The conquering worm, the desolation and the blackness of the night, the damp earth, clinging to clothes, the oppression of the lungs, the embrace of the narrow coffin, the body already buried forever. The lack of air, fumes, the grass on the head, and above that a moon, and the sun and the stars, the galaxies, the universe, you are in a new world, beyond. Your friends are at home sleeping, drinking, laughing, all informed of your death, but not of your destiny; of those who are not informed.

You are buried alive, in a desperate position. It may be gruesome, an intolerable horror, a dying dream, not half as disdainful, but it is real, and you must somehow tolerate the weight of that reality.

Now I will tell you the true story of a resident and friend of mine, from Huancayo, Peru, high up in the Peruvian Andes, where people still do things the old-fashioned way, including burials. Leoncio, originally from a small town called San Jerónimo de Tunan, who had moved to the center of the city of Huancayo (within the Mantaro Valley region) without anyone knowing about his cataleptic disease (often accompanied by epilepsy and schizophrenia , characterized by deficiency). response and external stimuli and muscle rigidity), no one alive, that is, his age is 68 years old, and he has no family to talk about, some friends, without knowing about the mysterious disease he suffered. Although I did, but I was away during his supposed departure from this land, in Patagonia.

This disease, of course, is of great interest, especially because of its fate, or has been in the past. The patient or victim remains for a day or more in a state of exaggerated lack of life. It makes no sense, it is immobile, the heartbeat is weak at best, but some warm-blooded spots remain. Their coloration changes on their body, even on their lips, there is a hesitant action in the lungs. He is in a trail mode for weeks, if not months. Many times in isolated areas that still preserve the old customs, the prognosis is of “absolute death”; and for such communities death is death, and there is no double check in the records, that may or may not be, and for old Leoncio, there were no medical records, he cured all his aches and pains with ancient remedies, in the old way. . And he was buried the old-fashioned way. And the only way that someone other than me would have known about his catalepsy would have been by the consequent suspicion and, above all, by the absence of decomposition, which was overlooked. Therefore, he was sent alive to his grave.

I can say with certainty, he fell into a faint, a faint, no pain, unable to move. Perhaps even to think for a while, but eventually with a dull and blurry consciousness.

Leoncio, also an alcoholic, remained in a stupor, perhaps thinking that he was in a nightmare, until he woke up from that stupor, to reality, and found himself in a new crisis. In love with his surroundings, he must have been sick and numb, cold and dizzy from a hangover. Yet now in his grave, black and silent, his world in total annihilation, his universe gone.

He woke up like from an attack, and I know about that experience, because I have lived it, my soul searching for the perception of what is happening. Returning slowly to the light that was out; coming out of a trance, trying to get in touch with the possession of my senses. Thus, his stage was even more profound, his bewilderment and perplexity deeper, for he remained in absolute suspense.

…

His death haunted me day and night, thinking it was a premature burial. Thus, I made the city officials reopen the coffin, sadness and darkness covered our faces, I trembled and trembled, just like the officials, closed to the reflection that they had buried him alive, we sent him to the world of the ghosts, I contemplated. , then I heard a babbling voice, a whisper that came from the lips of the corpses, they moved, “Alive” was the only word, it was repeated over and over again, then it was extinguished. My teeth were chattering, there was a voice that grabbed my wrist, figuratively, but was it too late?

Out of the glow of decay, he had been buried for ten days, his sad body, in a solemn sleep with the worms. A pitiful sight. In fact, I no longer trusted myself, was he dead or still alive? The attending physician assured me with a solemn oath that he was dead. And the coffin was closed.

# 5066 / 2-11-2016