Cuando me echo a dormir…
Sin saber cómo ni por qué, sin pretenderlo, entro en la otra parte de mi existencia. Aparezco del otro lado.
Me encuentro en una dimensión difícilmente definible. Atrás dejé los convencionales sentidos que me acompañaron. Ojos, orejas, nariz, boca, manos… mente y cuerpo, si de alguna manera estaban presos de este lado quieren ser libres del otro.
Me hallo en un mundo donde vive otro yo. Un yo incontrolable, imprevisible, impredecible… ¡Qué se yo! Perdidas las reglas y la razón quedaron.
A veces tormentosos, otras plácidos. Benditos o malditos. Breves o largos, interrumpidos o finalizados. Uno, dos, varios…Solapados, continuos… Mágicos, en cualquier caso.
¿Por qué es necesario este viaje diario?, me pregunto. Quizá, si no fuese así, si no pasase del otro lado, no podría descansar del peso de lo cotidiano, y entonces moriría por sobrecarga.
Los dos lados compensan la balanza del vivir. Mi vida los crea, los alimenta, los une y los separa.
La vida no es sueño, quien crea lo contrario se equivoca. La vida está partida en dos. De aquí estoy yo, mis sensaciones y deseos. De allí yo y mis sueños, queriéndome liberar.
Sin vida no podría soñar. Y sin soñar no podría vivir. Una asociación perfecta. Haz y envés de mi ser.
Sean pues bienvenidos los sueños. La vida también.
Mañana será otro día. Ahora, me echo a dormir…
11 November, 2009
03 November, 2009
Gris no es un color triste. (Incluido en el libro-anuario "Artelibre. Arte y Libertad IV)
Sueños frescos sobre el castillo. Limpiando mis pensamientos. Bullicio en el café. Melancolía en mi té.
Acabo de encender un cigarro. Intentando olvidar. Tomándome mi tiempo. La vida no es tan difícil. Un juego de niños si la miras desde arriba.
Puedo imaginarte allí. Sosteniendo esa bandera, sonriendo para mí. Sonriéndole al mundo.
Está lloviendo.
Estoy mirándote. Tú estás ondeando la tela. Riéndote ahora.
Gotas en la ventana.
Lágrimas de vida en mi alma.
Gris no es un color triste. ¿Verdad? Sólo el reflejo queda en tus ojos.
Ven aquí. Deshazte de tus inhibiciones. Saca a besos el infierno de mi.
Sintamos el brillo. Hazlo fácil, nena. Nada es realmente serio.
Sígueme el juego. Fuma de mí. Dame fuego. Baja del castillo. Es gélido allí afuera. Revíveme.
Ven a mí. Deja la bandera por sí misma. Ella nos saludará. Pon tus manos en mí. Abrázame fuerte. Hazme sentir. Coge todos los colores y pinta mi vida. Nuestra pasión tendrá energía suficiente para más de un arco iris. Déjame pintar el tuyo.
No quiero soñar más. Realidad, por favor.
Acabo de encender un cigarro. Intentando olvidar. Tomándome mi tiempo. La vida no es tan difícil. Un juego de niños si la miras desde arriba.
Puedo imaginarte allí. Sosteniendo esa bandera, sonriendo para mí. Sonriéndole al mundo.
Está lloviendo.
Estoy mirándote. Tú estás ondeando la tela. Riéndote ahora.
Gotas en la ventana.
Lágrimas de vida en mi alma.
Gris no es un color triste. ¿Verdad? Sólo el reflejo queda en tus ojos.
Ven aquí. Deshazte de tus inhibiciones. Saca a besos el infierno de mi.
Sintamos el brillo. Hazlo fácil, nena. Nada es realmente serio.
Sígueme el juego. Fuma de mí. Dame fuego. Baja del castillo. Es gélido allí afuera. Revíveme.
