饾摏饾摢饾摻饾摦 饾摻饾摳 饾摻饾摫饾摦 饾摪饾摢饾摱饾摦
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The hallway was endless, and there was something utterly familiar: a gray carpet that stretched into the distance, guided by a row of dim oil lamps on both sides. After walking on the velvety carpet, I arrived. There was the gigantic wooden door, perhaps ebony in color, adorned with baroque reliefs of ancestral shapes and figures. Gods and legends from bygone times adorned it, carved with the utmost care and skill. Behind the door, murmurs could be heard, like a thousand voices debating an important topic. He pushed open the gigantic door, and unlike what he expected, I made no noise. A huge room opened before him鈥攁 courtroom where a trial was already underway. The trial had begun, begun without him, so for a moment he didn't understand what he was doing there or if his presence was really important.
In the back, there were three chairs, and he was extremely surprised to see three versions of himself sitting on the three chairs. There he was, 12 years old, barefoot, with scraped knees and that innocent look that only children have. In the chair next to him was his closest self, the 2-year-old, with a hollow stare in front of a computer, a pile of textbooks stacked at his feet. Finally, just a few years older than his current self, a tired, sleepy self with droopy, sad eyes.
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You're late, as always - The boy told him, smiling at him.
The accused, who had been absent until now, sat down in front of them. A hard, somewhat uncomfortable chair.
-Is this my final judgment? Is this the end? Is it all over?
-This is where we judge, this is where you'll know everything you lost by being late,- the young man replied- There are no more appeals here, only judgment here.
Past images began to project onto the wall: his absence after friends called him, family dinners he missed because of work, lost love after being late to dozens of appointments, or simply never showing up because he was busy with other things he thought were more important.
You were late even to apologize to those who loved you,- the voice of his future self told him. -And worst of all, sometimes you didn't even show up.- An image of his son with tears in his eyes was projected on the wall.
-I thought I had time - he said with sorrow and sadness in his eyes.
-And now? Now do you think you have time? Now at your final trial? - his younger self told him.
-You were late even for me, - his younger self said as he handed him a baseball.
-Silence. This is a trial, evidence that isn't shouted out is remembered.- Silence in the courtroom.
-I didn't stop because I didn't want to, because I was afraid, afraid of not being perfect, afraid of disappointing others,- the defendant said in a hoarse voice. - I didn't want to appear weak in anyone's eyes, of needing too much, of not knowing how to start over.-
-And that excuses something,- his future self told him.
-No, but it explains it.- said his younger self.
Then for a moment, the older man looked at him with something that wasn't contempt, but rather necessary forgiveness.
You spent your whole life waiting for the right moment to act, he said, but life is a train on a tight schedule, and it always has its time. Sometimes we miss stations or miss the train itself.
The room fell silent, everyone's breathing could be heard on the wall. The scenes of late arrivals repeated themselves one after another: unwritten letters, unstarted projects. Every tiny detail reminded him of the times he missed the train.
Please, I don't want to keep seeing these images. Please, let's finish the trial. Give my verdict.
This isn't a trial to condemn you, his younger self told him.
I can change my past. I can make those decisions again, he said to his three selves.
No, you can't, his younger self replied, but you have the possibility of not making those mistakes again in future decisions, in those that haven't been made.
Then I'm not...
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The chairs disappeared, and so did his other selves, with smiles on their lips. While his childhood self told him: There are trials that haven't even begun.
When he opened his eyes, he was in his bed, sweaty, but at the same time happy with the revelation. He went to his desk, took a piece of paper, a pen, and began to write a letter: Tomorrow he wouldn't be late.
饾摚饾摢饾摶饾摥饾摦 饾摢饾摰 饾摍饾摼饾摦饾摪饾摳
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El pasillo era infinito y hab铆a algo que era sumamente familiar, una alfombra gris que se perd铆a en la vista guiada por una hilera de tenues l谩mparas de aceite a ambos lados, despu茅s de andar sobre la aterciopelada alfombra lleg贸, llegu茅, ah铆 estaba la gigantesca puerta de madera, quiz谩s 茅bano por el color, adornada con barroqu铆simos relieves de formas y figuras ancestrales, dioses y leyendas de otro tiempo la adornaban talladas con sumo cuidado y maestr铆a. Detr谩s de la puerta se escuchaban unos murmullos como de mil voces debatiendo un tema importante. Empuj贸, la puerta gigantesca, y a diferencia de lo esperado no hice ruido alguno, ante 茅l se abri贸 una sala enorme un juzgado, un juzgado donde ya se estaba llevando a cabo un juicio. El juicio hab铆a empezado, empezado sin 茅l, as铆 que por un momento no entendi贸 qu茅 hac铆a ah铆 y si en verdad era importante su presencia.
