The price of growing.

I started this entry, weeks ago, under the title "Nostalgia". It invaded me at that time as much as it does now and yet, in the big picture, this is nothing more than a superficial layer for a much deeper structural feeling.

And well, as curiosity is my engine and compass, I could not help but -quietly- let the beautiful Nostalgia invade me and penetrate every corner of my day and my dreams, to -from my stillness- observe and feel every nuance and every layer she wanted to show me.

And I reached her centre. 

Nostalgia would be a view of the past from Solitude.

So I approached Solitude.

Solitude, still and silent, 

invaded me and penetrated me as well.

Solitude, still and silent, 

made a lump in my throat.

And I cried bitterly out of Solitude.

I felt, in every tear and every pain, also every name, face, moment, kiss, laugh, idealisation, tenderness, love, insult, mistreatment, devaluation, contempt, disdain, blame, deflection, and cynicism… Resounding mixes of what had to be left behind.

And while it is true that Solitude felt that way, 

it also went through me without leaving wounds.

At her centre, finally,

I saw myself.

Girl-woman.

I saw myself full of scars and scabs. 

Covered in mud, tar, blood, and sweat.

I saw myself tired and hurt, 

but more whole than ever.

Growing up is an absolutely extraordinary journey.

Growing up is also an absolutely painful journey: Not only because the fight with our own demons is hard, painful, and shameful; but also because many, many times, that growth will involve loneliness: from the people who separated their paths from ours as we did not learn in time, and ourselves, since sometimes growing up means also deciding to separate our paths from the people we loved and were important to us... the option of staying would only mean going back on a road that is only meant to go forward, and that will not bring us satisfaction or happiness of any kind.

...And because our own versions of ourselves, which were left behind, also remind us that in those versions we were happier with less (and we accepted the painful, abusive unhappiness as one more ingredient of that status quo). 

And therein lies Nostalgia.

We were born alone.

It is the destiny of Life to meet Death and it is the destiny of every Beginning to meet its End; which does not make the experience of any event less real. If anything, this awareness helps us to live each adventure from the peace of its absolute and ephemeral genuineness.

Perhaps that is why growing is so worth it despite the price one pays: The path to the end becomes peaceful and one begins to find gentle aromas after a journey of thorns.

Perhaps that is why growing is so worth it despite the price one pays: The price of meeting oneself, without fear, is truly impossible to measure.

El precio de crecer.

Comencé esta entrada, semanas atrás, bajo el título "Nostalgia". Me invadía en ese momento tanto como ahora y sin embargo, en la panorámica general, esto no es más que una capa superficial para un sentimiento estructural mucho más profundo.

Y bueno, como la curiosidad es mi motor y mi brújula, no pude sino -quietamente- dejar a la bella Nostalgia invadirme y traspasar cada rincón de mi día y mis sueños, para -aún desde mi quietud- observar y sentir cada matiz y cada capa que ella quisiera mostrarme.

Y llegué a su centro. 

La Nostalgia vendría siendo una vista al pasado desde la Soledad.

Así que, epistemológicamente, 

me acerqué a Soledad.

Soledad, quieta y callada, 

me invadió y traspasó también.

Soledad, quieta y callada, 

me hizo un nudo en la garganta. 

Y lloré amargamente por Soledad.

Sentí, en cada lágrima y en cada dolor, también cada nombre, cara, momento, beso, risa, idealización, ternura, amor, insulto, maltrato, devaluación, desprecio, desdén, culpabilización y cinismo… Mezclas rotundas de lo que se debía dejar atrás.

Y si bien es cierto así se sintió Soledad, 

también me traspasó sin dejar heridas. 

En su centro, finalmente, 

me vi a mí misma.

Niña-mujer.

Me vi llena de cicatrices y costras. 

Cubierta de lodo, alquitrán, sangre y sudor.

Me vi cansada y dolida, 

pero más entera que nunca.

Crecer es un viaje absolutamente extraordinario. 

