A Couple of Necessary Words to Start With:
Everything you're about to read fits squarely into the realm of non-fiction, because it talks about things that are very real in this world. But still — here and there — the narrative may slip into what many would label pure authorial fantasy.
Why? Because we'll be mentioning stuff humanity still considers either sci-fi or tech from a ridiculously distant future.
Yet, some people believe it's all within reach — maybe not tomorrow, but soon — if you just let your imagination out of its cage and flood your body with the nerve gas of your own fears. Once that wears off a little and your brain starts semi-functioning again, your inner imagination kicks in.
Imagination becomes Desire. The desire to maybe — just maybe — pull off the most insane breakthrough in Earth's history.
Sounds like another scam ad, I know. You're probably picturing some useless Insta coach trying to sell you a course titled: "How to Become a Sexy Millionaire While Serving Triple Time at Guantanamo."
And any sane person would instinctively cringe at that garbage, ready to slice it down with their mental estoc or a mental greatsword.
So, let me just clarify something right away: I'm not about to knock on your door, cherub-eyed, asking if you believe in God and handing you a prayer book with symbol. I don't care whether you believe or not — I'm not trying to recruit troops with war paint for my army to save the world.
In fact, I don't have any epic goals behind this whole story — unlike those bearded Plato-faced sages you might imagine when you hear "wise old writer." The ones who know how to brand your heart with their divine words. Bloody image, right? But nope — this story was told to me by a woman. And all she and I wanted... was to talk.
Because even if we were the most social butterflies on Earth, it's still damn hard to find someone willing to listen to this kind of nonsense. And since your eyes are still sliding across these pages, I guess I finally found that someone. You.
And if I'm talking to dozens of people at once, like a cosmic speakerphone — isn't that proof of my... or rather Her — Shamanic Power?
Anyway, let's chill a bit, okay? Your skepticism's triggering my defense mode of ironic bullshit. So, I've got no choice but to start writing the first part of these talks: "About Nothing and Everything."
Strap in. Better yet — grab your favorite mug of tea or coffee, inhale that sweet smell, and come back here. It's lonely without you. For real.
Meeting Her.
It was during one of those scorching summer days — the kind every book character's journey starts on — and I was riding a bus. Not the most majestic beginning, especially with the stench of body odor in the humid bus cabin, but hey, I survived. Because I had a mission.
Back then, I was just an anthropology student, trying to collect info for my thesis. I still believed Googling things was beneath me, so I figured I'd go straight to the source.
I didn't bring a laptop or tablet — just a notebook and a pen — and I was bumping along the dusty country road, jotting down everything happening to me in real time. I loved traveling and was thrilled to finally visit Arizona — a place I'd never been.
A buddy of mine whispered to me that somewhere out there lived a woman — a real expert in herbal remedies and mystical plant stuff. Said no one else knew their secrets better than her. You can imagine my curiosity.
Of course, I forgot my phone's GPS that day. Classic. I was about to curse myself for not hiring a guide when suddenly, a drone buzzed overhead — blinking with red lights. Its camera lens locked on me like I was the subject of some weird wildlife documentary. It didn't look like a kite or anything friendly — but it got my attention, then slowly drifted off in a direction I assumed was its home. The shaman's home.
Ten sweaty minutes later — me walking, the drone cruising smugly — we arrived at the place. And yeah, calling this thing a "farm" would've only made sense to someone completely unfamiliar with the term. This was full-on luxury architecture with not one, but two swimming pools on the roof. A
neighboring building — probably a storage unit-slash-helipad — stood nearby. No chopper in sight, though.
As I gulped down water from my flask, I felt eyes on me. I turned and saw, just past the main entrance, a tiny table and what looked like a throne — carved, decorated, absolutely not Walma...
Sitting in it was a woman of indeterminate age. Her head was wrapped in a scarf adorned with dangling coins, her lips bright red, earrings like dinner-plate medallions. Her luscious dark hair fell over her shoulders, here and there braided into tiny plaits.
