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Sin un Dios, pero con Luz
Fui criado bajo las antiguas normativas y costumbres andinas, por padres nacidos en las altiplanicies del majestuoso páramo venezolano. Desde pequeño, estuve inmerso en una tradición católica que marcó mi infancia: bautizado cerca de cumplir un año, primera comunión a los nueve, y, a instancias de mis padres, confirmación al año siguiente. Trabajé por catorce años con la iglesia católica y, aunque vista desde afuera parece una realidad, puedo asegurar que pertenecer al gremio es vivir otro mundo, con luces y sombras que nadie cuenta.
Pero mi búsqueda de sentido, de verdad, no se detuvo allí. En mi insaciable sed de conocimiento y pertenencia, anduve tres años con los Testigos de Jehová, dos con los mormones, un año con los Hare Krishna, y hasta cuatro meses con los Evangélicos. En el fondo, comprendí aquello que siempre escuché: “todos los caminos conducen a Roma”, aunque cada cual dice que el suyo es el buen camino.
Cuando toqué fondo —y quienes me conocen y me han leído saben a qué me refiero—, la soledad se hizo monstruo y mis amistades se desvanecieron, como un conejo que desaparece en el sombrero de un mago. Aquellas primeras dos semanas en ese pozo oscuro fueron las que realmente marcaron mi vida.
Recuerdo con claridad aquella noche: rodeado de cuerpos dormidos sobre cartones, con una hojilla afilada en mano, listo para terminar con mi historia. El silencio era tan pesado que ensordecía, hasta que de repente las puertas del pabellón se abrieron de golpe. La guardia entró con una requisa sorpresa. Mis planes se derrumbaron en un instante, y aún hoy no sé qué fue de aquella hojilla.
Al día siguiente, llevaba ya trece días en ese infierno. Me llamaron a la dirección del penal. Jamás sospeché lo que allí me esperaba. En la oficina, dos reporteros de los canales más vistos en la década de los noventa me ofrecían contratos y cheques, queriendo lucrarse del dolor ajeno. Tomé los papeles, tracé una raya diagonal y escribí: “Por respeto a la memoria de la persona fallecida, me niego a ser parte del show.” Rasgué los cheques en dos y les pedí que no me molestaran más.
Casa de la Literatura
Cuando los reporteros se marcharon, el director me ofreció un trabajo. No había paga, pero mejoraban mis condiciones: comería en el comedor de los funcionarios y me trasladarían al pabellón de los trabajadores. Terminé siendo el encargado del Departamento de Traslado a Tribunales. Sí, era yo quien organizaba las boletas, hacía las listas, entregaba esposas, llaves y hasta municiones. Puede sonar increíble, pero les aseguro que fue mi realidad.
Encontré la oficina patas arriba, con boletas sin ejecutar por más de un año. Tanto desorden me planteó un reto. Armé una computadora con un viejo televisor monocromático y pasé tres noches enteras ordenándolo todo, creando bases de datos y filtrando por fecha. Gracias a ese esfuerzo, en una semana los traslados se normalizaron. Podría haber hecho dinero con esto —porque los internos pagaban para acelerar sus procesos— pero jamás me interesó el lucro. Mi propósito era otro: devolverle a muchos, la esperanza.
Internos que esperaban ocho, diez y hasta más boletas en un año por sus traslados, por fin fueron llevados a sus procesos. Saqué seis causas que llevaban casi un año varados. Pronto, tras esos traslados, muchos vieron la libertad a la vuelta de la esquina.
El domingo siguiente, cuando recibí la visita de mi madre, aquellos seis internos me sorprendieron con un regalo artesanal: un comedor plegable que ellos mismos habían elaborado en la carpintería del penal, con mesa y sillas. Fue un gesto sencillo, pero profundamente conmovedor, su manera de agradecer.
