Courier circles

I was - a few days ago - in a psychiatrist''s clinic, miles away from here. I lay on the chaise longue and told something that my notebooks never had room for. Noah - the young doctor - told me that life is circles, that what is inside our circles determines our destinies, and that man thinks himself immune to falling and does not realize that his mind is a house whose windows are not closed, located in the middle of a field of hyenas that are never satisfied or sleepy.I told him that the lines of the pages were bars behind which I had served a life sentence, and that there were dead people walking on foot outside the walls of the cemeteries, living with us, sitting next to us around the tables, and appearing in our pictures with smiles that made us imagine that they were alive.I am sitting on a black leather bed in the middle of a stage crowded with people.Among those present, I noticed familiar faces like the faces of my father, my mother, and my wife, relatives whose meetings are rare, neighbors whose relationships are superficial, colleagues whose smiles are fake, and friends whose boats are scattered.I feel a headache that is almost killing me, something invisible pressing on my chest, and sharp nails scratching my mind from the inside.I tell people, describe, complain, scream, call, call for help, and cry.They say that I am faking, imagining, imagining, coddling, acting, exaggerating, and lying.They advise me to be calm, to sleep, to pray, to ignore, to run, to be silent, to pray, and to pray.I get up, bend down, open my bag, take out a smiling face mask, put it on, turn to them, and they clap until their hands break. My voice disappears in the applause, and my tears flow behind the mask.