En el fondo hab铆an tres sillas y la sorpresa fue enorme al ver sentados en las tres sillas tres versiones de s铆 mismo. Ah铆 estaba 茅l con 12 a帽os, descalzo y con las rodillas raspadas y esa mirada de inocencia que solo tienen los ni帽os, en la silla de al lado estaba su yo m谩s cercano el de 2 a帽os con la mirada hueca frente a una computadora y un mont贸n de libros de sus estudios apilados a sus pies y por 煤ltimo apenas unos a帽os mayor a lo que era ahora un yo cansado y adormilado con los ojos ca铆dos y llenos de tristeza.
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Llegas tarde, como siempre- le dijo el ni帽o mientras le sonre铆a
El acusado hasta ahora ausente se sent贸 frente a ellos. Una silla dura y algo inc贸moda.
驴Este es mi juicio final? 驴Este es el final? 驴Ya acab贸 todo?
-Es aqu铆 donde juzgamos, es aqu铆 donde sabr谩s todo lo que perdiste por llegar tarde - le respondi贸 el joven - aqu铆 ya no hay apelaciones aqu铆 solo es juzgar.
En la pared comenzaron a proyectarse im谩genes pasadas, la ausencia tras los amigos que lo llamaban, las cenas familiares a las que no asisti贸 por trabajar, el amor perdido despu茅s de llegar tarde a decenas de citas o simplemente nunca llegar por estar ocupado en otras cosas que cre铆a m谩s importante.
Llegaste tarde hasta para pedir perd贸n a los que te amaron - le dijo la voz de su yo del futuro - y lo peor de todo a veces ni llegaste - una imagen de su hijo con l谩grimas en los ojos se proyect贸 en la pared.
Pensaba que ten铆a tiempo - dijo con pena y tristeza en la mirada.
驴Y ahora? 驴Ahora crees que tienes tiempo? 驴Ahora en tu juicio final? - le dijo su yo joven
Hasta para m铆 llegaste tarde - dijo su yo de ni帽o mientras le alcanzaba una bola de b茅isbol.
Silencio. Esto es un juicio, con pruebas que no se gritan se recuerdan. Silencio en la sala
No me detuve porque no quise, porque ten铆a miedo, ten铆a miedo de no ser perfecto, ten铆a miedo de decepcionar a los dem谩s - dijo el acusado con voz ronca- No quer铆a parecer d茅bil ante los ojos de nadie, de necesitar demasiado de no saber c贸mo volver a empezar.
Y eso excusa de algo- le dijo su yo de futuro
No pero lo explica. dijo su yo joven
Entonces por un momento el mayor lo observ贸 con algo que no era desprecio m谩s bien perd贸n necesario.
Pasaste toda, toda la vida esperando el momento justo para actuar - le dijo -pero la vida es un tren con horario justo y siempre cumple su tiempo, algunas veces perdemos estaciones o perdemos el mismo tren.
La sala se qued贸 en silencio, se pod铆a escuchar la respiraci贸n de todos en la pared las escenas de las llegadas tard铆as se repet铆an una tras otra, cartas no escritas, proyectos no empezados, cada m铆nimo detalle le recordaba las veces que dej贸 ir al tren.
Por favor no quiero seguir viendo estas im谩genes, por favor terminemos el juicio, digan mi veredicto.
No es un juicio para condenarte - le dijo su yo de ni帽o
Puedo cambiar mi pasado, puedo volver a tomar esas decisiones - dijo a sus tres yo
No, no puedes - respondi贸 su yo joven - pero tienes la posibilidad de no cometer de nuevo esos errores en las futuras decisiones, en las que no han sido tomadas.
Entonces no estoy...
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Las sillas desaparecieron y sus otros yo tambi茅n con sonrisas en los labios. Mientras su yo de ni帽o le dec铆a: Hay juicios que no han empezado.
Cuando abri贸 los ojos estaba en su cama sudado, pero a la vez alegre por la revelaci贸n, fue al escritorio, tom贸 un papel una pluma y comenz贸 a escribir una carta: Ma帽ana no llegar铆a tarde.
