The Migala runs freely through the house, but my ability to horror does not decrease.
the day that Beatrice and I went into that filthy barracks of the street fair, I realized that was the most revolting vermin appalling that could happen in the destination. Worse than the contempt and pity shining in a clear eye soon.
few days later I returned to buy the Migala, and gave me some surprise acrobat reports about their customs and strange food.
Then I realized I was holding, once and for all, the total threat, with a high dose of horror that my mind could bear. I remember my step shaky, hesitant, when I go home feeling light and heavy weight of the spider, that weight which could be discounted, certainly, that of the wooden box that had, like two totally different weights: the innocent and the timber of impure and poisonous animal pulling me like a permanent ballast. Inside that box was the personal hell that installed in my house to destroy, to override the other, the massive inferno of men.
The memorable night in which I sent the Migala in my apartment and saw him run like a crab and hide under furniture, has been the beginning of a life beyond words. Since then, each of the moments at my disposal has been walked through the steps of the spider, which fills the house with his invisible presence.
All aspen night waiting for the deadly bite. Often wake up to the icy body, tense and motionless, because the dream has created for me, precisely, tickling over the spider on my skin, weight indefinable, its consistency entails. However, always rises. I'm alive and my soul is preparing vain and perfected.
Some days I think the Migala has disappeared, which has lost or has died. But I do nothing to check. I always leave that chance again put me in front of her, to leave the bathroom, or while you undress me to lie down in bed. Sometimes the silence of the night brings the echo of his footsteps, I've learned to listen, but I know that are imperceptible.
Many days find the food untouched I left the day before. When it disappears, do not know if it has devoured my gala or some other innocent house guest. I've also come to think that perhaps I am a victim of a hoax and that I am at the mercy of a false Migala. Perhaps the jester has deceived me, making me pay a high price for a nasty bug harmless.
But in reality it does not matter, because I've devoted to Migala with the certainty of my death postponed. At the most acute insomnia, when I get lost in conjecture and nothing calms me down, often visit the Migala. He walks
entangled around the room and awkwardly tries to climb the walls. He stops and lifts his head and moves the palps. Seems to sniff, agitated, an invisible partner. Then, trembling in my solitude, cornered by the little monster, I remember that once I dreamed of in his company Beatrice and impossible.
Text taken from:
http://bibliotecaignoria.blogspot.com/2007/04/juan-jos-arreola-la-mgala.html
Image taken from:
http://www.agseso .com/imagenes/arreola/arreola1.jpg
the day that Beatrice and I went into that filthy barracks of the street fair, I realized that was the most revolting vermin appalling that could happen in the destination. Worse than the contempt and pity shining in a clear eye soon.
few days later I returned to buy the Migala, and gave me some surprise acrobat reports about their customs and strange food.
Then I realized I was holding, once and for all, the total threat, with a high dose of horror that my mind could bear. I remember my step shaky, hesitant, when I go home feeling light and heavy weight of the spider, that weight which could be discounted, certainly, that of the wooden box that had, like two totally different weights: the innocent and the timber of impure and poisonous animal pulling me like a permanent ballast. Inside that box was the personal hell that installed in my house to destroy, to override the other, the massive inferno of men.
The memorable night in which I sent the Migala in my apartment and saw him run like a crab and hide under furniture, has been the beginning of a life beyond words. Since then, each of the moments at my disposal has been walked through the steps of the spider, which fills the house with his invisible presence.
All aspen night waiting for the deadly bite. Often wake up to the icy body, tense and motionless, because the dream has created for me, precisely, tickling over the spider on my skin, weight indefinable, its consistency entails. However, always rises. I'm alive and my soul is preparing vain and perfected.
Some days I think the Migala has disappeared, which has lost or has died. But I do nothing to check. I always leave that chance again put me in front of her, to leave the bathroom, or while you undress me to lie down in bed. Sometimes the silence of the night brings the echo of his footsteps, I've learned to listen, but I know that are imperceptible.
Many days find the food untouched I left the day before. When it disappears, do not know if it has devoured my gala or some other innocent house guest. I've also come to think that perhaps I am a victim of a hoax and that I am at the mercy of a false Migala. Perhaps the jester has deceived me, making me pay a high price for a nasty bug harmless.
But in reality it does not matter, because I've devoted to Migala with the certainty of my death postponed. At the most acute insomnia, when I get lost in conjecture and nothing calms me down, often visit the Migala. He walks
entangled around the room and awkwardly tries to climb the walls. He stops and lifts his head and moves the palps. Seems to sniff, agitated, an invisible partner. Then, trembling in my solitude, cornered by the little monster, I remember that once I dreamed of in his company Beatrice and impossible.
Text taken from:
http://bibliotecaignoria.blogspot.com/2007/04/juan-jos-arreola-la-mgala.html
Image taken from:
http://www.agseso .com/imagenes/arreola/arreola1.jpg
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