Quién iba a imaginar que de una noche en que estuve al borde del abismo, casi anulándome, surgiría una luz que se convirtió en símbolo de esperanza para otros. No, no creo en un dios concreto ni en la magia. Mi fe está en la naturaleza, la sabia naturaleza, y en la fuerza que descubrimos en nosotros mismos y en quienes nos tienden una mano cuando más la necesitamos.
Amiga(a) lector(a), esta no es solo una historia más; es una prueba viviente de que las bendiciones más grandes —esas que desafían la razón y lo inexplicable— llegan cuando uno menos lo espera. No hay milagros visibles, solo el destino que conspira con la vida y el valor inquebrantable que todos llevamos dentro. El bien que hagas hoy se te retribuirá mañana.
Fui criado bajo las antiguas normativas y costumbres andinas, por padres nacidos en las altiplanicies del majestuoso páramo venezolano. Desde pequeño, estuve inmerso en una tradición católica que marcó mi infancia: bautizado cerca de cumplir un año, primera comunión a los nueve, y, a instancias de mis padres, confirmación al año siguiente. Trabajé por catorce años con la iglesia católica y, aunque vista desde afuera parece una realidad, puedo asegurar que pertenecer al gremio es vivir otro mundo, con luces y sombras que nadie cuenta.
Pero mi búsqueda de sentido, de verdad, no se detuvo allí. En mi insaciable sed de conocimiento y pertenencia, anduve tres años con los Testigos de Jehová, dos con los mormones, un año con los Hare Krishna, y hasta cuatro meses con los Evangélicos. En el fondo, comprendí aquello que siempre escuché: “todos los caminos conducen a Roma”, aunque cada cual dice que el suyo es el buen camino.
Cuando toqué fondo —y quienes me conocen y me han leído saben a qué me refiero—, la soledad se hizo monstruo y mis amistades se desvanecieron, como un conejo que desaparece en el sombrero de un mago. Aquellas primeras dos semanas en ese pozo oscuro fueron las que realmente marcaron mi vida.
Recuerdo con claridad aquella noche: rodeado de cuerpos dormidos sobre cartones, con una hojilla afilada en mano, listo para terminar con mi historia. El silencio era tan pesado que ensordecía, hasta que de repente las puertas del pabellón se abrieron de golpe. La guardia entró con una requisa sorpresa. Mis planes se derrumbaron en un instante, y aún hoy no sé qué fue de aquella hojilla.
Al día siguiente, llevaba ya trece días en ese infierno. Me llamaron a la dirección del penal. Jamás sospeché lo que allí me esperaba. En la oficina, dos reporteros de los canales más vistos en la década de los noventa me ofrecían contratos y cheques, queriendo lucrarse del dolor ajeno. Tomé los papeles, tracé una raya diagonal y escribí: “Por respeto a la memoria de la persona fallecida, me niego a ser parte del show.” Rasgué los cheques en dos y les pedí que no me molestaran más.
Casa de la Literatura
Cuando los reporteros se marcharon, el director me ofreció un trabajo. No había paga, pero mejoraban mis condiciones: comería en el comedor de los funcionarios y me trasladarían al pabellón de los trabajadores. Terminé siendo el encargado del Departamento de Traslado a Tribunales. Sí, era yo quien organizaba las boletas, hacía las listas, entregaba esposas, llaves y hasta municiones. Puede sonar increíble, pero les aseguro que fue mi realidad.
Encontré la oficina patas arriba, con boletas sin ejecutar por más de un año. Tanto desorden me planteó un reto. Armé una computadora con un viejo televisor monocromático y pasé tres noches enteras ordenándolo todo, creando bases de datos y filtrando por fecha. Gracias a ese esfuerzo, en una semana los traslados se normalizaron. Podría haber hecho dinero con esto —porque los internos pagaban para acelerar sus procesos— pero jamás me interesó el lucro. Mi propósito era otro: devolverle a muchos, la esperanza.
Internos que esperaban ocho, diez y hasta más boletas en un año por sus traslados, por fin fueron llevados a sus procesos. Saqué seis causas que llevaban casi un año varados. Pronto, tras esos traslados, muchos vieron la libertad a la vuelta de la esquina.
