Life is divided into groups of seven. What makes us move from one cycle to another? Perhaps the answer is found in the word. In a promise.
💌 Express service is a short version of my letter “Write me soon.” I hope you enjoy this telegram.
Yesterday, I was asked what my most significant purpose was this year. People who know me know that, for me, 2024 has been, let’s say, rough. So my answer was simple: “Survive.”
Although thinking about it better, my answer should have been: “Find determination and light on how to continue.”
Anyway, I’m starting to believe that the Mayans knew more than they let on and that, indeed, human life is divided into seven-year cycles. Where were you seven years ago? I had another rough year that included a broken heart, leaving the job I loved for money (a mistake), and the beginnings of depression. That chain of unfortunate events culminated at the start of the following year when my mom passed away.
As Steve Jobs said, human beings do not see the future and can only connect the dots backward. Because in retrospect, all those apparent misfortunes led me to cross the pond for a while, and find a new professional option; new people, incredible places, and a healed heart.
I want to think that in a couple of years, 2024 will make me laugh. But not yet. And in addition to thinking about complex years, I have also thought a lot about the value I give to my word. Which led me, of course, to write…
A short story
The promise
One day, Linda decided that it was the last time her heart was broken. She decided to lock herself in her house forever and avoid at all costs anyone getting close to her. She spent her hours in the house she had inherited.
Soon, age caught up with her; she moved little, and her life was spent between knitting and needles. Until one rainy night, someone knocked at the door. Her friends had long since given up. Her family had given up longer ago. So she thought it might be someone wanting to sell her some useless product or some unnecessary belief.
But no: what was on the other side of the door was a man who seemed to have hurt his back. Soaked, he asked for asylum. Linda let him in and let him dry off in her kitchen. As he ran a towel over his shaking hands, the man looked at her in such a way that Linda felt something stir inside her.
“Thank you, Linda.” The old woman stopped breathing. How did he know her name? “Few in this world have your generosity, especially after what you have suffered. But before I leave, I need you to make me a promise.”
“What kind of promise?” Linda asked, suspiciously.
“Promise me that, whatever happens, you will never let anyone cross this threshold again. Not even death.”
She didn’t know why, but Linda nodded. In any case, she didn’t intend to see anyone anymore. The man then, satisfied, smiled at her, opened the door and, now painlessly, vanished into the night.
Linda received her food at the door; she didn’t need money or possessions. Besides, when someone knocked on the door, she felt increasingly afraid. There were days when she felt something dark gathering in the air, especially on the threshold, as if a shadow were watching the border between two worlds.
The neighbors decided that Linda was crazy and that she could be dangerous. The children in the block told macabre stories about her. And years went by before she was on her deathbed. She felt a dark presence and stopped breathing.
Linda imagined that she could finally pass to the other world and rest and walk the corridors of paradise. She got up, leaving her body behind. She went down the stairs like every morning, opened the door to reach the afterlife, and discovered nothing outside. With his heart racing, she faced nothingness and it was terrible. No one heard her screams… in any world.
She had not kept her promise: she let death in.
Is it your first time? I’ll leave you more letters here.
With virus-free love,
J. McNamara, aka Geeknifer.
You can contact me on Instagram, Telegram, Twitter and LinkedIn.
