The Hyperborean Mythos Agonies of the Grave ((Burial Before Death) (Huancayo, Peru))

THE victor worm, the hopeless and darkness of night, the soggy soil, sticking onto one's articles of clothing, mistreatment of the lungs, the grasp of the tight casket, the body now buried for evermore. The absence of air, vapor, the grass over one's head, or more that a moon, and sun and stars, cosmic systems, the universe, you are in another world, past. Your companions are at home resting, drinking, chuckling, all educated of your demise, yet not your destiny; that they are ignorant of.

You are covered alive, in a sad position. Horrifying it might be, an insufferable awfulness, a horrifying dream, as nothing half so derisive, however it is genuine, and by one means or another you should endure the weight of that reality.

Presently I will recount to you a genuine story of an occupant and companion of mine, from Huancayo, Peru, high up in the Peruvian Andes, where people still do things the old form route, to incorporate internments. Leoncio, initially from a little town called San Jeronimo de Tunan, who had moved to the inward city of Huancayo (inside of the Mantaro Valley locale) nobody intentionally knowing of his malady catalepsy (in many cases combined with epilepsy and schizophrenia, portrayed by absence of reaction and outer jolts and by strong unbending nature), nobody alive that is, his age being 68-years of age, and having no family to talk about, a couple of companions, accidental of the puzzling infection he had. In spite of the fact that I did, yet I was far away amid his supposed takeoff from this world, in Patagonia.

This ailment obviously is of significant intrigue particularly for its destiny, or has been previously. The patient or casualty, lies for a day or more in a condition of misrepresented inactivity. He is silly, unmoving, the heart's throb is weak, best case scenario, yet a few spots of blood warmth remain. His shading changes to his body, even to his lips, a swaying move makes place in the lungs. He is in a follow like mode for a considerable length of time if not months. In many cases in confined regions that are still with the old traditions, the visualizations is 'outright passing'; and for such groups, demise is passing, and there is no twofold registering with records, that may or won't not be, and for old Leoncio, there were no restorative records, he cured every one of his a throbbing painfulness with old cures, the old way. Also, he got covered the old way. What's more, the main way anybody other than myself would have known of his catalepsy, would have been by subsequent suspicion, or more all the absence of rot, the last being ignored. Therefore, he was entrusted alive to his tomb.

I can say in sureness, he fell into a swoon, a power outage, without agony, not able to mix. Maybe even to think for some time, yet with a dull and diminish cognizance in the long run.

Leoncio, likewise being a drunkard, stayed in a trance, maybe supposing he was in a bad dream, until he arose out of this daze, into reality, and ended up in another emergency. Stricken to his surroundings, he should had been wiped out and numb, cold and bleary eyed from the headache. Yet now in his tomb, dark and quiet, his reality altogether obliteration, his universe gone.

He alert as out of a seizure, and I know of that experience, for I have lived it, my spirit connecting for view of what is going on? Gradually returning to the light that was killed; returning out of a stupor, attempting to contact ownership of my faculties. In this way, his stage was much more profound, his bewilderment and perplexity more profound, for he stayed in supreme temporary hold.

...

His demise frequented me day and night, supposing it was an untimely internment. Along these lines, I had the city authorities revive the casket, inauspicious and obscurity overspread our confronts, I shook and shuddered, as did the authorities, covered to reflection that they had covered him alive, did we send him into the universe of ghosts, I mulled over, then I heard a gibbering voce a whisper that originated from the carcasses' lips, they moved, "Alive," was the single word, it said again and again, then ceased to exist. My teeth prattled, here was a voice that got a handle on me by the wrist-allegorically talking, yet had I come past the point of no return?

Out of the brilliance of rot, he had been covered ten-days, his body pitiful, in serious sleep with the worms. A pathetic sight. Truth be told I no more confided in myself, would he say he was dead, or still alive? The current specialist consoled me by a grave promise, he was dead. Furthermore, the casket was shut.