El niño que no creía en la magia.

Esa tarde de abril volví a ver al niño (con cuerpo de adulto) que no creía en la magia.
Como reacción involuntaria, mi corazón recordó esos viejos días en que se aceleraba desmedidamente al verlo haciendo la única cosa que lo mantenía realmente vivo: música.

Él estaba en el escenario, tocando la trompeta con una pasión inefable. Tomaba las partes más puras de su alma y las liberara para que encontraran un nuevo hogar en cada espectador. Tal vez por eso sentía que su vida era tan vacía.

Nunca me dijo el por qué de sus cicatrices ni la razón de sus nostálgicas canciones; pero lo sustancial de este relato es que después de tanto tiempo, lo comprendo.

Antonio, fúlgida estrella en la oscuridad. Ojos color café, sonrisa imperfecta. Corazón cálido, mirada gélida. Joven justo, procuraba el bien de todos. Sustituía el silencio con melodías. Detestaba los deseos y trabajaba por realidades. Con pequeños actos mejoraba el mundo. Un hombre de fe, sin confianza en si mismo. No tiene sueño, pero siembra esperanzas en otros.
Su vida no fue extraordinaria, pero su trascendencia radica en la prueba viva del concepto "magia." 

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