Ven a mí. Deja la bandera por sí misma. Ella nos saludará. Pon tus manos en mí. Abrázame fuerte. Hazme sentir. Coge todos los colores y pinta mi vida. Nuestra pasión tendrá energía suficiente para más de un arco iris. Déjame pintar el tuyo.
No quiero soñar más. Realidad, por favor.
21 October, 2009
La llegada de este otoño es la que, definitivamente, me ha traido estas palabras, esta reflexión, que mi mente creadora llevaba tiempo incubando...
El reloj de mi vida
Ahora siento cómo el tiempo me abandona. Parece que me habla, mientras el instante se va.
Mira el reloj de tu vida. Cada vez le queda menos arena arriba. Escucha cómo caen los momentos, apenas sin hacer ruido, apenas con un leve susurro. Ssssshhhhhh… Como el viento que sopla una espiga de trigo en un inmenso trigal.
Y mira cómo abajo se van amontonando, unos entre otros. Algunos se hacen notar, otros ni se perciben, confundidos entre el resto. No se aprisionan, no se molestan… Y los granos de arriba te parece que gritan ‘no dejes que caigamos sin sentido’. Pero no te alteres: sólo te parece, porque ellos caen así, sin más, casi silenciosos, sabiendo de su destino.
Así es. El resto es quimera, sueños imaginados, creados a veces. Toda la arena caerá. Y tu reloj agotará su tiempo. Y tu vida será tan sólo otro montoncito de arena.
Mi vida es la arena que cayo, la que caerá. La que quedará posada, casi imperceptible, en el suelo que alimentará el inmenso trigal de los hombres, a los cuales el viento del tiempo y su historia seguirá haciendo sonar.
Pero, la que más aprecio es la que cae ahora, mientras mis sentimientos hacen que el instante escriba estas palabras.
08 October, 2009
Gray is not a sad color
Fresh dreams over the castle. Cleaning my thoughts. Bustle in the café. Melancholy in my tea.
I’ve just lit a new cigar. Trying to forget. Taking my time. Life is not difficult indeed. A children’s game if you look at it from the top.
I can imagine you there. Holding that flag, smiling for me. Smiling at the world.
It’s raining.
Looking at you. You are fluttering the cloth. Laughing now.
Drops on the window.
Life-tears in my soul.
Gray is not a sad color. Is it? Only the reflection gets in your eyes.
Come here. Toss your inhibitions. Kiss the hell out of me.
Let’s feel the glow. Take it easy nena. Nothing is really serious. Play the game. Smoke from me. Light my fire. Come down from the castle. It’s freezing out there. Make me alive.
Come about me. Let the flag on its own. It will wave to us. Put your hands on me. Hold me tight. Make me feel. Take all the colors and paint my life. Our passion will be energy enough for more than one rainbow. Let me paint yours.
I don’t want to dream anymore. Reality, please.
I’ve just lit a new cigar. Trying to forget. Taking my time. Life is not difficult indeed. A children’s game if you look at it from the top.
I can imagine you there. Holding that flag, smiling for me. Smiling at the world.
It’s raining.
Looking at you. You are fluttering the cloth. Laughing now.
Drops on the window.
Life-tears in my soul.
Gray is not a sad color. Is it? Only the reflection gets in your eyes.
Come here. Toss your inhibitions. Kiss the hell out of me.
Let’s feel the glow. Take it easy nena. Nothing is really serious. Play the game. Smoke from me. Light my fire. Come down from the castle. It’s freezing out there. Make me alive.
Come about me. Let the flag on its own. It will wave to us. Put your hands on me. Hold me tight. Make me feel. Take all the colors and paint my life. Our passion will be energy enough for more than one rainbow. Let me paint yours.
I don’t want to dream anymore. Reality, please.
19 September, 2009
The secret
Now I am going to confess to you my innermost secret.
I might have looked for another way of doing it: Trying to locate your telephone number, looking for you at one of your conferences or book presentations, meeting you and telling you face to face. But I have always felt incapable, I believe that I would not be able to bear it. Perhaps I am still a cowardly woman.