El domingo siguiente, cuando recibí la visita de mi madre, aquellos seis internos me sorprendieron con un regalo artesanal: un comedor plegable que ellos mismos habían elaborado en la carpintería del penal, con mesa y sillas. Fue un gesto sencillo, pero profundamente conmovedor, su manera de agradecer.
Quién iba a imaginar que de una noche en que estuve al borde del abismo, casi anulándome, surgiría una luz que se convirtió en símbolo de esperanza para otros. No, no creo en un dios concreto ni en la magia. Mi fe está en la naturaleza, la sabia naturaleza, y en la fuerza que descubrimos en nosotros mismos y en quienes nos tienden una mano cuando más la necesitamos.
Amiga(a) lector(a), esta no es solo una historia más; es una prueba viviente de que las bendiciones más grandes —esas que desafían la razón y lo inexplicable— llegan cuando uno menos lo espera. No hay milagros visibles, solo el destino que conspira con la vida y el valor inquebrantable que todos llevamos dentro. El bien que hagas hoy se te retribuirá mañana.
Cómo participar, aún estás a tiempo… @chironga67 y @josegilberto.
Échame el Cuento
Portada de la iniciativa.
🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆
Dedicado a todos aquellos que contribuyen, día a día, a hacer de este planeta un mundo mejor.
Without a God, but with Light
I was raised under ancient Andean norms and customs by parents born in the highlands of the majestic Venezuelan páramo. From a young age, I was immersed in a Catholic tradition that shaped my childhood: baptised around the age of one, received my First Communion at nine, and, at my parents' urging, confirmed the following year. I worked for fourteen years with the Catholic Church, and although from the outside it seems like a reality, I can assure you that belonging to the guild is like living in another world, with lights and shadows that no one tells you about.
But my search for meaning, truly, didn't stop there. In my insatiable thirst for knowledge and belonging, I spent three years with Jehovah's Witnesses, two with Mormons, one year with Hare Krishnas, and up to four months with Evangelicals. Deep down, I understood what I had always heard: "all roads lead to Rome," although everyone claims theirs is the right path.
When I hit rock bottom—and those who know me and have read me know what I'm talking about—loneliness became a monster, and my friendships vanished, like a rabbit disappearing into a magician's hat. Those first two weeks in that dark pit were the ones that truly marked my life.
I remember that night clearly: surrounded by bodies sleeping on cardboard, with a sharp blade in hand, ready to finish my story. The silence was so heavy it was deafening, until suddenly the cellblock doors burst open. The guard entered with a surprise search. My plans collapsed in an instant, and to this day, I don't know what became of that blade.
The next day, I had already been in that hell for thirteen days. They called me to the prison administration. I never suspected what awaited me there. In the office, two reporters from the most-watched channels of the 1990s offered me contracts and checks, wanting to profit from other people's pain. I took the papers, drew a diagonal line, and wrote: "Out of respect for the memory of the deceased, I refuse to be part of the show." I tore the checks in half and asked them not to bother me anymore.
Rebelion Antigua
When the reporters left, the director offered me a job. There was no pay, but my conditions were better: I would eat in the staff dining room and be transferred to the workers' pavilion. I ended up being the head of the Court Transfer Department. Yes, I was the one who organised the tickets, made the lists, issued handcuffs, keys, and even ammunition. It may sound incredible, but I assure you it was my reality.
I found the office in disarray, with unexecuted tickets for over a year. Such disarray posed a challenge. I built a computer with an old monochrome television and spent three nights organising everything, creating databases and filtering by date. Thanks to that effort, transfers were back to normal within a week. I could have made money from this—because the inmates paid to expedite their processes—but I was never interested in profit. My goal was something else: to give hope back to many.
Inmates who had been waiting eight, ten, or even more transfer orders in a year were finally brought to trial. I cleared six cases that had been stranded for almost a year. Soon, after those transfers, many saw freedom just around the corner.
