I must confess that I have gone mad. I have seen a glow in the middle of the crowd that has made me lose my sanity beautifully. My mother used to say that I constantly fall in love with faces that get lost among the people. She has been right, my vehement heart is, without doubt, a fragmented organ, whose pieces are snatched from me by unknown passers-by. I want to talk to all of you about a love, those that come suddenly when you close your eyes, and when you open them, they disappear.
I have returned again to my twilight adventures of walking alone through the park, visiting the museum and drinking coffee with old intellectual friends. I have felt the most genuine love, and not like my love for rain or rice. I have fallen in love with an insurgent, who danced towards bewilderment.
We were dreamers and beautiful and we shared our love as two schoolboys share their almonds. To love Agata was to be in the country and discover that the oranges were ripe. It was a glass of cold lemonade in summer. Running barefoot through the earth that heats the sun.
I recognized Agata in the eyes of the beggars, in the perfume of fresh bread and in the humblest hands. I sang the old songs of my grandparents' time just because she liked them.
I met Agata in February, but by July he had left. He had a delightful sense of humor and an incredible love at the foot of lemon. Oh, she loved reading Whitman just like me! She was daring, in excess, I would say. I loved her when I met her and even after leaving, I still love her. You never find eternal love every day in the world. My existence was like a whisper, she came and turned me into a scream. In the majority of the occasions it does not mediate its words, it was intelligent, but little cautious. Agata was sometimes a sunny day, and sometimes a thundering rain.
Yesterday I thought a lot about her. I loved his eyes, when he blinked and looked back at me. I loved his vividness, his imprudence and what was in his heart. I loved his laugh. And he loved his soul.
In March I accompanied Agata to a social demonstration. I stared blankly at his facial expression that shouted against the injustices of the world. She had such a humanly sensitive sense, she was beautiful in her own way. I can only say that Agata was my flower in the vast desert. Madness enveloped her at night, always dancing a gentle dance with the moon. Agata and I had our galaxy enclosed in four walls. At night, the nakedness of our bodies did not matter, it was our souls that entwined in the darkness and sang together.
I could cry of tenderness if he watched attentively the glow of his eyes in the sun.
We went on an April trip around the world. I remember the smell of the sea, of the pines, of the desert sand, but most of all I remember the smell of Agata, it was a mixture of cinnamon and lavender shampoo. Oh, how beautiful are the stars in the desert! But nothing compares to lying next to her, between the sand of the dunes and the night sky. That night I promised her something, in a whisper I told her that I would love her passionately in all her forms, in that moment and perpetually. We knew that we were eternal lovers, no matter what separated us, we were always going to end up finding each other.
Love is intensity. That's why I was able to shout at her from the other side of the Plaza San Francisco: I love you like the sun loves the moon! I'm totally crazy about her, as much as one can be crazy. By mid-May Agata disappeared without a trace. And later he returned, when the month was almost over. He did not say anything. I never knew where he was or why he did it. I loved to take your hand, so curious to find the fullness of life in someone's hand. Agata loved the poetry of the body, the one that connected us, like two souls that were made of the same thing.
And so my days were embellished those few months. I was accompanied by a beautiful girl who inspired everyone she knew, captivated and intrigued. In a world where they all lack emotionality and are the same, finding beings like my Agata is a blessing.
Sometimes we fought, I confess that our contests used to be absolutely ridiculous. She tried to accommodate my books, and I can not tolerate that. I live perfectly in my organized disaster. Agata could sometimes destroy everything he had managed to do in a day. You would never imagine what it is like to live with her.
One afternoon I went to visit the village asylum, I was an assistant and sometimes I helped to take care of the elderly. Many of them were no longer aware and did not know very well how to organize their ideas or they had trouble remembering. That day, after finishing the service, I returned home to sleep and in my bed, minutes before closing my eyes, I thought that if one day I forgot everything, I would only want to keep in my memory, just my childhood home, where I grew up. The names of my parents and the love I profess one day for a girl with a flower face. And so I fell asleep, praying to heavens that the memories that I truly treasure would never be erased from my mind.