Today it is December 25th, your birthday; I do not know if you know it. Forty four years have already passed since that day. I have always imagined you on the day of your birthday: when you learned to walk, your first stammers and words, when I took you to school… Time cures all wounds, so they say. But the scar of having abandoned you has never stopped causing me pain, on this, of all days.
The worst thing has been to live concealing this pain. A pain that, like a ghost, has haunted me. Next to him, the guilt and shame.
At this stage I do not want to fall into sentimentalisms, and it would be worthless anyway. I am not going to redeem myself in front of you with this confession. But deep inside, something shouts at me that I have to tell you.
I want you to know that I was just sixteen. No, don’t think that I want to justify myself, excuses would be worth nothing, it would be stupid. I can only say that the situation overtook me. Difficult days they were, and your father… your father wanted to know nothing about it, he disappeared. I never heard from him again. I do not accuse him, not to anyone. If there is anyone to be accussed, that one is me.
With the years, one learns to forgive almost everything, so they say, but it is difficult to excuse myself. And, although I would like it that way, I don’t know if you would be able to forgive me.
To the ‘whys’ you ask I would not be able to give good answers, I have never found them myself.
Conscience keeps gnawing at me when I read in your books: born the 5th of January. If I could only go back!
Fortunately you are all right; this should comfort me. You are a well known and respected writer. I’ve read your novels, and I should tell you that I like Fraser very much. He is a lovely explorer, fragile and strong at the same time, a character that manages to make fun of his setbacks and to come out of everything a winner. Are you the one that stands behind, Jorge? I am delighted with the great imagination that you have, how you create those so extraordinary worlds with such unexpected situations.
I kept track of you. And you cannot imagine the awe that I felt when I saw you in that television interview. Your words, your gestures, your face... I must thank God for your success.
I am also all right. I live with Juan, my husband. We don’t have children. The truth is I was the one that never wanted to. "Am I fit to be a mother?", I asked myself. "No, I was already a mother. I am a mother without a son", I answered. And in that way life was passing by. I met Juan more or less when I was the age that you are now, when my rejection toward men was already disappearing. The fear of becoming pregnant also disappeared when Juan, fearful of my rejection, confessed to me that he was sterile. I looked him in the eye, fixedly, I embraced him and, almost crying, I said to him that the important thing is our love. He never knew my secret, nor that his confession soothed me deeply, and made me decide to join my life to his.
So, Jorge, next month I will be sixty years old, and at this age one comes into question how much life is left. So here you have my secret. I want you to keep it, to understand it as a token of the love I have always felt for you.
Sonia, your biological mother.
I might have looked for another way of doing it: Trying to locate your telephone number, looking for you at one of your conferences or book presentations, meeting you and telling you face to face. But I have always felt incapable, I believe that I would not be able to bear it. Perhaps I am still a cowardly woman.
Today it is December 25th, your birthday; I do not know if you know it. Forty four years have already passed since that day. I have always imagined you on the day of your birthday: when you learned to walk, your first stammers and words, when I took you to school… Time cures all wounds, so they say. But the scar of having abandoned you has never stopped causing me pain, on this, of all days.
The worst thing has been to live concealing this pain. A pain that, like a ghost, has haunted me. Next to him, the guilt and shame.
At this stage I do not want to fall into sentimentalisms, and it would be worthless anyway. I am not going to redeem myself in front of you with this confession. But deep inside, something shouts at me that I have to tell you.
I want you to know that I was just sixteen. No, don’t think that I want to justify myself, excuses would be worth nothing, it would be stupid. I can only say that the situation overtook me. Difficult days they were, and your father… your father wanted to know nothing about it, he disappeared. I never heard from him again. I do not accuse him, not to anyone. If there is anyone to be accussed, that one is me.
With the years, one learns to forgive almost everything, so they say, but it is difficult to excuse myself. And, although I would like it that way, I don’t know if you would be able to forgive me.
To the ‘whys’ you ask I would not be able to give good answers, I have never found them myself.