Crecer es también un viaje absolutamente doloroso: No sólo porque la lucha con nuestros propios demonios es dura, dolorosa y vergonzosa; sino también porque muchas, muchas veces, ese crecimiento implicará soledad: de las personas que separaron sus caminos del nuestro dado que no aprendimos a tiempo, y de nosotros mismos, ya que a veces crecer significa también decidir separar nuestros caminos de las personas que amamos y fueron importantes para nosotros... la opción de quedarnos solo significaría retroceder en un camino que solo es para avanzar, y que no nos traerá satisfacción ni felicidad de ningún tipo.

Y porque también nuestras propias versiones de nosotros mismos -que se quedaron atrás- nos recuerdan que en esas versiones éramos más felices con menos (y aceptábamos la dolorosa, maltratadora infelicidad como un ingrediente más de ese status quo). 

Y ahí reside la Nostalgia.

Nacimos solos.

Es el destino de la Vida encontrarse con la Muerte y es el destino de todo Principio encontrarse con su Final. Lo que no hace de la experiencia de ningún evento menos real. Si acaso, la consciencia de esto nos ayuda a vivir cada experiencia desde la paz de su absoluta, y efímera, genuinidad. 

Tal vez por eso crecer vale tanto la pena pese al precio que uno paga: El camino hacia el final se vuelve pacífico y empieza uno a encontrar aromas gentiles después de la ardua senda de espinas.

Tal vez por eso crecer vale tanto la pena pese al precio que uno paga: 

Porque el precio del encuentro con uno mismo sin miedos es, en verdad, imposible de medir.

And all that you will be.

You wanted to be the one 

who offered resilience,

Instead, I ended up comforting your distress 

in the worst day of my life.

You wanted 

to communicate openly,

Instead, I articulated every word 

of the end that you were deciding.

You wanted to be 

the strength and the force,

Instead, I held you when your inner child 

overflowed into his pain.

You tried to read my eyes

while I was feeling your broken, 

silent soul.

You begged me 

to fight for you

and I love you

I love you so much

that -with this love and tenderness 

that I used to open a door for you-

I let you now leave for good

while I bless your way out.

First, because I love you.

Second, because you weren’t in the end 

who you said you would be.

Deal?

As the number of full moons that I’ll have the pleasure to see while holding your hand is limited;

as the number of fights that we have ahead might just be a bit more than the number of full moons;

as the times my index will “poup” the tip of your nose -and the fun, entertaining times in between- are falling into the countdown of an imminent end like a cracked hourglass…

I propose you to enjoy this ride with the safe,

temporary and total adrenaline that a roller coaster offers:

Imagine, just for a moment,

that I am your person

and not only a bridge;

Let me imagine that I’ll have the pleasure 

to keep exploring how it feels

when Love and Life meet.

Closure

I fall into the loop of the same triggers.

And I see only a void waiting to suck me in.

It’s hard, in the middle of the onirical mist, to get a sense of what is simply a very vivid mental hell and what is a real foot that moves innocently, but drastically, into nothing, as a limb does when the body is entering the state of torpor.

There's no possible masking in any case: The nervous system will get immediately triggered by what modeled it in the first place, and it will do it the same way for a nightmare, the imagination of a possible catastrophic scenario, a painful wait for uncertain bad news, or the maddening moment in which you stopped everything inside and around, and broke every possible healing or closure, when you decided to leave this Realm, 18 years ago, through the back door.

Atomically speaking

Each of our atoms, organized together to allow literally everything in the universe to exist (and allow us to breathe and pulse), is a protonic/neutronic nucleus that manages such a powerful electromagnetic force that electrons faithfully orbit around it, without ever separating.

If, at any point, this fundamental nature changed and the force of atoms stopped pulling (and pushing) its content in the perfect balance it does, we (we, The Universe) would fade away, passing through each other into an unimaginable nothing. 

What makes this immensely powerful force so fascinating (besides the fact that we are at the fragile mercy of its nature) is that at an atomic level, there is no touching: Every time we (The Universe and its content) crash into something else, the reality is that the condensation of atoms from each part squeeze together without overlapping (nor touching) to keep their natural state as intact as possible, and reject the other one for the sake of each's own nature.

So, at an atomic level, our sense of touch is nothing but our electromagnetic field rejecting the forces of others.

And yet, at an atomic, molecular, cellular, sensory level, is the rejection of your electromagnetic field the one I yearn for. 

