We have lost the thread. By Carlos del Puente

domingo, diciembre 29, 2024

The night was so dark that it seemed to have been swallowed by a layer of shadow. In the midst of that density, there was a small bar called "Lost Threads."

The bar had an absurd decoration. An enormous chandelier was suspended from the ceiling, but it did not emit light. Instead, an old radio had come to life thanks to a strange tree inside the bar.

The bar itself embodied the essence of the absurd. It was formed by two intertwined profiles of iron in the most impossible way: one was pointing up and the other down.

The bartender, named "Faded Thread," constantly found himself lost among his own absurd creations.

One day, a group of visitors arrived at the bar. They were completely confused, but also intrigued by the strange atmosphere of the place.

In the midst of chaos and madness, "Faded Thread" found himself facing his most absurd challenge: keeping the visitors interested in the bar throughout the night.

And thus began the most absurd story that had ever been told. A plot full of bells without a tone, where each character was a lost thread in their own madness.

The night turned into a mental battle between "Faded Thread" and the confused but intrigued visitors.

One group had approached the absurd radio, passively listening while their thoughts spun frantically. Others had been following the absurd movements of the iron profile, searching for a logical branch in the absurd.

The hour finally fell, but the rhythm of the bar did not stop for an instant. "Faded Thread" had managed to create a unique blend of absurdity and intrigue that, despite being impossible, seemed real.

And so, in the midst of his own creative chaos, the lost thread in the bar We Have Lost the Thread not only found its way but also witnessed the absurd power and creativity in the world.

From that memorable night on, the bar We Have Lost the Thread became a focal point of artistic curiosity. Visitors would often encounter unexpected and logically absurd things.

But beyond entertainment, We Have Lost the Thread also served as a space for reflection. The inhabitants of the bar constantly faced the doubt of whether they were truly lost or if there was some sense in their absurd artistic existence.

And so, amidst their own absurd metaphors, the lost thread in We Have Lost the Thread remained a symbol of hope and creativity in the face of the world's uncertainty.

One day, while the inhabitants of the bar We Have Lost the Thread continued exploring their absurd universe, they found themselves in a situation that, in its own absurd way, would begin to mark a new course for the lost thread. It was an abnormal sunset. The radiant light of the stars mixed with the dim artificial light of the bar. At that moment, someone observed a curious paradox between two different characters in the bar: "The Lost Thread" and "The Absurd Radio."

The Absurd Radio, which used to broadcast absurdly danceable music, suddenly began to emit a gloomy and desperate melody. Simultaneously, the sound vibrations of the transmitter joined the echo of the lost thread in the bar.

In that instant, "The Lost Thread" found itself facing something that was not only disconcerting but also seemed to be struggling for its existence. And despite the absurdly desperate situation, an inexplicable impulse decided the lost thread.

In doing so, "The Lost Thread" fell before the eyes of "The Absurd Radio." At that precise moment, something unexpected and completely absurdly desperate happened: the sound vibrations of the transmitter joined the echo of the lost thread in the bar.

And so, in the midst of an atmosphere filled with absurdity, "The Lost Thread" managed to find its deeper path, a kind of intense thread that led to discovering the most absurdly absurd truths of the world.

xxxx

And so, in the midst of the cacophony of The Absurd Radio and the echo of The Lost Thread, a portal opened, not from another world, but from another dimension of the absurd. A portal that manifested as a vortex of impossible-colored smoke, swirling with a logic that only the absurd could comprehend. Some visitors, entranced, cautiously approached, while others, clinging to their own sanity (or what was left of it), recoiled in horror.

Faded Thread, for his part, observed the scene with a mix of astonishment and resignation. He had created the absurd, but the absurd, in its infinite wisdom, had created something even beyond his own understanding.

A group of intrepid explorers, led by a woman with a top hat and a talking cat on her shoulder, ventured into the vortex. The cat, an expert in feline absurdities, meowed incomprehensible prophecies while the woman, with an enigmatic smile, jotted everything down in a notebook with blank pages.

