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Sobre burbujas de jabón


Hubo un tiempo en que pensé mucho en burbujas de jabón. En verdad, ellas surgían en mi pensamiento, livianas, de una transparencia azulada, suaves. Allá permanecían, flotando, de manera que solo podría pasar en sueños. Era un tiempo de suavidad, de caminar a un palmo del suelo y volar para lejos. Toda burbuja de jabón tiene una ventana. Y yo entraba por la ventana, sentía la delicadeza. Por dentro, contemplaba la belleza de las paredes finas. Yo veía el brillo de cada arcoíris. Toda burbuja de jabón tiene un arcoíris. Sabía que era imaginaria y sabía que mismo una burbuja imaginaria no podría durar para siempre. Flotaba con la burbuja y contemplaba la ventana abierta. Hasta que las paredes estuvieran más y más delgadas y el mínimo plop me avisara del fin de la burbuja. Puf, era una vez una burbuja. 

 

Yo continuaba pensando en la burbuja de jabón, yo la traía para el papel, yo la revivía. Y cuantas veces soñé y cuantas veces me dejé llevar. La verdad es que siempre me fascinaron las burbujas de jabón. No como el científico del cuento que estudiaba su estructura. Nunca quise saber de la estructura de la burbuja. Soy del tipo de persona que se pierde en la rigidez de las estructuras. Es la belleza de la burbuja que me atrae. Es su  liviandad que me conduce, su capacidad de vuelo que me lleva. Es su carácter efímero que me atormenta. 

 

 

Bella y sutil es la burbuja de jabón y yo cargo todo el peso del mundo. Mis pies se hunden en cada pisada, cada vez mas hondo, cada vez mas pesado el paso. Necesito de las burbujas de jabón y aún las busco. El paso es lento, la pisada es profunda, pero yo sueño con burbujas de jabón y hay siempre una ventana en una burbuja de jabón.



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