The following Sunday, when my mother visited me, those six inmates surprised me with a handmade gift: a folding dining room set they had made themselves in the prison carpentry shop, complete with a table and chairs. It was a simple but deeply moving gesture, their way of saying thank you.
Who would have imagined that from a night when I was on the brink of the abyss, almost annihilated, a light would emerge that became a symbol of hope for others. No, I don't believe in a specific god or in magic. My faith lies in nature, in the wisdom of nature, and in the strength we discover within ourselves and in those who lend a hand when we need it most.
Dear reader, this is not just another story; it is living proof that the greatest blessings—those that defy reason and the inexplicable—arrive when one least expects them. There are no visible miracles, only fate conspiring with life and the unwavering courage we all carry within us. The good you do today will be rewarded tomorrow.
How to participate, there's still time… @silher and @cositav.
Tell me the story
Cover of the initiative.
🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆
I am dedicated to all those who contribute daily to make our planet ɑ a better world.
Cómo participar, aún estás a tiempo… @chironga67 y @josegilberto.
Échame el Cuento
Portada de la iniciativa.
Dedicado a todos aquellos que contribuyen, día a día, a hacer de este planeta un mundo mejor.
Without a God, but with Light
I was raised under ancient Andean norms and customs by parents born in the highlands of the majestic Venezuelan páramo. From a young age, I was immersed in a Catholic tradition that shaped my childhood: baptised around the age of one, received my First Communion at nine, and, at my parents' urging, confirmed the following year. I worked for fourteen years with the Catholic Church, and although from the outside it seems like a reality, I can assure you that belonging to the guild is like living in another world, with lights and shadows that no one tells you about.
But my search for meaning, truly, didn't stop there. In my insatiable thirst for knowledge and belonging, I spent three years with Jehovah's Witnesses, two with Mormons, one year with Hare Krishnas, and up to four months with Evangelicals. Deep down, I understood what I had always heard: "all roads lead to Rome," although everyone claims theirs is the right path.
When I hit rock bottom—and those who know me and have read me know what I'm talking about—loneliness became a monster, and my friendships vanished, like a rabbit disappearing into a magician's hat. Those first two weeks in that dark pit were the ones that truly marked my life.
I remember that night clearly: surrounded by bodies sleeping on cardboard, with a sharp blade in hand, ready to finish my story. The silence was so heavy it was deafening, until suddenly the cellblock doors burst open. The guard entered with a surprise search. My plans collapsed in an instant, and to this day, I don't know what became of that blade.
The next day, I had already been in that hell for thirteen days. They called me to the prison administration. I never suspected what awaited me there. In the office, two reporters from the most-watched channels of the 1990s offered me contracts and checks, wanting to profit from other people's pain. I took the papers, drew a diagonal line, and wrote: "Out of respect for the memory of the deceased, I refuse to be part of the show." I tore the checks in half and asked them not to bother me anymore.
Rebelion Antigua
When the reporters left, the director offered me a job. There was no pay, but my conditions were better: I would eat in the staff dining room and be transferred to the workers' pavilion. I ended up being the head of the Court Transfer Department. Yes, I was the one who organised the tickets, made the lists, issued handcuffs, keys, and even ammunition. It may sound incredible, but I assure you it was my reality.
I found the office in disarray, with unexecuted tickets for over a year. Such disarray posed a challenge. I built a computer with an old monochrome television and spent three nights organising everything, creating databases and filtering by date. Thanks to that effort, transfers were back to normal within a week. I could have made money from this—because the inmates paid to expedite their processes—but I was never interested in profit. My goal was something else: to give hope back to many.
Inmates who had been waiting eight, ten, or even more transfer orders in a year were finally brought to trial. I cleared six cases that had been stranded for almost a year. Soon, after those transfers, many saw freedom just around the corner.
The following Sunday, when my mother visited me, those six inmates surprised me with a handmade gift: a folding dining room set they had made themselves in the prison carpentry shop, complete with a table and chairs. It was a simple but deeply moving gesture, their way of saying thank you.