Inside the vortex, time and space twisted. The visitors found themselves in impossible landscapes: a desert of sour candies, a forest of clocks marking different hours, a river of ink that wrote its own story. They encountered strange beings, creatures of implausible logic that spoke in riddles and fed on paradoxes.

The Lost Thread, guided by an inexplicable force, followed the explorers through the vortex. He discovered that the intense thread he had felt was a path, a trail through the heart of the absurd, a road that would lead him to understanding, or perhaps, to an even deeper madness.

After a journey that challenged the very notion of journeying, the explorers returned to the bar We Have Lost the Thread, transformed. They had seen the true essence of the absurd, an essence that, while chaotic and incomprehensible, was, in its way, beautiful and profoundly meaningful. The bar was now not just a place of artistic curiosity but a portal to an infinite universe of absurd possibilities. The Lost Thread, no longer lost, became a guide, a beacon in the absurd night, a testament to the power of creativity, even in the deepest and most deranged of chaos. And the bar, We Have Lost the Thread, continued its existence, a lighthouse of creative madness in a world that, after all, was already quite absurd by itself.

The bar "We Have Lost the Thread" became a legend. Pilgrims from all over, drawn by rumors of its absurd magnificence, flocked in search of an experience that defied logic and expanded their minds. "Faded Thread," far from feeling overwhelmed, flourished. His creativity, fueled by the constant flow of visitors and the infinite possibilities of the absurd, multiplied exponentially.

The bar evolved. Impossible objects appeared and disappeared at will. The laws of physics broke and rebuilt at whim. One day, a teacup levitated and sang opera; the next day, the chairs turned into trees that discussed philosophy. The visitors, initially confused, learned to navigate the chaos, to find a logic within the illogical. They became active participants in the absurd masterpiece of "Faded Thread," contributing their own ideas, their own craziness, to the mix.

One day, a group of scientists, determined to unravel the mystery of the bar, arrived. Equipped with high-tech instruments, they tried to measure, analyze, and understand the absurd. But their instruments went haywire, their equations collapsed, their minds were pushed to the limit. They abandoned their scientific quest, captivated by the inexplicable beauty of creative chaos. They became regulars, contributing their own brand of scientific logic to the reigning absurd.

As the years passed, "We Have Lost the Thread" became a symbol, proof that creativity has no limits, that the absurd can be beautiful, and that even in the deepest chaos, one can find a meaning, a connection, a deep and absurd truth. "Faded Thread," the bartender who had lost his thread, had woven a new reality, one where the absurd was not an anomaly but the norm, a place where imagination was the only law, and where each night was a new adventure in the heart of wonder. And so, the legend of the bar "We Have Lost the Thread" continued, a beacon of absurd creativity in a world that, after all, has always been seeking its own lost thread.

xxxx

Faded Thread, for his part, observed the scene with a mix of astonishment and resignation. He had created the absurd, but the absurd, in its infinite wisdom, had created something even beyond his own understanding.

The Lost Thread, guided by an inexplicable force, followed the explorers through the vortex. He discovered that the intense thread he had felt was a path, a trail through the heart of the absurd, a road that would lead him to understanding, or perhaps, to an even deeper madness.

xxxx

In a world where time crumbled like a broken blanket, a group of people found themselves trapped in a labyrinth of forgotten memories. It was there that the incident known as "We have lost the thread" occurred.

It was a gray and cloudy morning, as if the Moon had decided to take an endless break in space.

The city was engulfed in a sepulchral silence, as if all sounds had been absorbed by the void opening in the center of people's souls.

In this humid and desolate atmosphere, a group of four friends gathered in an abandoned café. They all sat in front of their cups of coffee, with their eyes lost in nothingness, as if they were waiting for something that would never arrive.

The leader of the group, a man named Jorge, was the first to speak. "Do you remember what happened yesterday?" he asked in a soft and tired voice. The others looked at him confused, as they all knew something was very wrong.

"What do you mean?" asked María, a woman with round eyes and light brown hair. "I think I went to the movies yesterday to see a science fiction film."

"I was going too," said Tomás, a tall, thin man with a forced smile. "But after the show, I don’t remember what happened next."

"And I was at home, watching TV," added Ana, a dark-haired woman with bright eyes that seemed to see beyond the visible.

