertamos del apocalipsis maya, el mundo real todavía estaba allí


El texto que mejor refleja el estado de ánimo de toda la gente que esperó el fin del mundo hasta las 23.59.59 del 21 de diciembre, y la cara que se les puso cuando comenzó el día 22 y el mundo real y los recortes todavía estaban aquí. Cómo no, es del maestro Philip K. Dick.

Every day that passed put me into a greater state of excitement. Toward the end of the month I was hardly sleeping at all.
When April twenty-third arrived I woke up while it was still dark. I lay in bed awhile, so keyed-up that I could barely stand it. Then at five-thirty a.m. I got out of bed and got dressed and ate breakfast. All I could get down was a bowl of Wheat Chex, incidently. And a dish of apple sauce. I lit a fire in the fireplace in the living room and then I began walking around the house. I didn't know exactly where Charley would first be seen, so I tried to cover every part of the house, be in each room at least once every fifteen minutes.
By noon I was so conscious of him that I kept turning my head and catching a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye. But at two o'clock I had a distinct feeling of let-down. I had a cheese sandwich and a glass of milk and that made me feel better, but the sense of his presence did not become any stronger.
When six o'clock came, and he still hadn't come back to life, I began to become uneasy. So I telephoned Mrs. Hambro.
"Hello," she said, in that hoarse voice.
I said, "This is Jack Seville." (What I meant, of course, was Jack Isidore.) "I wondered if you'd noticed anything definitive."
"We're meditating," she said. "I thought you would be with us. Didn't you catch our telepathic message?"
"When was it sent out?" I asked.
"Two days ago," she said. "At midnight, when the lines are Strongest."
"I didn't get it," I said in agitation. "Anyhow, I have to be over here at the house. I'm waiting for Charley Hume to come back to life."
"Well, I think you should be here," she said, and I noticed a real hint of crossness in her voice. "There may be a good reason why we aren't getting the expected results."
"You mean, it's my fault?" I demanded. "Because I'm not there?"
"There has to be some reason," she said. "I don't see why you have to stay there and wait for that particular person to come back to life."
We argued awhile, and then hung up with less than the most amiable feelings. Again I began pacing around the house, looking this time into every closet, in case he returned and found himself shut in where he couldn't get out.
At eleven-thirty that evening I was really getting worried. I again telephoned Mrs. Hambro, but this time got no answer.
By a quarter of twelve I was virtually out of my mind with worry. I had the radio on and was listening to a program of dance music and news. Finally the announcer said that in one minute it would be twelve midnight. He gave a commercial for United Airlines. Then it was twelve. Charley hadn't come back to life. And it was April twenty-fourth. The world hadn't come to an end.
I was never so disconcerted in my entire life.

(Confesiones de un artista de mierda, de Philip K. Dick)

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