On the tip of my fingers;

at the bottom of my heart;

and somewhere between my eyes and my ears,

where nothing and everything blend to build up my world.

At an atomic level, my neurons reject each other by connecting new paths to understand the beauty of this new, meaning·full experience. 

What happens inside these paths though (where even my dreams seem to realistically recall your no-touch, from your lips to my nose) is a complete mystery.

There, I no longer know if the laws of physics 

play any game 

or if this new way of being happy 

melds cosmic and sacred energies together 

into a whole

and bloom from them.

(Does it matter? 

Definitely not)

While this finite timeframe allows us not to touch bodymindheart, I'll surrender to this infinite sweet, unforgettably en·joy·able rejection.

...And a new door in my heart will have your name on it.

The letter I never sent

Dear you (or dearest, or beloved you):

It is time for this letter to reach your hands, your eyes, or any sense that allows you to absorb as much as I try to convey in this letter.

Much has happened since I last heard from you. Whether it was two months ago or twenty years ago in Earth time, the different paths that are travelled in each act, step and error, can turn just one day into an entire eternity.

I write this letter to you with a unique and universal intention.

What I never said (and/or what I never let you say) became dozens (sometimes hundreds) of paths called "what if...?". Not only because of the possible (probably more conciliatory) way out that these paths would have offered; but also because in many of them you would still be here, in my life, perhaps by my side... or perhaps I would still be on your radar.

However, as I write this letter I also think about whether those "what ifs" would have also meant that who I am now, would not exist in the form that I have (you know, a different crystal in the kaleidoscope and a small turn of a couple of degrees fundamentally changes the large scale). And maybe it is thanks to you - and/or maybe it is thanks to your absence - that I am now who I am... maybe removing you (without saying or letting you say) was key so that in this present, my kaleidoscope with its shapes and colours as they are today, finds me at a point I never dreamed of being.

What would happen if, in this set of crystals, I met you again? What would happen if, in this set of crystals, I met you for the first time? Would I have understood from the beginning that you had to leave my life as soon as possible? Would you have understood it? Would you have perhaps made that decision much earlier than me?

Does it matter?

Probably not.

And yet here I am, tracing paths of what could -or could not- have been if our paths had not separated the way they did.

Every wound, every difference, every toxicity, every comment and even every blow, led me by reason or force to question my ways, my decisions and my reactions. More or less awake, I learned that the only way to survive is to question even the ground I walk on. And that was the road that brings me here and now, to this extremely complex and fractal specific moment, to write this letter to you.

Above all,

Thank you.

I would not have done it without you.

Dear you (or dearest, or beloved you), we may never meet face to face again. I may no longer exist on your radar and that's okay, I'm glad you've moved forward in the direction Life had for you (I'm even happier if this direction has brought you joy). You are still in mine, undoubtedly because something unresolved kept beating between my ears and my heart. That is why I've written this letter.

Perhaps,

as a kind of ritual or spell,

writing it will allow me to untie a thousand knots at once to continue on my journey.

I will then carry, without this knot of you, still something of you in me:

Your memory,

Your influence,

and perhaps even,

your pain (and mine).

All of the above, I guarantee you, 

transmuted into different forms of love.

Receive from me the most cordial greeting in the way you prefer.

And my deepest gratitude for having been part of my life.

S.

La carta que nunca envié.

Estimado o estimada (o queridísimo o queridísima, o amado o amada):

Es ya tiempo de que esta carta llegue a tus manos, o a tus ojos, o a cualquier sentido que te permita absorber tanto como intento transmitir en esta misiva. 

Mucho ha pasado desde la última vez que supe de ti. Tanto si fue hace 2 meses como hace 20 años en tiempo de la tierra, los distintos caminos que se recorren en cada acto, paso y error, son capaces de convertir sólo un día en una eternidad. 

Te escribo esta misiva con una intención única y universal. 

Lo que nunca dije (y/o lo que nunca te dejé decir) se convirtió en decenas (a veces cientos) de caminos llamados "y si...?". No sólo por la posible salida (probablemente más conciliatoria) que estos caminos hubiesen ofrecido, sino también porque en muchos de ellos tú seguirías aquí, en mi vida, tal vez a mi lado... o tal vez yo en tu radar.

