Això Que En Diuen Estar Enamorat

What they call being in love happens to whoever it happens to. The most prudent can get stuck on all fours. More than one scientist has classified it as a disease that is cured by contact with the reality of each day. The trees hide the forest, but it's so beautiful that it seems unbelievable. It's always the first time and it always leaves a wound. The one who suffers from it assumes that there is no one like that brunette, without having tasted them one by one. They will affirm, with a sheepish look, that there is no one like that blonde, without ever having left Zaragoza. The proportions are lost. There is only one topic of conversation. Illusions are confused with the ass. And vice versa. What brings back the fierce maniac and the old creature has symptoms very similar to a fever attack. The head is dizzy. The heart is overwhelmed. From hell to nirvana. But it has one thing, perhaps, in its favor: it's not contagious. For this to prosper, it's not enough with one couple. They both have to be in love with each other. We chase it and it chases us, because occasionally it works. It's a moment, but this moment, only this time, is a firework that bursts in the chest. It's filling eternity. It's talking to God. Capturing the infinite. What they call being in love.