Between Fake Happiness and Real Pain

Love doesn't master the art of knocking on the heart's door timidly, or standing at its threshold, waiting for permission. It recklessly drives its blind vehicle wherever it pleases, without a driver's license, identification papers, or even a birth certificate. Touching the land of the stagnant soul with its magic wand to awaken its wonder, unconcerned by a history of barrenness or a present of ruin. It suddenly snatches you before you can catch your breath, igniting festivals of musical joy in your arteries without an appointment, erasing, in a single stroke, all the pain that preceded the calendar, whose history began with the first hours of its occupation of you, setting fire to the map of emotions that demarcates the dividing lines between your doubt and certainty, your reality and your dreams. Have you ever fallen in love? The honest ones - and they are few - will say: "No," and the delusional ones will engage in long stories about their gray relationships that they call love; which failed every time because they were not so, while some of the miserable ones will admit that they are still waiting for that miracle, and others confirm that their long, fruitless wait has robbed them of the pleasure of faith and hope in the reality of its existence.