Sin embargo, mientras escribo esta carta también pienso si esos "y si...?" hubiesen significado también que quien soy ahora, no exista en la forma que tengo (ya sabes, un cristal distinto en el caleidoscopio y un pequeño giro en un par de grados modifican la gran escala de manera fundamental). Y tal vez es gracias a ti -y/o tal vez sea gracias a tu ausencia- que soy ahora quien soy... tal vez removerte (sin decir ni dejar que dijeras) fue clave para que este presente, mi caleidoscopio con sus formas y colores como son hoy, me encuentre en un punto que jamás soñé estar.

¿Qué pasaría si en este set de cristales me re•encontrase contigo? ¿Qué pasaría si en este set de cristales me encontrase contigo por primera vez? ¿Hubiese comprendido desde el inicio que tenías que salir de mi vida cuanto antes? ¿Lo hubieses comprendido tú? ¿Hubieses tomado tal vez tú esa decisión mucho antes que yo?

¿Importa?

Probablemente no.

Y sin embargo aquí estoy, trazando caminos de lo que pudo -o no pudo- ser si nuestros caminos no se hubiesen separado de la forma en que lo hicieron.

Cada herida, cada diferencia, cada toxicidad, cada comentario e incluso cada golpe, me llevaron por la razón o la fuerza a cuestionar mis formas, mis decisiones y reacciones. Más o menos despierta, aprendí que la única forma de sobrevivir es cuestionando hasta el suelo que piso. Y fue esa la vía para que este complejísimo y fractálico momento, me encuentre aquí y ahora, escribiéndote esta carta.

Por encima de todo, 

Gracias. 

No lo hubiese hecho sin ti. 

Estimado o estimada (o queridísimo o queridísima, o amado o amada), posiblemente nunca nos volvamos a encontrar de frente. Posiblemente yo ya no exista en tu radar y está bien, me alegra que hayas avanzado en la dirección que la vida tuviera para ti (me alegra aún más si esta dirección te ha traído alegría). Tú sigues en el mío, sin duda porque algo sin resolver siguió latiendo entre los oídos y el corazón. Por eso esta carta.

Tal vez, 

a modo de rito o sortilegio, 

escribirla me permita soltar mil nudos a la vez para seguir mi camino.

Llevaré entonces, ya sin este nudo de ti, todavía algo de ti en mí: 

Tu recuerdo,

Tu influencia,

y quizás incluso

tu dolor (y el mío).

Todo lo anterior, te lo garantizo, 

transmutado en distintas formas de amor.

Recibe de mí el más cordial saludo de la forma en que lo prefieras.

Y mi más profundo agradecimiento por haber formado parte de mi vida.

S.

Unexpected diagnosis

I joked to my psychologist about the diagnosis she would put on my chart. "Schizophrenia? Bipolar disorder? Multiple personality?" I knew clearly that my diagnosis was nowhere near that; I had survived harrowing situations and faced life with enviable strength. She smiled. My fortitude amazed her, I knew it, and I knew that the referral to her was simply a mistake.

"Adjustment disorder," she finally said.

So then I killed her.

Un amoroso adiós

Viajes.

Los viajes empiezan, y los viajes terminan.

Muchos de ellos nunca empezarán

pero todos ellos terminarán

(el viaje de este escrito en concreto,

el viaje que iniciamos con quienes hemos elegido amar,

y absoluta y definitivamente, el viaje que me trae aquí, a escribir estas líneas, mientras respiro y lato al otro lado de la pantalla).

Muchos viajes los terminé con tanto dolor que decidí provocarlo también.

Muchos otros fueron tan insoportables, que alivié el dolor con el veneno justo para mantenerme viva e insensible.

Y más veces de las que puedo admitir, incluso me dejaron con un vacío temporal que palpitaba insípido dentro de mi pecho, mientras mi cuerpo hacía todos los esfuerzos posibles por mantenerme viva y reconstruir mi corazón.

Corazones,

amores,

pérdidas,

lágrimas sobre libros y palabras,

y a veces sobre números

(fechas y álgebra).

