Clive Staples Lewis (1898-1963) Escritor británico.
He looked up in search of police helicopters and found relief in a blue sky, even though his heart rate must have been well over 170 bpm. One could notice he was hiding from his heavy breathing that indicated some sort of chase, and the suspicious lack of sweat on his forehead or anywhere else. It was as if the sweat was hiding along with the young man, all in an effort to survive.
He replayed the scenes from his miraculous escape and all the different dangers he had avoided, giving himself courage to continue this challenge and putting an odd antipathic smile on his clear face.
A long time passed. Time seemed to have stopped. The grocery store manager was still argueing with the clerk over some missplaced guava extract cans, the little boy holding his mother's hand was still poking his nose while the unattending mother read Cosmopolitan.
Nothing changed, but it didn't stay the same way either.
They all continued their activities in slow motion, but their faces had changed, they where dim, obscured by heavy rainclounds, and in this light their eyes looked awkward.
The fleeing young man, hidden behind a mountain of baking powder tin cans, observed with terror the rest of the store. His gaze flew from the small holes between the cans passing the shelves with the cereals and granola bars, opening up into the scene from the mother with child, bouncing on different bright coloured practically floored items until arriving at the manager and clerk , who stood in front of the door.
One might believe that in this instand all the young man could think about is if they, his chasers, would come in the store and find him. And one would have been right, if it hadn't been for the strange change of mood he was experiencing.
A hot rush travelled his body, his vision was darkened, he slowed down, his heart slowed down and it did into an unfamiliar beat, one that follows a melody rather than the need for fresh oxygen around the body. He couldn't see anything but the shelves and the faces of those four people in that store. He felt his feet covered in hot burning sand, he felt a dark warm night in the swamps, he smelled the foulness of carcasses left to rot in the sun. And he looked. He watched the heads of those people turn to him, he saw their eyes, he saw their skin, he felt their warm breaths on his naked body. He heard the little boy speak to him from beyond with a voice of ages past and whirling of insects, he felt the inmediate authority of this boy, the total horror of his deep knowledge of everyone. He heard the roar of bees coming out of the mouth of the little boy, he could only observe as the eyes of the boy emmited a cold and sterile gaze upon him.
In this dark cloud of fear the remaining faces spoke also. They told him things without sense while, at the same time, the noise of their different conversations mixed and deafened him from anything else, even smell, it deprived him of any kind of thought, the inmense sound filled him as sand from old regions of the earth would have filled his every cavity, leaving no space for him, expelling him from his body, pounding on his flesh from every side. He sang from the bottom of that sea of sand:
"Tout change entre nous, un jour Je t'aime, le suivant J'ai trouv'e quelqun neuf, plus jeune,plus belle.
Le lendemain tu as an enfant, et ton mari, tu ne l'aimes comme hier, tu as un nouveau entretien, une personne que tu croies t'aimera toujours.
Mais sa change aussie.
Ton fils trouvera une femme et partira avec elle, sans dire: "aurrevoir mamon, merci pour tout"
Et le ciecle recommencera autre fois. "
Para mi amigo Marius