Conscience keeps gnawing at me when I read in your books: born the 5th of January. If I could only go back!
Fortunately you are all right; this should comfort me. You are a well known and respected writer. I’ve read your novels, and I should tell you that I like Fraser very much. He is a lovely explorer, fragile and strong at the same time, a character that manages to make fun of his setbacks and to come out of everything a winner. Are you the one that stands behind, Jorge? I am delighted with the great imagination that you have, how you create those so extraordinary worlds with such unexpected situations.
I kept track of you. And you cannot imagine the awe that I felt when I saw you in that television interview. Your words, your gestures, your face... I must thank God for your success.
I am also all right. I live with Juan, my husband. We don’t have children. The truth is I was the one that never wanted to. "Am I fit to be a mother?", I asked myself. "No, I was already a mother. I am a mother without a son", I answered. And in that way life was passing by. I met Juan more or less when I was the age that you are now, when my rejection toward men was already disappearing. The fear of becoming pregnant also disappeared when Juan, fearful of my rejection, confessed to me that he was sterile. I looked him in the eye, fixedly, I embraced him and, almost crying, I said to him that the important thing is our love. He never knew my secret, nor that his confession soothed me deeply, and made me decide to join my life to his.
So, Jorge, next month I will be sixty years old, and at this age one comes into question how much life is left. So here you have my secret. I want you to keep it, to understand it as a token of the love I have always felt for you.
Sonia, your biological mother.
12 September, 2009
perteneciente a la obra "Cuentos veloces" -INÉDITA-
Nadó y nadó, tanto que al salir de la piscina le sobraba el aire.
Marchó al mar y desapareció.
Se convirtió en pez.
Marchó al mar y desapareció.
Se convirtió en pez.
01 September, 2009
Besos deshonestos
“Desconfía de quién te besa con los ojos abiertos.” No recuerdo cómo me llegó ese aviso. Suelen olvidarse los buenos consejos, y mucho más cuando el amor te lleva en volandas, te ciega.
¿Quién es capaz de besar con la vista afuera? ¿Quién puede prestar atención a otra cosa que no sea la pasión que corre por dentro?
Nunca circularon por mi mente esas preguntas. Es una lástima, ahora las tendré siempre presentes. No sé si me cegaré de nuevo, si apagaré esta desconfianza que ha puesto un punto de inflexión en mi vida.
Ella era todo lo que yo había soñado. Un sueño que se desvaneció, pero que mientras duró se mantuvo puro, vibrante en la realidad de mis sentidos.
Ella miraba la mar mientras me besaba. Y la mar se la llevó.
¿Quién es capaz de besar con la vista afuera? ¿Quién puede prestar atención a otra cosa que no sea la pasión que corre por dentro?
Nunca circularon por mi mente esas preguntas. Es una lástima, ahora las tendré siempre presentes. No sé si me cegaré de nuevo, si apagaré esta desconfianza que ha puesto un punto de inflexión en mi vida.
Ella era todo lo que yo había soñado. Un sueño que se desvaneció, pero que mientras duró se mantuvo puro, vibrante en la realidad de mis sentidos.
Ella miraba la mar mientras me besaba. Y la mar se la llevó.
17 August, 2009
THE LETTER
It is not usual for me to wake up in the middle of the night shaking from a dream and decide to jump at the paper to write it down or at least take some notes. And this is not because, on the exceptional occasions when a worthwhile dream ever crossed my mind I was too lazy to break my sleep and do it. Probably this is not right for a person who tries to live his life like a writer, but I must confess that I’m not an industrious one. Last night was different because this was the dream of my life, the dream to end all dreams. The dream that now is real and for sure is going to twist my ordinary world if I let it.