"What's the problem?" Jorge asked, as if he were waiting for someone to explain to him what had happened. But the others just looked at each other, confused and scared.

Suddenly, a figure entered the café, dressed in a pristine white suit and wearing a tall top hat. "What is happening here?" he asked in a voice that seemed to come from a very distant place.

Jorge stood up and approached the figure. "We are trying to remember what happened yesterday," he said, his voice filled with desperation.

The figure looked at him with empty eyes, as if he knew nothing about the world around him. "I don't know anything," he finally said. "But I do know something."

"What is it?" Jorge asked impatiently.

"The thread has been lost," said the figure. "And without it, everything crumbles."

Jorge fell silent for a moment, as if he were trying to process what he had heard. Then he realized that he did not know what the thread was or why its loss was so serious.

"What is the thread?" he finally asked.

The figure shrugged. "That's something only I know," he said. "And although I hate to say it, it's a terrible truth."

The group fell silent for a moment, trying to process the information they had received. Then they began to talk among themselves, trying to remember what the thread was and why its loss was so serious. But the more they talked, the more it seemed they were drifting away from the main topic. The conversation became increasingly absurd, as if they were trying to avoid a particular subject.

"Have you ever seen a movie where the protagonist is lost in a labyrinth of forgotten memories?" Tomás asked.

"Uh-huh," María said. "I love it when characters get lost in their own thoughts."

"Yes, and I love it when characters have to choose between two paths leading to different outcomes," Ana added.

Jorge stood up and approached the window. He looked outside, not knowing what to do or where to go.

"What about words?" he finally asked. "Are they important?"

The figure looked at him with empty eyes. "Words are like threads," he said. "And when they are lost, everything crumbles."

The group fell silent for another moment, trying to process the information they had received. Then they began to talk among themselves, trying to remember what the thread was and why its loss was so serious. But the more they spoke, the more it seemed they were drifting away from the main topic. The conversation became increasingly absurd, as if they were trying to avoid a particular subject. Finally, the group realized that they did not know what to do or where to go. They had lost the thread and without it, everything crumbled. So they decided to search for it. They scattered throughout the city, searching for clues and signs that would lead them to the heart of the labyrinth of forgotten memories. But the more they walked, the more it seemed they were getting lost in the labyrinth. The streets became increasingly confusing, as if they were trying to avoid a particular subject. Finally, after days and nights without rest, they arrived at an empty and desolate place. It was a forgotten valley, filled with rocks and dry earth. And there, in the center of the valley, was a figure waiting for them. It was the same figure they had seen in the café, with his pristine white suit and tall top hat.

"What happened?" Jorge asked, trying to understand what was happening.

The figure looked at him with empty eyes. "The thread has been lost," he said. "And without it, everything crumbles."

Jorge fell silent for a moment, as if he were trying to process the information he had heard. Then he realized that he did not know what to do or where to go. So he stood there, surrounded by emptiness and desolation, trying to find the meaning of things. But the truth was that he never found it.

The group fell silent for a moment, trying to process the information they had heard. Then María spoke for the first time.

"What about the past?" she asked in a soft and sad voice. "How do we know we have lived if we remember nothing?"

The figure looked at her with empty eyes. "The past is like a thread that has been stretched," he said. "It can be twisted and bent, but it can never be cut definitively."

Tomás stood up and approached the figure. "What does that mean?" he asked with a voice full of desperation. The figure looked at him with empty eyes. "It means that although we may lose the thread, we can never really set aside the past," he said. "It may be in our minds, remembered in our deepest memories."

Ana stood up and approached the figure. "And what about reality?" she asked with a voice full of curiosity. "Is our perception of reality what is important or reality itself?"

The figure looked at her with empty eyes. "Reality is like a labyrinth with no exit," he said. "It may seem that there is an end, but in reality, there is always another entrance, another door that opens to take us to another passage."

Jorge fell silent for a moment, trying to process the information he had heard. Then he realized that he did not know what to do or where to go.

"What about the future?" he asked with a soft and sad voice. "How can we know what will happen if we cannot remember the past?"