Lo que nunca esperé hace eones fue encontrarme con los amores que ahora estoy perdiendo mientras este corazón nuevo, resiliente, remodelado y cien veces revivido enfrenta el dolor 

sin escapar de él,

sin herir de vuelta,

y sin necesitar nada más que agua para seguir fluyendo y flotando, entre las lágrimas de alegría, amor, tristeza, melancolía y esperanza que trae el final de este viaje.

¿Por qué ahora? ¿Por qué de esta manera? ¿Por qué en este momento?

(...¿Por qué no?)

Quizás porque esta vez, cuando elegí amarte (y aprender de ti, crecer contigo y enfrentar mis demonios y perturbaciones a través de ti), lo hice sabiendo que el precio a pagar sería este dolor al final del viaje

(pero de todas las personas, tú lo valiste).

Me entrego enteramente, completamente, al amor y al dolor que siento ahora.

La lección esta vez será sentir el dulce dolor y la amarga felicidad que da la certeza de un final (como ningún otro fenómeno en el mundo).

Sin saber cuánto duraría, comencé este viaje de amarte como ahora sé que puedo.

Y el final llegó y nos tomó de la mano diciéndonos la lección más grande:

El poder sanador de un amoroso adiós.

Te amo.

Siempre te recordaré.

Gracias, infinitamente, por este viaje.

S.

A loving goodbye.

Journeys.

Journeys begin, and journeys end.

Many of them will never begin, 

but all of them will end

(the journey of this specific writing,

the journey we start with the ones we've chosen to love,

and absolutely and definitely, the journey that brings me here, to write these lines, while I breathe and beat on the other side of the screen).

Many journeys I ended with so much pain that I decided to cause it too. 

Many others were so unbearable, that I soothed the pain with just enough venom to keep me alive and unfeeling.

And more times than I can admit, they even left me with a temporal void that throbbed insipidly inside my chest, while my body made all possible efforts to keep me alive and rebuild my heart.

Hearts, 

loves, 

losses, 

tears over books and words, 

and sometimes over numbers 

(dates and algebra).

What I never expected aeons ago was to meet the loves I'm losing now while this new, resilient, reshaped and a hundred times revived heart faces the pain 

without escaping it, 

without hurting back, 

And without needing anything but water to keep it flowing and floating, among the tears of joy, love, sadness, melancholy and hope that the end of this journey brings.

Why now? Why this way? Why this moment?

(...Why not?) 

Perhaps because this time, when I chose to love you (and learn from you, grow with you, and face my demons and triggers through you), I did it knowing that the price to pay would be this pain by the end of the journey

(but of all people, you were worth it).

I give myself entirely, completely, to the love and pain I feel now.
The lesson this time will be feeling the sweet pain and the sour happiness that the certainty of an end (like no other phenomenon in the world) gives.

Without knowing how long it would last, I began this journey of loving you how I now know I can. 

And the end arrived and held our hands telling us the biggest lesson: 

The healing power of a loving goodbye.

I love you. 

I'll always remember you.

Thank you, infinitely, for this journey.

S.

Haiku of a love story.

I meet you at night,

your heart takes over the place,

you start existing.

I open a door,

softly, gently, you come in:

Slowly, I'm falling.

Shy at first touch,

you taste the coffee of my lips,

I taste your rum.

Back to the moonlight,

I now dream, no sense of sleep:

Sweet, sweat, hard, you dreams.

On the rails we kiss,

I hug you over two wheels,

you kiss me naked.

I fear my wounds; 

you heal every doubt away:

my heart takes over.

Love at first sense.

There is much talk about the cliché of love at first sight.

It is not surprising that our eyes, in charge of processing in milliseconds what is presented to them, are the ones that issue the first judgment on the potential security, compatibility, complicity, and well-being that another person can offer us. It is not a coincidence either: this split-second judgment is the result of hundreds of thousands of years of evolution, of trial and error by ancestors who survived to leave imprinted in our brains -and forged in fire- what "should be". However, this sense suffers, possibly more than any other, from flaws: Without going any further, the Thatcher illusion shows us that the world of visual perception can be completely fooled, and it snatches away in a simple turn of 180° what we took for granted.