Thus, this morning at about half past three, I suddenly jolted awake from my bed and with that excitement still fresh I took the notepad and wrote: “It was so real, so believable. Original, authentic and different to others; the most corporeal I ever had. I was feeling its particular smell, the smell of money everywhere; too much money for me. Banknotes like wallpaper covering the walls of my room. A mosaic of coins for a floor. A ceiling with an enormous pound coin glowing like a big sun. Beautiful women with notes in their mouths and coins as nipples, throwing me out of bed because there was not enough space for all of us. I was at a party in a huge sumptuous hall full of old long-gone friends dressed like fashionable millionaires, dancing, smiling and shaking my hand. A luxury orchestra with my lost first love singing for me Mad about the boy... Boats, jets, cars... Sea, sun, amazing blue skies... And I wasn’t happy at all. Why has this dream left me shaking? Why was it so real?” Then I went back to sleep again with an anxious but contented smile.
Later that morning, before breakfast, I read again the words I wrote just hours before. I felt some kind of funny feeling, a premonition, but I smiled at my madness and forgot about it. After my sacred daily breakfast I pondered at my writing table for a couple of hours. Then shortly afterwards went to look at my mail. I could not believe my eyes. Something inside me experienced an extraordinary vertigo, a sort of sensation as if I was coming down a scenic railway. I was holding a letter it told me my dream had come true.
At this moment I’m scared, almost terrified. Writing these thoughts. Reading and re-reading the letter I now have in front of me makes me realise it is addressed to me. Trying to be conscious I’m not still dreaming. Pinching to reassure myself I’m wide-awake.
A normal person probably would be crying with happiness, phoning family and close friends, running to buy bottles of the most expensive champagne; making plans about buying a big new house, an exorbitant brand new car, exclusive holidays around the world; imagining hitting his boss, quitting his position and after that buying the whole damn company; sending precious jewels and posh presents to his lover, making love to his wife as it for the first time... Getting absolutely out of control.
Is this dream for me? Should I let it go?
Maybe you think I’m crazy but I’m scared, terrified. I’m feeling under threat. Should I remain as I was in the minutes before this letter came to my ordinary world? Should I forget about that dream that came true? But... How can I resist the scream of this enormous fortune?
Unexpectedly, money is yelling at my world with its irresistible and powerful voice. What should I do?
Thus, this morning at about half past three, I suddenly jolted awake from my bed and with that excitement still fresh I took the notepad and wrote: “It was so real, so believable. Original, authentic and different to others; the most corporeal I ever had. I was feeling its particular smell, the smell of money everywhere; too much money for me. Banknotes like wallpaper covering the walls of my room. A mosaic of coins for a floor. A ceiling with an enormous pound coin glowing like a big sun. Beautiful women with notes in their mouths and coins as nipples, throwing me out of bed because there was not enough space for all of us. I was at a party in a huge sumptuous hall full of old long-gone friends dressed like fashionable millionaires, dancing, smiling and shaking my hand. A luxury orchestra with my lost first love singing for me Mad about the boy... Boats, jets, cars... Sea, sun, amazing blue skies... And I wasn’t happy at all. Why has this dream left me shaking? Why was it so real?” Then I went back to sleep again with an anxious but contented smile.
Later that morning, before breakfast, I read again the words I wrote just hours before. I felt some kind of funny feeling, a premonition, but I smiled at my madness and forgot about it. After my sacred daily breakfast I pondered at my writing table for a couple of hours. Then shortly afterwards went to look at my mail. I could not believe my eyes. Something inside me experienced an extraordinary vertigo, a sort of sensation as if I was coming down a scenic railway. I was holding a letter it told me my dream had come true.
At this moment I’m scared, almost terrified. Writing these thoughts. Reading and re-reading the letter I now have in front of me makes me realise it is addressed to me. Trying to be conscious I’m not still dreaming. Pinching to reassure myself I’m wide-awake.
A normal person probably would be crying with happiness, phoning family and close friends, running to buy bottles of the most expensive champagne; making plans about buying a big new house, an exorbitant brand new car, exclusive holidays around the world; imagining hitting his boss, quitting his position and after that buying the whole damn company; sending precious jewels and posh presents to his lover, making love to his wife as it for the first time... Getting absolutely out of control.
