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También con lo abstracto

He abierto los ojos, mis sueños se distorsionan con mis fantasías, no se qué sensación es mas intensa, pero sobrevivo a ella y puedo disfrutarla. El horizonte se vuelve sólo en objetos y las barreras únicamente imperfecciones de un paisaje lejano e inalcanzable.

No se como se le llama, le habría visto alrededor de cinco veces , en tal vez diecisiete momentos de mi vida y no importa, aún si hubieran sido catorce o cuarenta y cuatro, hubiera sentido lo mismo, me hubiera sentido extraño, y extraño porque no encuentro palabra mejor para describir esto. No conozco la etimología de algo tan bello y raro, bello porque me hace sentir, raro porque me hace soñar. Parece como si quinientos años hubieran presagiado el momento y a pesar de todo necesitaba algo, era imperfecto.

¿Cómo puede ser imperfecto algo que me hace sentir así? Tal vez nunca lo sabré, tal vez son sensaciones reemplazables por momentos maravillosos… tal vez son sensaciones que pueden ser cambiadas, tal vez no. No existe más grande diferencia, he visto demasiadas en toda mi vida y a pesar de las maravillas que he visto siempre quedo libre para poder ver más y nunca dejan de sorprenderme. Y es que la libertad siempre vive en mi espíritu, pero por primera vez no quiero ser libre, algo se roba mi libertad… o tal vez la libertad no existe.

Es tan diferente que podría reír y llorar en el mismo instante en que obtenga una respuesta, es tan diferente que si fuera necesario encarcelar mi espíritu en el más bajo y profundo rincón lo haría sin vacilar un solo instante. Podría olvidar el miedo a vivir sin libertad porque a pesar de lo que estoy arriesgando, siempre me saldría ganando.

Tal vez es una lucha de ansiedades, la mía contra la suya, tal vez una reconciliación de espíritus o tal vez el complemento perfecto de mi vida pasajera, con el alma lejana y con las miradas perpetuas.

Tal vez sólo una descripción imperfecta de algo que siempre podré encontrar perfecto al abrir los ojos… una mujer.


Nunca entendí completamente lo que traté de escribir en este lugar, pero a veces resulta reconfortante que lo que escribo tenga un poco de complejidad.

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