Who would have imagined that from a night when I was on the brink of the abyss, almost annihilated, a light would emerge that became a symbol of hope for others. No, I don't believe in a specific god or in magic. My faith lies in nature, in the wisdom of nature, and in the strength we discover within ourselves and in those who lend a hand when we need it most.
Dear reader, this is not just another story; it is living proof that the greatest blessings—those that defy reason and the inexplicable—arrive when one least expects them. There are no visible miracles, only fate conspiring with life and the unwavering courage we all carry within us. The good you do today will be rewarded tomorrow.
How to participate, there's still time… @silher and @cositav.
Tell me the story
Cover of the initiative.
🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆
I am dedicated to all those who contribute daily to make our planet ɑ a better world.
Dedicado a todos aquellos que contribuyen, día a día, a hacer de este planeta un mundo mejor.
Without a God, but with Light
I was raised under ancient Andean norms and customs by parents born in the highlands of the majestic Venezuelan páramo. From a young age, I was immersed in a Catholic tradition that shaped my childhood: baptised around the age of one, received my First Communion at nine, and, at my parents' urging, confirmed the following year. I worked for fourteen years with the Catholic Church, and although from the outside it seems like a reality, I can assure you that belonging to the guild is like living in another world, with lights and shadows that no one tells you about.
But my search for meaning, truly, didn't stop there. In my insatiable thirst for knowledge and belonging, I spent three years with Jehovah's Witnesses, two with Mormons, one year with Hare Krishnas, and up to four months with Evangelicals. Deep down, I understood what I had always heard: "all roads lead to Rome," although everyone claims theirs is the right path.
When I hit rock bottom—and those who know me and have read me know what I'm talking about—loneliness became a monster, and my friendships vanished, like a rabbit disappearing into a magician's hat. Those first two weeks in that dark pit were the ones that truly marked my life.
I remember that night clearly: surrounded by bodies sleeping on cardboard, with a sharp blade in hand, ready to finish my story. The silence was so heavy it was deafening, until suddenly the cellblock doors burst open. The guard entered with a surprise search. My plans collapsed in an instant, and to this day, I don't know what became of that blade.
The next day, I had already been in that hell for thirteen days. They called me to the prison administration. I never suspected what awaited me there. In the office, two reporters from the most-watched channels of the 1990s offered me contracts and checks, wanting to profit from other people's pain. I took the papers, drew a diagonal line, and wrote: "Out of respect for the memory of the deceased, I refuse to be part of the show." I tore the checks in half and asked them not to bother me anymore.
Rebelion Antigua
When the reporters left, the director offered me a job. There was no pay, but my conditions were better: I would eat in the staff dining room and be transferred to the workers' pavilion. I ended up being the head of the Court Transfer Department. Yes, I was the one who organised the tickets, made the lists, issued handcuffs, keys, and even ammunition. It may sound incredible, but I assure you it was my reality.
I found the office in disarray, with unexecuted tickets for over a year. Such disarray posed a challenge. I built a computer with an old monochrome television and spent three nights organising everything, creating databases and filtering by date. Thanks to that effort, transfers were back to normal within a week. I could have made money from this—because the inmates paid to expedite their processes—but I was never interested in profit. My goal was something else: to give hope back to many.
Inmates who had been waiting eight, ten, or even more transfer orders in a year were finally brought to trial. I cleared six cases that had been stranded for almost a year. Soon, after those transfers, many saw freedom just around the corner.
The following Sunday, when my mother visited me, those six inmates surprised me with a handmade gift: a folding dining room set they had made themselves in the prison carpentry shop, complete with a table and chairs. It was a simple but deeply moving gesture, their way of saying thank you.
Who would have imagined that from a night when I was on the brink of the abyss, almost annihilated, a light would emerge that became a symbol of hope for others. No, I don't believe in a specific god or in magic. My faith lies in nature, in the wisdom of nature, and in the strength we discover within ourselves and in those who lend a hand when we need it most.