Is this dream for me? Should I let it go?
Maybe you think I’m crazy but I’m scared, terrified. I’m feeling under threat. Should I remain as I was in the minutes before this letter came to my ordinary world? Should I forget about that dream that came true? But... How can I resist the scream of this enormous fortune?
Unexpectedly, money is yelling at my world with its irresistible and powerful voice. What should I do?
07 August, 2009
The end
- We are finished. This is finished.
- Why?
- I don’t really know but I think this is the end. We must accept it. Everything has its time.
- Don’t do it!
- There’s nothing we can do. All we have left is embers.
- Then why not add some kindling? Something to keep the fire alive, at least for a while.
- Why?
- Nobody likes endings.
- That’s true, but I have a smoke filled heart.
- Don’t you feel any pain?
- I feel lukewarm, tepid. Now I feel the flame is flickering but soon it will go out. The glow is only a fraction of time.
- I don’t want our love to flicker and die.
- Everything has a beginning and everything goes to an end.
- Jesus Christ! Let’s drop this crap. Sing that love song, that happy and sad song. Sing it, sing like you used to. Your spark might have gone out but mine is alive and well. Hold me!
- So... you still feel the glow?
- Kiss me.
- I don’t think it is going to be the same. With one spark alive and the other half dead what’s the...
- Kiss me! Kiss me love. Let my blaze engulfs you.
- So... you want to play that game? Questions, answers; answers and questions... and so on; until the end. Ok then, let’s try again to light the fire.
- Yes! Let’s do that.
- Spark?
- Flame.
- Fire?
- Blaze.
- Ember?
- Kindling.
- Glow?
- Passion.
- Warmth?
- Desire.
- ...And spark again!
- It was beautiful! Don’t you think?
- Yes, wonderful! Ok, love. We will need to find new sparks. And... the flame will be alive.
- How many ways do you think we can find?
- Time will tell.
And yet... One day...
- Kiss me! Kiss me love.
- We are finished. This is finished...
- Bye love. It was good to be here
- Why?
- I don’t really know but I think this is the end. We must accept it. Everything has its time.
- Don’t do it!
- There’s nothing we can do. All we have left is embers.
- Then why not add some kindling? Something to keep the fire alive, at least for a while.
- Why?
- Nobody likes endings.
- That’s true, but I have a smoke filled heart.
- Don’t you feel any pain?
- I feel lukewarm, tepid. Now I feel the flame is flickering but soon it will go out. The glow is only a fraction of time.
- I don’t want our love to flicker and die.
- Everything has a beginning and everything goes to an end.
- Jesus Christ! Let’s drop this crap. Sing that love song, that happy and sad song. Sing it, sing like you used to. Your spark might have gone out but mine is alive and well. Hold me!
- So... you still feel the glow?
- Kiss me.
- I don’t think it is going to be the same. With one spark alive and the other half dead what’s the...
- Kiss me! Kiss me love. Let my blaze engulfs you.
- So... you want to play that game? Questions, answers; answers and questions... and so on; until the end. Ok then, let’s try again to light the fire.
- Yes! Let’s do that.
- Spark?
- Flame.
- Fire?
- Blaze.
- Ember?
- Kindling.
- Glow?
- Passion.
- Warmth?
- Desire.
- ...And spark again!
- It was beautiful! Don’t you think?
- Yes, wonderful! Ok, love. We will need to find new sparks. And... the flame will be alive.
- How many ways do you think we can find?
- Time will tell.
And yet... One day...
- Kiss me! Kiss me love.
- We are finished. This is finished...
- Bye love. It was good to be here
16 July, 2009
El final
- Hemos terminado. Esto se acabó.
- Pero, ¿por qué?
- Realmente no sé, pero creo que este es el final. Debemos aceptarlo. Todo tiene su hora.
- ¡No lo hagas!
- No hay nada que podamos hacer. Todo lo que quedan son cenizas.