In June we adopted a cat, at first we were going to call him Norberto, but we ended up calling him Dante. Agata found a strange superstitious idea about the past lives of cats. I think our cat has looked for his Beatriz in many lives. Agata thought that the world is like a book, and that it needs to be read.
We separated in July, Agata and I separated. Between four walls a belligerent discussion broke out between us. His incessant hatred for the things of the world cried out to me and I hated, for some reason, not being able to stop loving me. I can not even remember exactly the reasons for our discussion, but I do remember when he took his gray sweater and ran out of the apartment. And I pursued it, as the sun pursues the moon every day to touch it, when I was about to reach it, it was dawn. Agata ran without looking sideways and made a collision with a car. The moon was separated from the sun. And Agata was separated from me.
Life always takes us on such strange paths, surprises us, makes us happy and makes us sad, all this in just a moment.
What happened after that does not matter much. How curious, the things that happen when one goes in search of love. One falls in love, lives and breathes love and then is torn from you like a bad root. For two months I did not go to work, cut off communication with the world and immersed myself in the rubble of love. Now, I have awakened from my bewilderment. Sometimes I find her when I see the blurred faces among the crowd, crossing the street or drinking a coffee. It was his name, demanding strength and audacity, like a warrior in battle. Agata was my everything in my nothing.
There are so many memories that I built with her that writing about us, about what we live together, is as easy and simple as breathing. And then I realize that I will somehow immortalize my beloved. When you write about someone, you are giving them faculties that last and do not end, they do not wither like roses. They live while there is still sense and sensitivity in the world, while writing constitutes a sublime means of resisting oblivion.
Among many lives, she had to cross mine, from among many Agatas I ended up finding her. I think I have already found my own transcendental idea about life and about love. I discovered that love finds its own path even through death. They will take me like a madman, but curious that the greatest form of sublime sanity is usually madness. I have no idea what the souls are made of, but what I am convinced of is that some of them are destined to remain together, even in many lives until the end of the ages.
This beautiful letter was left by Agata on my birthday.
"My dear Sun, I love you, although sometimes I say no. Maybe one day I'll say that I do not love you, even if I always do it up to the stars inside. We are like the two eternal lovers of the river Ganges, who cross until sundown. I still maintain the slight presentiment, my love, that to seek and find us is our design. My autumn in winter, my rain in droughts. You are my Om, the only eternal syllable, my past, my present and my future.”
Now you understand it? These are the ways in which one finds the love of his life. But do not misunderstand my joy with my grief. I feel divided, I have fallen in love with a soul that stole mine from me. He has gone without scruples, rolling my heart like that car to his body. He was insurgent by nature and tormented sentimentalist by exquisiteness. Agata undressed me and exposed me to the world. And even though I wanted to hate her, I could not. My sadness does not overcome my love for her. I confess, with the sincerity of my soul, that sometimes I still see that radiance that made me lose sensibly beautifully.
Do not take me as incongruous, I am a poet and people like me live the world in this way. Maybe they will never find a love as humanly possible as mine to understand my existence.
Sharing love is a very strange experience, but wonderful. And how I loved her, I may not love again. When I was next to her, and I listened to her talk, I felt that the huge green trees that surrounded the park dance with the breeze more slowly. That around me, people, lights, colors, everything slowed down, dimmed. These are the effects that cover us when you are in love and you find yourself in the other's eyes.
Agata made me free. She released me from myself. I remember running like a child trying to catch her in the wind and also made of the rain a dance.
And so we went and we will always be through history. Two opposite poles that loved each other with the soul and with all the disposition of their being. After loving someone it is almost possible to get away from that person without difficulties, but I, I not only loved Agata, I loved her. I turned her part of me.
I say goodbye, with nostalgia, wishing from the depths of my heart that they find their eternal and sublime love, those that dazzle you and that appear around the corner.
This is my story, and I carry it as a banner of an era of my life in which I was happy and unhappy at the same time. Happy because I nurtured of the most beautiful love, and unhappy because fate forced me to let go. However, when I reflect and think about it, I realize that I would not change for anything the time I lived at the expense of my memorable love of a few months and everything that it made me dream and feel. They are my memories, forever mine, and at least I know that that can never be taken away from me.