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The Funeral
For years, I had felt a presence around me, a shadow that seemed to follow me wherever I went. It was discreet, but constant, always lurking in the darkest corners of my mind. At first, I thought they were just fleeting thoughts, formless fears, but over time, the shadow began to take on something more tangible, more real.
One night, in the deep silence of dawn, as I lay in bed, the shadow finally materialized. It was no longer just a feeling. It was there, sitting at the edge of the bed, with a figure both familiar and unsettling. Its face was covered by a dense darkness, but something about its posture, the way it breathed, made me realize it wasn’t a stranger.
“Who are you?” I asked, a lump in my throat. He, or rather, I, did not respond immediately. He just watched me, as if he already knew what I was going to ask, as if he had lived this moment before.
“I’ve followed you for a long time,” he finally said, in a deep voice, weighed down by years. “I’m not a stranger. I’m you… only older. I’ve come to remind you of everything you’ve avoided saying, everything you’ve buried under layers of lies.”
I remained silent. Something in his words resonated within me. As if I had always known that, in the end, the shadow that had pursued me was none other than a version of myself, more worn down, more broken, but also wiser.
“Why are you chasing me?” I asked.
“Because you can no longer escape yourself. You’ve reached the point where the truths you’ve kept silent weigh more than your own life. You must tell them, to everyone, face to face. Every word you withheld, every truth you hid, has been consuming you.”
There was a pause, and the shadow looked at me with an intensity that pierced through me. “When you wake up, there will be no more time to run. Wake up and speak the truth. To everyone. Without fear.”
Before I could respond, his voice rose like thunder. “Wake up!” he shouted, and the sound reverberated in my chest like a broken drum.
I opened my eyes with a jolt, gasping, but everything is different. I was no longer in my bed. I wasn’t even in my room. I found myself floating in a room full of people, people I had known at different points in my life. They were all there, silent, their faces filled with something I couldn’t quite decipher. It was then that I saw it. In the center of the room, surrounded by all of them, was a coffin.
My coffin.
It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t a nightmare. It was my funeral, and I floated above them, watching as they mourned my body. I could see their tear-filled faces, some with expressions of regret, others with emptiness. And then I understood. The shadow wasn’t just my older self. It was the final warning, the last sign that the truth I never spoke had killed me while I was still alive.
Floating there, among all those I had known, I realized something even deeper: it wasn’t just my physical death; it was the death of all the missed opportunities, all the words left unsaid, all the moments I had silenced myself out of fear. I had been a ghost long before I died.
And so, in that space between life and death, I understood that the shadow hadn’t haunted me to scare me, but to prepare me. To make me see that truth, though it sometimes destroys us, also sets us free. But it was too late. My body lay lifeless, while I could only watch from afar, floating in an unfathomable loneliness.
There were no more words, only the echo of the shadow’s shout resonating in my mind: “Wake up!” But there was no waking for me anymore. There was nothing left to say.
© Luis Mujica
One night, in the deep silence of dawn, as I lay in bed, the shadow finally materialized. It was no longer just a feeling. It was there, sitting at the edge of the bed, with a figure both familiar and unsettling. Its face was covered by a dense darkness, but something about its posture, the way it breathed, made me realize it wasn’t a stranger.
“Who are you?” I asked, a lump in my throat. He, or rather, I, did not respond immediately. He just watched me, as if he already knew what I was going to ask, as if he had lived this moment before.
“I’ve followed you for a long time,” he finally said, in a deep voice, weighed down by years. “I’m not a stranger. I’m you… only older. I’ve come to remind you of everything you’ve avoided saying, everything you’ve buried under layers of lies.”
I remained silent. Something in his words resonated within me. As if I had always known that, in the end, the shadow that had pursued me was none other than a version of myself, more worn down, more broken, but also wiser.
“Why are you chasing me?” I asked.
“Because you can no longer escape yourself. You’ve reached the point where the truths you’ve kept silent weigh more than your own life. You must tell them, to everyone, face to face. Every word you withheld, every truth you hid, has been consuming you.”
There was a pause, and the shadow looked at me with an intensity that pierced through me. “When you wake up, there will be no more time to run. Wake up and speak the truth. To everyone. Without fear.”
Before I could respond, his voice rose like thunder. “Wake up!” he shouted, and the sound reverberated in my chest like a broken drum.
I opened my eyes with a jolt, gasping, but everything is different. I was no longer in my bed. I wasn’t even in my room. I found myself floating in a room full of people, people I had known at different points in my life. They were all there, silent, their faces filled with something I couldn’t quite decipher. It was then that I saw it. In the center of the room, surrounded by all of them, was a coffin.
My coffin.
It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t a nightmare. It was my funeral, and I floated above them, watching as they mourned my body. I could see their tear-filled faces, some with expressions of regret, others with emptiness. And then I understood. The shadow wasn’t just my older self. It was the final warning, the last sign that the truth I never spoke had killed me while I was still alive.
Floating there, among all those I had known, I realized something even deeper: it wasn’t just my physical death; it was the death of all the missed opportunities, all the words left unsaid, all the moments I had silenced myself out of fear. I had been a ghost long before I died.
And so, in that space between life and death, I understood that the shadow hadn’t haunted me to scare me, but to prepare me. To make me see that truth, though it sometimes destroys us, also sets us free. But it was too late. My body lay lifeless, while I could only watch from afar, floating in an unfathomable loneliness.
There were no more words, only the echo of the shadow’s shout resonating in my mind: “Wake up!” But there was no waking for me anymore. There was nothing left to say.
© Luis Mujica