The figure looked at him with empty eyes. "The future is like a thread that is being cut," he said. "It can be cut definitively, but it can never be retained."

Tomás stood up and approached the figure. "What does that mean?" he asked with a voice full of desperation.

The figure looked at him with empty eyes. "It means that although we can predict the future, we can never really control it," he said. "It can be influenced by our actions and decisions, but it can always change."

xxxx

The group remained silent, absorbed by the magnitude of the statement. The figure, without expressing more, faded into the mist that filled the café. Jorge, María, Tomás, and Ana were left alone, surrounded by silence and emptiness, with a profound sense of loss and confusion. Each contemplated the implications of losing the thread, each with their own interpretation of the mystery.

María, with her bright eyes, began to explore the possible consequences, contemplating a future where memory, past, and future merged into an indistinguishable mass of unordered events. Tomás, ever pragmatic, tried to find a logical solution to the situation, searching for possible correlations between the loss of the thread and the physical anomalies presenting themselves in the outside world. Ana, on the other hand, sought a spiritual meaning in the experience, wondering if the loss of the thread was a call to a deeper connection with something higher. Jorge, the leader of the group, remained still, with an empty look, as if he were trying to connect the different loose ends of his memory, but finding an increasingly confusing web.

xxxx

The clarity of day had faded and darkness began to tint the exterior of the café. A cold wind entered through the only window present, causing the objects in the room to tremble slightly. Suddenly, a dim light began to emanate from a specific corner of the café, a light that seemed to move as if it were a living entity in search of someone. The light swirled and expanded, and in its center, a figure began to materialize, wrapped in a golden mist.

What at first seemed like a mirage in the fog materialized into a human form, but its appearance was inexplicably strange. The being appeared as a row of threads of gold and silver intertwining, forming a human body of multiple dimensions, with hundreds of different faces on one body. Without uttering a word, it extended a hand towards the group.

At its end, a thin thread of golden light extended towards one of them. Upon seeing it, Tomás also extended a hand, hoping the thread of light would connect with some part of his body as a signal.

But the thread of light passed through his hand, and continued on, until it reached Jorge's hand. The thread, for a moment, adhered to Jorge, causing a sharp pain to shoot through his arm. But as soon as the light adhered to Jorge, his eyes opened wide, and for an instant, all confusion seemed to disappear. He could see the faces of his friends wrapped in the complex form and complexity.

Upon perceiving the figures and the magnitude of the events, Jorge cautiously stepped back, feeling a cold terror expanding within him. He knew, deep in his soul, that they had found something much deeper and more complex than the simple loss of the thread.

The golden being, without saying a word, began to slowly disintegrate, leaving behind an aura of threads and golden light. All of it seemed to overflow and form a huge vortex. Somehow, the group knew this was the moment to make a decision.

To venture into the vortex and discover what lay beyond? Or to retreat and cling to confusion, hoping to find some alternative exit? The group, feeling the same sense of doubt and horror, contemplated their path. And so, the lost thread continued its course, leading them toward something unknown, toward a new enigma, toward a new stage of the madness of the absurd, toward new dimensions of chaos.

The group's decision, suspended between fear and curiosity, was abruptly interrupted by a shrill sound, a dissonant laugh that echoed through the café, making them jump. The sound came from the vortex, like a mocking echo from the abyss that opened before them.

A being of light and shadows, of undefined dimensions, emerged from the center of the portal. Its form was a labyrinth of undulating lines, a play of impossible perspectives, a visual paradox that defied any logic. It seemed to be constructed from light and void, from certainty and doubt, creating an enigmatic and terribly fascinating entity.

The being leaned toward them with an unsettling slowness, and its multiple faces, each with a different expression, seemed to address each of the friends separately. In each face, a different emotion, a doubt, a certainty, a lie.

Without saying a word, each face emitted a different vision, a different story. Jorge saw his childhood, but distorted, as if a part of it had been lost; María saw a full and happy life, but with a deep latent sadness; Tomás saw an apocalyptic and desolate future, and Ana saw an empty present, suspended in an eternal wait. The visions intertwined, creating a chaotic tapestry of fragmented realities and contradictions.