Not only that: The guarantee of love at first sight is not something that everyone who possesses it can enjoy. Here I am stopping at a fairly large subgroup, although often unaware of their disability: those who suffer from prosopagnosia or face blindness. How can we trust a sense that is already fragile, if every day when we look in the mirror it shows us a completely new figure? How can we be able to discover others, to take solace in a familiar look, if our own does not offer us the warmth of recognizing ourselves?

Having established then the little reliability offered by the so-called "love at first sight", I would like us to divert our gaze (what an irony, isn't it?) to other senses; senses that with a powerful (and oxymoronic) subtlety are capable of enveloping us in emotions to which the body, in its profound totality, reacts.

Imagine, for example, dancing with closed eyes, one by one, to a soft melody.

Imagine that through a warm rhythm, you discover how your blood begins to pulse in unison with another pulse and another body and that, to the gentle beat of the rhythmic sound, your heart throbs inside you and within another chest. The music then becomes white noise and the beats in unison are the only thing that marks the rhythm in the silence of that incipient intimacy.

The breathing then begins its path. Dainty at first, through a chest that expands and rests like waves in a deserted bay, the touch makes its way into a path that first partially sensitizes and then, as if it was a rising night storm, reshapes through each warm, cold, sweaty, soft and hard contact. The sensitivity is such that a simple cheek-to-cheek encounter shakes, wave by wave, the deepest part of the lower back; and fragile fingers around the neck are capable of evoking a deep, exquisite and painful current of desire. The breathing, amid the storm, remains as a solitary beacon to keep us awake and conscious while every pore is intoxicated and drowned in the stimulus of feeling.

Each aroma has its own moment of prominence: the sweet presence of a perfume that like a first breeze announces the imminent arrival of the storm; the velvety gust of the aroma on the skin; the almost accidental stimulus of warm hair, and the sensation of lost swaying as we delve into the subtlety of a breath running through the ear, like a blessed promise to the eternal return to the skin that shudders and subsides again.

On rare occasions, the sensitive accumulation converges in the miracle of a kiss. Taste then becomes the pool where the flow of emotions and other senses strand, and all at the same time become one: A fresh taste of mint that evokes the aroma of a field in summer; a hint of crystalline white wine, like glasses when toasting; a subtle taste of coffee that, as a central note, makes the skin crawl from the lips to the heart; and a dreamy heterochromia that opens, discovers, feels and surrenders to the gift of intimacy.

In the face of the intense sensorial immensity offered by the storm of everything, and culminated by two glances that discover each other for the first time after having seen each other a thousand times before... isn't it not only possible but imminent for one to feel love, even if it is for a moment? What form or remedy can Love have when the last sense that awakens it is sight? Isn't time to re•claim the phrase "love at first sight," since in reality sight only offers a fleeting moment that pales in comparison to the presence of a seductive sensory consistency?

Perhaps Love, like all human feelings, prefers to obey constant and holistic patterns. 

Perhaps that is why I am so defiantly and categorically opposed to the idea that the most celebrated pillar is also the most fragile of all...

And that is definitely why I prefer to call it "Love at first sense."

Amor al primer sentido.

Mucho se habla del cliché del amor a primera vista. 

No es de extrañar que nuestra vista, encargada de procesar en milésimas de segundo lo que se presenta a nuestros ojos, sea la que emita el primer juicio sobre la potencial seguridad, compatibilidad, complicidad y bienestar que un otro nos pueda ofrecer. Tampoco es casualidad: este juicio de fracción de segundo es resultado de cientos de miles de años de evolución, de ensayo y error de antepasados que sobrevivieron para dejar impreso en nuestros cerebros y a fuego lo que "debe ser". Sin embargo, este sentido adolece, posiblemente más que ningún otro, de fallas: Sin ir más lejos, la ilusión Thatcher nos demuestra que el mundo de la percepción visual puede ser engañada completamente, y nos arrebata en un simple giro de 180° lo que dábamos por garantizado.

