El pantano
El pantano era la única alternativa para huir, estaba sola, en aquella selva desconocida y tenebrosa, en medio de la incertidumbre; pero con la seguridad de que quería seguir viva. No miraba hacia atrás porque le temía a cuanto rodeaba su vida; le daban miedo sus recuerdos, sin embargo, de pronto pensó en la vez es que, cuando apenas con diez años, se lanzó al mar sin saber nadar porque quería saber qué había más allá de la línea horizontal, que le juntaba la inmensidad del océano con la del cielo.
Recordó que su impulso fue agresivo, sin pensarlo se lanzó al agua desde el muelle y cuando quiso nadar, no pudo; y cuando volvió en sí, en el hospital le preguntaron que si tenía miedo, y dijo que sí, pero que aún quería saber qué había detrás del horizonte.
Ahora no tenía diez, estaba por cumplir treinta años y no andaba de paseo, sino huyendo; iba detrás de una idea, incierta, pero con la que podía soñar con tranquilidad, con la esperanza de hacer una nueva vida; había perdido todo, su familia, la empresa donde trabajaba, la economía informal no le funcionó, la vida se le había vuelto cuadritos y en su desgracia se unió a la desgracia de los otros inmigrantes y con ellos marchó hasta la selva.
Ahora estaba ahí, frente al verde, con miedo, y aunque la selva sí tenía de dónde agarrarse, no como el mar, para ella era peor porque todo era oscuro; los caminos, la gente, las posibilidades; el peligro acechaba en todas sus formas, el horizonte no era una línea recta, sino un atolladero de peligros.
***
Se llamaba Berta y nadie más supo de ella; si cruzó o no; si se devolvió y tomó otros rumbos. Nada se sabe porque no hay registro y porque quien estaba escribiendo su historia no la concluyó. Tan solo queda esto que les he contado y que a su vez me contaron a mí. ¿Acaso era Berta la misma persona que narraba su historia? No lo sé, pero ahora mismo que estoy frente a la selva e intento enfrentarme a su peligro; ahora que voy en busca de una nueva vida me parece que no se devolvió porque el punto crucial en la vida es salir del pantano, de aquello que te cohíbe y no te deja ser libre; hay que salir de todo tipo de pantano, aunque en el intento lo perdamos todo.
The swamp
The swamp was the only alternative to flee, she was alone, in that unknown and dark jungle, in the midst of uncertainty; but with the certainty that she wanted to stay alive. She did not look back because she was afraid of everything that surrounded her life; she was afraid of her memories, however, she suddenly thought of the time when, at the age of ten, she jumped into the sea without knowing how to swim because she wanted to know what was beyond the horizontal line that joined the immensity of the ocean with that of the sky.
He remembered that his impulse was aggressive, without thinking he jumped into the water from the pier and when he wanted to swim, he could not; and when he came to, in the hospital they asked him if he was afraid, and he said yes, but he still wanted to know what was behind the horizon.
Now he was not ten, he was about to turn thirty years old and he was not on a walk, but fleeing; he was after an idea, uncertain, but with which he could dream with tranquility, with the hope of making a new life; he had lost everything, his family, the company where he worked, the informal economy did not work, life had become squares and in his misfortune he joined the misfortune of the other immigrants and with them he marched to the jungle.
Now she was there, facing the green, in fear, and although the jungle did have something to hold on to, not like the sea, for her it was worse because everything was dark; the roads, the people, the possibilities; danger lurked in all its forms, the horizon was not a straight line, but a quagmire of dangers.
Her name was Berta and no one else knew about her; whether she crossed or not; whether she turned back and took other directions. Nothing is known because there is no record and because whoever was writing her story did not finish it. All that remains is what I have told you and what was told to me. Was Berta the same person who told her story? I don't know, but now that I am in front of the jungle and trying to face its danger; now that I am looking for a new life, it seems to me that she did not return because the crucial point in life is to get out of the swamp, out of that which inhibits you and does not let you be free; you have to get out of any kind of swamp, even if in the attempt you lose everything.
Aceptando la invitación de 
