He walked with his head down, denying the black star above his head; complaining his loneliness and nostalgia for something that was not, but only in his imagination; his dreams, his deepest desires. He lived full of fears, of that constant superstition of those who only have to believe in what is not theirs: fate, luck, sentences paid in years of misfortune, than salt, than the mirror here; beliefs born from the fear of those who only have to believe that life is a sentence, not an opportunity.
Meanwhile, she was going in the opposite direction, crossing the corner of two busy downtown streets, concerned only with serving and pampering a cute and loving puppy cat, black as jet. She wanted it to be his only company after so much heartbreak, so much misfortune, as if love were only condemnation, mourning; that her superstition was in giving herself to the other, in being... simply being.
Without realizing it, both complexes of doubts and walking fears collide with each other. The kitten falls, almost on its feet; His sense worked for him, but of course, his little legs still couldn't handle such a fall.
Both, perplexed, recently awakened from the trance that kept them out of this world, only manage to pick up the pussycat. Suddenly, between the streets, the complexes and the cat that is recovering from its free fall, two souls meet.
Goodbye complexes, mediocre existences; just the eyes, the souls talking, screaming, and celebrating a meeting that could, yes, could be forever. But not; time, the conformism of self-condemnation, of exile to non-being press more than anything.
They both apologize, get up, and continue their way, neither indifferent to the other, thinking of that moment of dreams, more significant, more lasting than a lifetime of "bad luck" in misfortunes, sorrows, and anguish.
She caressed her kitten, comforted him, and consoled him from a distance, because of his sad eyes. Because maybe she's not the only one, that she's not alone, that life can give more opportunities to be yes, to be, once and for all. On the other hand, he was subdued, transported to another world. He was no longer alone, but he was, or rather, his illusions awake again, with those green eyes that captivated him, that face, that straight hair like golden threads, that kitten... Black?!
Too late. The poor man, in the middle of the street, abstracted from time and space, and with a car that, despite the honk, whips him like the weight of all the sentences he asked for, that he sought. Noises. People who crowd together, the mass that responds to the suffering of others with morbidity and voyeurism.
The traffic is interrupted, and the rumors reach the self-absorbed girl, who reacts with a gloomy touch, a feeling that overwhelms her. She makes her way, between elbows. What she feared: "Poor thing," she thought, while he lay there, bloodied. When the paramedics arrive, the desperate girl asks which hospital they are taking him to: "To the El Salvador hospital, miss."
The poor man spent the entire afternoon between life and death, but by nightfall, he had stabilized. The next day the girl visits him, somewhat fearful, as always, but with a feeling of guilt, between superstition, wanting to see him, knowing that not seeing him again despite being alive or dead, didn't matter.
He, astonished by such a visit, after the girl's whining, her fear, the apologies, and the black cat manages to say: “Yes, it could be superstition, but bad luck, no, never ‘bad luck’.”
The woman is silent. Her grief is replaced by unusual anxiety, while he continues: “It wasn't bad luck. I can say it properly; I have met you, and you have come here to see me; If it weren't for the black cat, for that superstition, would I have seen you again?”
The girl was silent. The next day she visited him again, and then the next, sacredly until the expected day of discharge. That day they both came out with a new grimace on their faces, a smile from the soul, a mask of renewed happiness, which was contagious even to a somewhat larger and playful black cat that refused to be in the girl's arms.
7 years have already passed; many passages and joint experiences in the lives of both, who have been married for something like 7 years and have a large litter of 7 unruly children to care for, love, and pamper. Plus, an older and less playful black cat, which is a faithful reflection of luck that perhaps is not as we know it, because behind a conviction there can be a release, behind our lives there is a story to be written. We are all protagonists, we are all invited, we just have to believe that life is not written, there are no eternal sentences, only infinite opportunities.
It's just a matter of seeing them... they may be just around the corner.
Merci pour la lecture!
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