From the waist up, she looked like my stereotypical idea of a shaman. But below the belt? Full-on business suit and loafers. It was hot as hell, so she'd ditched her tie and unbuttoned her shirt just a little.
I shuffled over awkwardly — only after she gestured with her finger.
What took you so long?
.. I didn't think you were expecting me – I shrugged, and immediately got The Look.
What do you mean? Your company dropped off the unit and forgot the movers! How exactly am I supposed to unpack this beast?
She waved toward the biggest box I'd ever seen. Inside it was…
The MRI Yup. I was gonna scan my body today, but now I don't even know if I'll have time. I've got pilates soon.
Her tone made me shrink. I felt like apologizing, even though I clearly wasn't the guy she was expecting. But deep down, I sensed something strange. My friend had described the shaman as cryptic, exotic, using weird terms and Spanish slang like bruja, pendejo, cabron, and so on.
This woman looked and talked like a powerful Midwest CEO, and under her hawk stare, I was practically melting. Still, I pulled myself together and explained:
Sorry, I think there's been a mix-up. I'm a student studying regional A friend said you're the top expert on the subject. What?! – Her eyes She poured coffee into a double-sized to-go cup. – Sorry, but that's pure nonsense. Wait… aren't you Doña Juanita? That's me – she nodded, squinting at me from head to toe – so you think I'm some kind of florist? Huh... whatever. Come on inside. We'll talk.
She got up abruptly, walked over to a massive high-tech door, and faced a retinal scanner embedded in the frame. Peered into it, grunted with satisfaction, and the door slid open.
Retinal Got it installed recently – she said casually, leading me into her glass palace filled with wall-mounted monitors. I followed, looking extra ridiculous in my dusty clothes and beat-up shoes.
She snapped her fingers — air conditioning kicked on — and for the first time, I could breathe. But she didn't waste any time:
So why exactly do you think I know anything about plants?
Well… based on the I was told you're the only one who even remotely understands peyote and its therapeutic properties.
Doña tapped her coffee cup, looking genuinely puzzled for the first time.
Peyote? That's some kind of drug or what? No way, kid — I don't do drugs. Sorry to disappoint, but this ain't the '60s or '70s. You got the wrong era, time traveler. But… I thought you were a shaman! – I blurted, pouting like a child who just lost his ice
She nearly spit out her coffee laughing, eyes wide in disbelief. Then she grinned, her teeth flashing like a sponsored Invisalign ad:
Kid… I don't even know your name, but you keep surprising me. You actually thought I was a bruja or something? Damn… no, I made my money in crypto and have never had anything to do with that crap. So what's the real reason you're into this stuff? You didn't pick peyote just to impress your professor, right?
Totally disarmed, I spilled my guts:
I thought through peyote, devil's weed, and all those alkaloids— I could find myself. Understand life. Like… why I exist. 'Cause life's short and the world's so damn Is there any meaning in it
— in me, in you, in anything? Or will I just live a few more decades and rot in the dirt like everyone else…
Her smile widened — and in its glow I finally saw the mystery I'd been looking for. She said:
You know what, student? I don't have any magical rituals or Toltec teachings, but I've got something. It gets boring here alone, so I write books to stay Want to read one? You can chill here while I stretch. Drinks are over there. Grab whatever. That couch is all yours.
This wasn't what I came for, but… something about her intrigued me. I waited for her to bring out some ancient scroll or sacred text. Instead, she laughed:
You really are from another I don't do print. Let's swap contacts — I'll send you the e-book.
We did just that. Then she headed upstairs for her pilates, and I collapsed on the giant eco-leather couch, cracked my knuckles, sipped a cold lemonade, and started reading her book on my phone.
From this point on, the story will be told by Doña Juanita herself. "I" means her. You'll get it. Enjoy the ride — for both your sake and mine.
Daytime Human.
That's your standard unit: you, me, your grandma, your cousin Marge, or that BDSM actor from the East Coast. We all got our daytime grind while the sun's out — running around trying to get stuff done before it takes a nosedive behind the skyline.
