14/11/97 - lengua finita, mortal

Escribo en una lengua finita, mortal. Quien sabe, quizas en cien o docientos años estas lineas no signifiquen nada, absolutamente nada... eso si, probablemente alguien sospeche que se trata del testimonio de lo Mismo, ese el grito de hastio que viene repitiendose desde hace tanto tiempo, en sanscrito, repitiendose en arameo antiguo, repitiendose en portugués. El llanto debil repetido en tinta azul o negra, llorado en bytes o grabado en granito de esta raza condenada a recordar lo que morira, es decir esta perspectiva absurda, fugaz y barroca que tenemos de las cosas desde nuestro metro setenta (promedio), dos ojos, nariz y boca, orejas y caricias y lecturas. La parra, el aserrin aserran los maderos de San Juan. Y tanto mas... que las bibliotecas todas juntas son nada, pretensiosas manos que intentan atrapar al viento.

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