No solo eso: La garantía del amor a primera vista tampoco es algo que todo aquel que la posea pueda disfrutar. Aquí me detengo a un subgrupo bastante amplio, aunque muchas veces ignorante de su incapacidad: Quienes sufren de prosopagnosia o ceguera de rostros. ¿Cómo confiar en un sentido de por sí frágil, si diariamente frente al espejo nos muestra una figura completamente nueva? ¿Cómo ser capaces de descubrir a otros, solazarse en una mirada familiar, si la propia no nos ofrece la calidez del re·conocernos?

Establecida entonces la poca confiabilidad que ofrece el llamado "amor a primera vista", me gustaría que desviáramos la mirada (qué ironía, ¿no?) a otros sentidos; sentidos que con una poderosa (y oximorónica) sutileza son capaces de envolvernos en emociones a las que el cuerpo, en su profunda totalidad, reacciona. 

Imagina por ejemplo bailar a ojos cerrados, uno a uno, una suave melodía. 

Imagina que a través de un ritmo cálido descubres cómo tu sangre comienza a pulsar al unísono con otro pulso y otro cuerpo y que, al suave compás del cadencioso sonido, tu corazón palpita dentro de ti y también dentro de otro pecho. La música se convierte entonces en ruido blanco y son los latidos al unísono lo único que marca el ritmo en el silencio de esa incipiente intimidad.

La respiración entonces inicia su camino. Delicada primero, a través de un pecho que se ensancha y descansa como olas en una bahía desierta, el tacto se abre paso en un sendero que primero sensibiliza parcialmente y que luego, cual creciente tormenta nocturna, toma nuevas formas en cada contacto cálido, frío, sudoroso, blando y duro. La sensibilidad es tal que un simple encuentro de mejilla contra mejilla estremece, ola a ola, lo más profundo de la espalda baja; y unos dedos frágiles alrededor de la nuca son capaces de evocar una profunda, exquisita y dolorosa corriente de deseo. La respiración, en medio de la tormenta, permanece como un solitario faro para seguir despiertos y conscientes mientras cada poro se embriaga y ahoga en el estímulo del sentir.

Cada aroma tiene su propio momento de protagonismo: la dulce presencia de un perfume que como una primera brisa anuncia la llegada inminente de la tormenta; la ráfaga aterciopelada del aroma de la piel; el estímulo casi accidental de un cabello tibio, y la sensación de vaivén perdido al ahondar en la sutileza de un aliento recorriendo el oído, como una promesa bendita al eterno retorno a la piel que se vuelve a estremecer.

En contadas ocasiones, el cúmulo sensorial converge en el milagro de un beso. El gusto ahí se vuelve el remanso en el que vara la corriente de emociones y otros sentidos, y todos, a la vez, se vuelven uno: Un fresco sabor a menta que evoca el aroma un campo en verano; un dejo de vino blanco, cristalino como copas al brindar; un sutil sabor a café que, como nota central, eriza la piel desde los labios al corazón; y una soñadora heterocromía que se abre, descubre, siente, y se rinde al regalo de la intimidad. 

¿Puede no amarse, así sea por un momento, ante la intensa inmensidad sensorial ofrecida por la tormenta del todo, y culminada por dos miradas que por primera vez se descubren tras haberse contemplado mil veces antes? ¿Qué forma o remedio puede tener el amor cuando el último sentido que lo despierta es la vista? ¿No será ya momento de reivindicar la frase "amor a primera vista", cuando en realidad la vista sólo ofrece un efímero momento que palidece ante la presencia de una consistencia sensorial seductora y segura?

Puede que el Amor, como todo sentimiento humano, prefiera obedecer a patrones constantes y holísticos. Tal vez por eso me opongo tan desafiante y tajantemente a que el pilar más celebrado sea también el más frágil de todos... 

Y definitivamente es por eso que prefiero llamarlo "Amor al primer sentido".

Bailarina

Eres la Luna

que llena ilumina,

eres la sombra

que en verano cobija.

Eres la danza

de las hojas de invierno,

eres cascada, 

y su río fraterno.

Eres las flores

y cada color

eres cielo en la noche

y su blanco fulgor.

Eres los rayos 

de la ira del cielo,

eres la brisa

de suave terciopelo.

La sensualidad es

tu fragancia natural,

y en tu mirada serena

brilla rebeldía astral.

Todo eso eres

poderosa princesa,

eres tú fuerza 

de la naturaleza.