- Entonces, ¿por qué no añadimos algo más de leña? Algo para mantener el fuego vivo, al menos por un rato.
- ¿Por qué?
- A nadie le gustan los finales.
- Eso es verdad, pero tengo el corazón lleno de humo.
- ¿No sientes dolor?
- Me siento indiferente, templado. Siento que la llama está titilando, pero que pronto dejará de hacerlo. El brillo es sólo cuestión de tiempo.
- No quiero que nuestro amor titile y muera.
- Todo tiene un principio y va hacia un final.
- ¡Por Dios! Mandemos al carajo esta tontería. Canta esa canción de amor. Cántala, como solías hacer. Tu chispa se puede haber ido, pero la mía aún salta. ¡Abrázame!
- Así que… ¿tú aún sientes el brillo?
- Bésame.
- No creo que vaya a ser lo mismo. Con una chispa viva y la otra medio muerta…
- Bésame. Bésame amor. Deja que mi llama te envuelva.
- Así que… ¿Quieres jugar el juego? Preguntas, respuestas; respuestas, preguntas… suma y sigue, hasta el final. Está bien, intentemos entonces prender el fuego.
- Sí, vamos a hacerlo.
- ¿Chispa?
- Llama.´
- ¿Fuego?
- Flama.
- ¿Brasa?
- Leña.
- ¿Candela?
- Pasión.
- ¿Calor?
- Deseo.
- … ¡Y chispa de nuevo!
- ¡Fue maravilloso! ¿No crees?
- Sí, estupendo. Bien, cariño. Tendremos que encontrar nuevas chispas.
Y… la llama volverá a vivir.
- ¿Cuántas maneras crees que encontraremos?
- El tiempo dirá.
Y así, un día…
- ¡Bésame! ¡Bésame amor!
- Hemos terminado. Esto se acabó…
- Adiós amor. Estuvo bien estar aquí.
- Pero, ¿por qué?
- Realmente no sé, pero creo que este es el final. Debemos aceptarlo. Todo tiene su hora.
- ¡No lo hagas!
- No hay nada que podamos hacer. Todo lo que quedan son cenizas.
- Entonces, ¿por qué no añadimos algo más de leña? Algo para mantener el fuego vivo, al menos por un rato.
- ¿Por qué?
- A nadie le gustan los finales.
- Eso es verdad, pero tengo el corazón lleno de humo.
- ¿No sientes dolor?
- Me siento indiferente, templado. Siento que la llama está titilando, pero que pronto dejará de hacerlo. El brillo es sólo cuestión de tiempo.
- No quiero que nuestro amor titile y muera.
- Todo tiene un principio y va hacia un final.
- ¡Por Dios! Mandemos al carajo esta tontería. Canta esa canción de amor. Cántala, como solías hacer. Tu chispa se puede haber ido, pero la mía aún salta. ¡Abrázame!
- Así que… ¿tú aún sientes el brillo?
- Bésame.
- No creo que vaya a ser lo mismo. Con una chispa viva y la otra medio muerta…
- Bésame. Bésame amor. Deja que mi llama te envuelva.
- Así que… ¿Quieres jugar el juego? Preguntas, respuestas; respuestas, preguntas… suma y sigue, hasta el final. Está bien, intentemos entonces prender el fuego.
- Sí, vamos a hacerlo.
- ¿Chispa?
- Llama.´
- ¿Fuego?
- Flama.
- ¿Brasa?
- Leña.
- ¿Candela?
- Pasión.
- ¿Calor?
- Deseo.
- … ¡Y chispa de nuevo!
- ¡Fue maravilloso! ¿No crees?
- Sí, estupendo. Bien, cariño. Tendremos que encontrar nuevas chispas.
Y… la llama volverá a vivir.
- ¿Cuántas maneras crees que encontraremos?
- El tiempo dirá.
Y así, un día…
- ¡Bésame! ¡Bésame amor!
- Hemos terminado. Esto se acabó…
- Adiós amor. Estuvo bien estar aquí.
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