There was once a man who lived outside the city’s walls. No one knew the reason of his exclusion. Did he commit a crime? Did he hate human contact? Or was he only paying for the sins of his ancestors? Perhaps there was just a bit of everything, because of the ugly and the beautiful, of the truths and the lies, of what is confessed and what is kept hidden, we build all of our eventful existence. The man lived outside the city walls, and this segregation, whether it was deliberate or imposed, ended giving him a small title of fame and glory. The man was indeed a popular mystery. His solitude became overwhelming. The man could not avoid the glide of the melancholic fog, which surrounds all the exiled and that passed through his solitary eyes.
He tried to enter the city a few times. He did, though not by an irrepressible desire, not even by the apathy of his situation, but rather, by a mere instinct of change. Yet he always chose the wrong door. Many times he came to believe that he had entered the city, and perhaps he did, but he couldn’t be absolutely certain about it; it was as if next to this real city there were exact images replicating it -inconsistent illusions that blurred his already confusing reality. They were like shadows in the eyes of the man that became increasingly dense. And when those images faded, he saw again the desert that surrounded the man.
The man believed in the predestination of life. Being out of the town for him was an accident, a temporary situation. One day, on the exact day, not before or after that, he will enter the city. Or in other words: he will enter anywhere, any place that could give reason and purpose to his long wait. He believed that there would be an end, a simple end that would give meaning to his entire life.
The man did not know that these types of cities, surrounded by huge walls, are not taken without a fight. He didn’t know that before the battle for the conquest there was a preliminary one, in which he had to be victorious. And in this first fight he had to battle against himself. See, nobody knows anything about itself before the action that leads one to its own limits. We don’t know the power of the sea until it moves.
The battle began, and as in the poems of Homer, the gods were also part of it. They fought for and against, and sometimes versus each other. The man, who struggled to live within the walls of the city, crossed swords and words with the gods. He wounded and was wounded. And the fight lasted many months, long days without truce or rest. Sometimes they battled alongside the walls, others so far away that no one could even see the city.
Until one day, the battlefield was free and clear. The man, who was bleeding, and the only god that had remained to his side looked at those gold, beautiful, opened doors. There was absolute silence in the city. Scared, the man started to walk. To his side was a god. They entered.
There was once a man who lived outside the city walls. And that city was himself. The City of Cristobal, if we want to give it a name.
Note: this is an improvement of a blog I wrote months ago.
He tried to enter the city a few times. He did, though not by an irrepressible desire, not even by the apathy of his situation, but rather, by a mere instinct of change. Yet he always chose the wrong door. Many times he came to believe that he had entered the city, and perhaps he did, but he couldn’t be absolutely certain about it; it was as if next to this real city there were exact images replicating it -inconsistent illusions that blurred his already confusing reality. They were like shadows in the eyes of the man that became increasingly dense. And when those images faded, he saw again the desert that surrounded the man.
The man believed in the predestination of life. Being out of the town for him was an accident, a temporary situation. One day, on the exact day, not before or after that, he will enter the city. Or in other words: he will enter anywhere, any place that could give reason and purpose to his long wait. He believed that there would be an end, a simple end that would give meaning to his entire life.
The man did not know that these types of cities, surrounded by huge walls, are not taken without a fight. He didn’t know that before the battle for the conquest there was a preliminary one, in which he had to be victorious. And in this first fight he had to battle against himself. See, nobody knows anything about itself before the action that leads one to its own limits. We don’t know the power of the sea until it moves.
The battle began, and as in the poems of Homer, the gods were also part of it. They fought for and against, and sometimes versus each other. The man, who struggled to live within the walls of the city, crossed swords and words with the gods. He wounded and was wounded. And the fight lasted many months, long days without truce or rest. Sometimes they battled alongside the walls, others so far away that no one could even see the city.
Until one day, the battlefield was free and clear. The man, who was bleeding, and the only god that had remained to his side looked at those gold, beautiful, opened doors. There was absolute silence in the city. Scared, the man started to walk. To his side was a god. They entered.
There was once a man who lived outside the city walls. And that city was himself. The City of Cristobal, if we want to give it a name.
Note: this is an improvement of a blog I wrote months ago.