The being of light and shadows simultaneously transmitted to them, individually and collectively, the meaning of the loss of the thread. It was not a material object, but the thread of continuity, the thread that connected all parts of their reality, the thread that connected their memories, their experiences, their hopes, their fears. And it had been lost.

In that abysmal moment, Jorge, overwhelmed by the weight of so many realities, felt a blow to his temple, an intense pain accompanied by the perception of his entire life, like a fast movie where his death blended with his birth.

The visions faded. A single image materialized: The group had vanished. They had been absorbed by abstraction, they had become pieces of a large and complex entity.

The being, with its complex and multiple expression, shrank to surprisingly become a vortex again. And in the center, a scene of its own creation crumbled. It was a display of the chaos it had created, a replica of the void it felt, the void that the four friends had been feeling.

Suddenly, a single drop of light fell from the vortex and crashed onto the table of the abandoned café. At that precise moment, a change materialized in reality. The café had suddenly transformed into a living room with bright colors and comfortable furniture. All previous fear had disappeared, giving way to a deep mystery and a sense of calm.

Jorge, María, Tomás, and Ana were sitting in comfortable armchairs, sipping hot cups of coffee. The drop of light had fixed the loss of the thread. It had restored continuity, but it had also made them forget the horror and mystery that had marked their lives.

With a feeling of unsettling tranquility, a gentle rain began to fall from the ceiling of the café. They all sat watching the rain fall.

And as the rain fell, they, with no memories of the terror of the vortex, began to make plans for the afternoon. It was their lives again. The idea of the loss of the thread had been a journey, but it did not mean the loss of themselves or their memories. They had learned a lesson, a lesson hidden within the unfathomable nature of the madness of the absurd. The loss of the thread had, in fact, been the catalyst for a new reality. A new perspective. The opportunity for a new exploration. And now, the rain fell upon them and seemed to whisper indecipherable secrets.

The bar "We Have Lost the Thread" was still active, but something had changed. It was no longer just a simple artistic curiosity. It was a place to look inward, to understand existence in an absurd world, to welcome the unknown. There was a mystery, without rational explanation, and they, the group, were a fundamental piece for the preservation of the calm that had settled in the bar.

The rain stopped as abruptly as it had begun, leaving a fresh and clean aroma in the air. The sun, timidly, began to filter through the curtains of the old café, now restored to a cozy living room. The peace was absolute, an overwhelming contrast to the previous chaos.

Jorge, María, Tomás, and Ana, with a mixture of strangeness and tranquility, took their cups of coffee. The marks of the previous episode had vanished, as if the vortex had cleaned them. However, a strange weight, a feeling of deep connection, remained. They were different, but at the same time, they were united by an experience that transcended rational understanding.

Suddenly, a small object, an old pocket watch, appeared on the coffee table in front of Jorge. The watch was silent, without the mark of hands. It did not tell the time.

"What is this?" María whispered. The words were lost in a silence laden with mystery. The watch seemed to vibrate with an invisible energy, but made no sound.

Tomás, ever practical, tried to open it. To his surprise, the watch had no moving parts. It seemed like a solid, opaque sphere, made of an unknown material. Upon touching it, an uncomfortable sensation, an intangible presence, coursed through his arm to his heart. It was as if the watch contained the story of everything, as if it enclosed the past and the future in a single piece.

Jorge looked at the watch intently, and suddenly saw reflected in it the face of the being with multiple faces. But this time, instead of disintegration, it presented a clear image of connection. It seemed a representation of all their faces, a single truth.

"It is the key," he murmured, unsure if he was saying it to himself or to the air.

María, reading Jorge’s expression, approached and contemplated the watch beside him. "Maybe it's not the time that's important, Jorge," she said. "Maybe it's the time... the perceived time."

Tomás suddenly understood. The watch was not a watch in the traditional sense. It was a portal, or perhaps a reminder, a reflection of that peculiar capacity of time to distort and recompose in a mysterious cycle. It represented, in essence, the experience of the vortex, but also the inexplicable connection with the external world that still remained among them. It was the thread, but as a structure containing a different time.