You desperately need that discounted kettle, you're asking for a raise, you fall off a bike trying to show off, or your kid's howling because the toy they wanted doesn't exist in this time-space continuum.
Even if none of that hits exactly right, I bet I'll still nail something: maybe you go to work, maybe you're unemployed. Maybe you have kids, maybe you don't. Maybe you're a party animal or a lone- wolf hermit. Sooner or later, one of these sticks.
Anyway, most of us interact with the outside world during daylight hours (unless you're a night owl). Even they eventually hit the sheets — even if it's at 7am after a bender.
But the result is always the same.
We dive into bed, maybe put on pajamas (or not), throw a blanket over ourselves, turn off the light. And then it happens — the part where we're left alone with the unfiltered version of ourselves. The daily noise fades out, and the inner monologue sneaks in like a pissed-off cat that didn't get its tuna snack.
What kind of thoughts are these? Well, that's where this guy comes in.
Nighttime Human.
"So I'm what — 25 years? 40? 60? Whatever. How much longer will I be able to stay active, physically strong? When exactly does the rotting begin — inside and out? And when do I turn into… wait, no, can't say that, that's ageist!
Like, take my neighbor Tony. He's an elderly guy, sure, but he's out there living his best life — always out with friends, drinking beer, playing cards. Full-on silver fox energy.
But what if I don't turn out like that? What if I end up with some degenerative disease, Alzheimer's or whatever, and I slowly turn into… nope, can't say that either, still ageist!
The truth is, I'm terrified I won't recognize myself one day. That my body — my face — won't feel like mine anymore. Not scary, not ugly, just… unfamiliar.
I wonder if Tony even looks in the mirror… what does he see there? Probably someone happy. Someone whole. If I were in his shoes, I think I'd just smash every mirror in the house. My reflection?
Honestly, it belongs in a horror movie, not real life. Harsh, I know… apologies to the woke part of my brain.
And what if I become so helpless they stick me in a nursing home? Sometimes nursing homes feel less like care facilities and more like warehouses for the inconvenient.
Shit. I don't wanna end up in a place like that!
And the spiral keeps spinning, tighter and tighter, dragging you down into some mental abyss. Only sleep — sweet, merciful sleep — might save you. But not before it throws you around a bit:
I'm gonna die. Like, I'm actually gonna die. And it will happen. Even though I belong to this-or-that religion and technically believe in some afterlife paradise, there's still this awful moment where I think… what if it's not real?
What if I don't get to sip cocktails and grill burgers with my favorite people in the great beyond? Because — they're gonna die too.
Mommy, help.
What if the atheists are right, and we just vanish — like actual vanish — dissolve into some poetic nothingness? Some Absolute Infinity or whatever.
Or more bluntly: what if we just die and that's it?
I mean, I've eaten, drunk, worked, fought, made up, laughed, cried — lived. And all of it, every little bit, could just evaporate. Along with me. The me that felt it all. Can that really be? And what if it is?!
And before all that, I'll probably have to bury my grandparents. Then my parents. Will I even be able to stand there, over my dad's casket, and look into that face that used to be so alive?
Nope. I'll lose it. I swear. I don't want that. Why is life so cruel?!"
This final question always seems to wrap up such spirals perfectly. Life is cruel. It kills everyone eventually, then dumps you at a bus stop called "Death." And for some reason, people just… accept that. Nobody calls the cops. No one files a complaint against the system.
This kind of personal violation goes unpunished. Because see, when your oppressor is flesh and blood, you can fight back. Humanity invented all kinds of ways to deal with human monsters.
But what do you do with something as Real and as Metaphysical as Death?
You can't put her on trial. She doesn't care about your little gavel, your trembling fist. She does whatever the hell she wants — and nobody can stop her.
So what do you do?
At the very least, breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Count to ten (it doesn't help me, but maybe it'll help you). Take a big sip from your favorite mug — you know, the one that says "I love myself."
Then keep reading this weird little guide.
And at most? Start asking yourself some big, uncomfortable questions. This is not advice. It's just what I did.