Eso Que Llaman Estar Enamorado

That thing they call being in love happens to those it happens to. Even the most prudent can end up trapped on all fours. More than one scientist has classified it as a disease that is cured by contact with everyday reality. 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. Those who suffer from it take for granted that there's no one like that brunette, without having tried them one by one. They will affirm, with sheep eyes, that there's no one like that blonde, without having left Zaragoza. The proportions are getting lost. There's only one topic of conversation. Illusions are confused with the ass. And vice versa. That which turns the fierce into pushovers and the old into creatures has symptoms very similar to a bout of madness. The head gets stuffed. The heart softens. From hell to nirvana. But it has one thing, perhaps, in its favor: it's not contagious. For it to thrive, it's not enough to have a partner. They 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 burst that explodes in the chest. It fills eternity. It's talking to God. Capturing the infinite. That thing they call being in love.