Ana, with an intuition that seemed to surpass logic, observed the watch and realized something crucial: each face of the being, each perspective of the vortex, each moment lived reflected in the watch, represented a fraction of a complex story, and the possibility of many more. Like pieces of a puzzle that complemented each other uniquely.

They understood that they had not lost the thread of time. They had found it in a parallel reality, in this magical object that contained all time. The understanding, despite being intangible, offered them a new purpose.

Suddenly, the doors opened to different options. How to use this watch to understand that time, that unknown reality, beyond the perceptible in the external world? What other experiences could they find? Now, the lost thread, instead of being a loss, presented itself as an unparalleled opportunity. The opportunity to know existence beyond time.

The four friends, now with renewed clarity and the watch in their possession, left the café. The outside world, once blurry and confusing, now presented itself as an unexplored canvas, full of possibilities stretching before them, inviting them to discover what more lay behind these mysteries. The legend of "We Have Lost the Thread," was no longer a sadness, but a beacon of hope, the culmination of an inner journey, a confirmation that within the absurd madness resided the deepest heart. The pocket watch, the last lost thread, awaited to be deciphered, ready to be that guide that would lead them through every mystery and accompany them in all the absurdities along the way. The adventure, far from ending, had only just begun.

The sun began to set, painting the sky with reddish and golden hues. The watch, still silent and enigmatic, remained in Jorge's pocket. The group decided to continue their exploration, drawn by a subtle whisper that seemed to come from the heart of the city.

As they walked, the atmosphere grew increasingly strange. The sound of people's voices distorted, creating echoes that intertwined into a dissonant but captivating music. The buildings leaned and arched, as if obeying an unknown law of perspective. The city itself seemed to breathe, alternating moments of calm with sudden bursts of energy.

Finally, they arrived at a small square, hidden among labyrinthine streets. In the center, a fountain of clear and crystalline water soared toward the sky, its jets dancing with unpredictable grace. The water seemed to glow with an inner light, as if it carried stars within.

As they approached, they noticed that the fountain was surrounded by a circle of figures carved in stone, each with a different expression, an enigmatic smile or a deep gaze. They were faces that seemed familiar to them, yet completely unknown. They appeared to be reflections of their own faces, but in distorted and fascinatingly strange versions.

María, with her usual intuition, felt a vibration. "Don't you think these images are moving?" she asked, staring intently at the sculptures, which seemed to be watching them back. Weak whispers emerged from the stones.

Little by little, they began to realize that the figures were not simply sculptures. They seemed to be beings trapped in time, in a parallel dimension, flashes of memories, desires, and fears. Each of the faces spoke to them of a part of themselves, a part of their story that they had not previously recognized.

Tomás, with his usual pragmatism, tried to use the watch to measure the time spent in the square. The watch, however, did not show any time, only a void, a space without defined time, as if the time of that square had disconnected from the general timeline.

Ana, with her deep connection to spirituality, felt the echo of ancient wisdom. "These faces," she said, "capture the experience of humanity, hopes, tragedies, dreams."

Jorge, with a sense of calm and understanding, realized something fundamental: the square was not a physical place, but a space of projections, a representation of their own thoughts and fears. Each face, each whisper, were loose parts, fragments of their own story, the story of humanity, and each of these pieces was a key to move forward.

As they studied them, each of those images began to interact with them, showing them scenes from their own past, amplifying and distorting them. Each face, a piece of the puzzle of their own memory.

Suddenly, a jet of water from the fountain hit them with unusual force, but in this case, it was a force that filled them with calm. The images of the faces began to change, merging into a single figure that approached them, like a complete piece of art.

It was a representation of "We Have Lost the Thread" itself. It was not the loss, but the integration of all the lost threads, the reflection of all possible realities, swirling and fading within their hearts, giving them the understanding of complete existence.

When the fountain returned to its normal flow, the pocket watch emitted a beam of light that enveloped them all. At that moment, the city, the watch, the square, and the stone faces disappeared. Before them appeared a new landscape, a dimension where time was not linear but a cluster of unlimited opportunities. They had found not the end of the journey, but its true beginning. They had overcome the loss of the thread, accepting the flow of the madness of time. They had found themselves in the heart of the mystery."

By Carlos del Puente

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