Dear reader, this is not just another story; it is living proof that the greatest blessings—those that defy reason and the inexplicable—arrive when one least expects them. There are no visible miracles, only fate conspiring with life and the unwavering courage we all carry within us. The good you do today will be rewarded tomorrow.
I was raised under ancient Andean norms and customs by parents born in the highlands of the majestic Venezuelan páramo. From a young age, I was immersed in a Catholic tradition that shaped my childhood: baptised around the age of one, received my First Communion at nine, and, at my parents' urging, confirmed the following year. I worked for fourteen years with the Catholic Church, and although from the outside it seems like a reality, I can assure you that belonging to the guild is like living in another world, with lights and shadows that no one tells you about.
But my search for meaning, truly, didn't stop there. In my insatiable thirst for knowledge and belonging, I spent three years with Jehovah's Witnesses, two with Mormons, one year with Hare Krishnas, and up to four months with Evangelicals. Deep down, I understood what I had always heard: "all roads lead to Rome," although everyone claims theirs is the right path.
When I hit rock bottom—and those who know me and have read me know what I'm talking about—loneliness became a monster, and my friendships vanished, like a rabbit disappearing into a magician's hat. Those first two weeks in that dark pit were the ones that truly marked my life.
I remember that night clearly: surrounded by bodies sleeping on cardboard, with a sharp blade in hand, ready to finish my story. The silence was so heavy it was deafening, until suddenly the cellblock doors burst open. The guard entered with a surprise search. My plans collapsed in an instant, and to this day, I don't know what became of that blade.
The next day, I had already been in that hell for thirteen days. They called me to the prison administration. I never suspected what awaited me there. In the office, two reporters from the most-watched channels of the 1990s offered me contracts and checks, wanting to profit from other people's pain. I took the papers, drew a diagonal line, and wrote: "Out of respect for the memory of the deceased, I refuse to be part of the show." I tore the checks in half and asked them not to bother me anymore.
Rebelion Antigua
When the reporters left, the director offered me a job. There was no pay, but my conditions were better: I would eat in the staff dining room and be transferred to the workers' pavilion. I ended up being the head of the Court Transfer Department. Yes, I was the one who organised the tickets, made the lists, issued handcuffs, keys, and even ammunition. It may sound incredible, but I assure you it was my reality.
I found the office in disarray, with unexecuted tickets for over a year. Such disarray posed a challenge. I built a computer with an old monochrome television and spent three nights organising everything, creating databases and filtering by date. Thanks to that effort, transfers were back to normal within a week. I could have made money from this—because the inmates paid to expedite their processes—but I was never interested in profit. My goal was something else: to give hope back to many.
Inmates who had been waiting eight, ten, or even more transfer orders in a year were finally brought to trial. I cleared six cases that had been stranded for almost a year. Soon, after those transfers, many saw freedom just around the corner.
The following Sunday, when my mother visited me, those six inmates surprised me with a handmade gift: a folding dining room set they had made themselves in the prison carpentry shop, complete with a table and chairs. It was a simple but deeply moving gesture, their way of saying thank you.
Who would have imagined that from a night when I was on the brink of the abyss, almost annihilated, a light would emerge that became a symbol of hope for others. No, I don't believe in a specific god or in magic. My faith lies in nature, in the wisdom of nature, and in the strength we discover within ourselves and in those who lend a hand when we need it most.
Dear reader, this is not just another story; it is living proof that the greatest blessings—those that defy reason and the inexplicable—arrive when one least expects them. There are no visible miracles, only fate conspiring with life and the unwavering courage we all carry within us. The good you do today will be rewarded tomorrow.
How to participate, there's still time… @silher and @cositav.
Tell me the story
Cover of the initiative.
🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆
I am dedicated to all those who contribute daily to make our planet ɑ a better world.
How to participate, there's still time… @silher and @cositav.
Tell me the story
Cover of the initiative.
I am dedicated to all those who contribute daily to make our planet ɑ a better world.