El templo que habita - cuentos [Esp-Eng]
Hay historias que solo pueden contarse con símbolos, cuentos con imaginación y un toque de pinturas de todos los colores.
Aquí presento unos cuentos fragmentos de mi alma, actos de psicomagia que se escribieron para ahondar en el valor del ser, en el amor y el merecimiento después de escenas de la vida que dolieron y con las que me perdí para integrarme en ese todo que soy hoy.
I. La muchacha de las monedas perdidas
Había una vez una muchacha que caminaba entre columnas de mármol y libros sagrados. Era hija de un príncipe bastardo de una isla pesquera y de una mujer noble, descendiente de la familia de artistas más famosa de la corte.
Estudiaba para ser sabia, para tener un futuro grande, en nombre de sus dos linajes. Pero un día, el príncipe fue raptado por una supuesta bruja, quien lo condujo a los bosques nevados y hechizó su memoria. A su esposa le dio un veneno tan sutil que convirtió todos sus recuerdos en pesadillas. La mujer, que antes tocaba la lira en salones dorados, se volvió hostil y peligrosa.
La niña fue obligada a casarse con un viejo campesino al que le atribuían en el pueblo historias muy oscuras, se decía que era un demonio que se alimentaba de la vitalidad de sus esposas, hasta que fallecían misteriosamente. Al ver el peligro que corría y al ver deshecho su hogar, huyó.
Cambió de identidad fingiendo ser barón durante un tiempo, hasta que ya no pudo ocultar su naturaleza femenina por lo evidente del cuerpo femenino. Al verse expuesta se sintió indefensa y sin sustento, así que partió hacia la ciudad en busca de nuevas formas de vida, de amor o quizás de una familia con la que pudiera vivir sin los peligro que conllevaban estar sola.
Una noche, al llegar a uno de los bares más conocidos del lugar, unos hombres la escucharon hablando con la posadera sobre su necesidad de trabajo y vislumbrados por la belleza de la joven, la invitaron a acompañarlos las fiestas que tendrían lugar en el palacio para las semanas de cosecha del pueblo. Ella acepto. La colmaron de elogios, le regalaron vestidos hermosos y le ofrecieron joyas maravillosas. Bebió, comió y disfrutó en sus palacios y, a cambio, cada noche debía danzar para ellos. No paso mucho tiempo hasta que alguno se sintió provocado, le impusieron el deber de acostarse a su lado, sin protestas, para satisfacerlo. ¿Además a donde más podría ir? ya se encontraba ahí, era un precio "pequeño" que se pagaba en la corte para pertenecer y estar segura.
Ella aceptó.
Ya no recordaba cuánto valía. En su memoria flotaban imágenes de su infancia entre sedas y manjares, y pensó que ese mundo, aunque torcido, le era familiar. Los hombre le exigían placer a cambio de comodidades y estatus. Ella se decía a si misma que esa era la única forma que conocía de pertenecer a la realeza.
Se vistió con ropajes caros, se maquilló, se calzó con zapatos altos. Salía a las calles con la mirada firme, repitiendo palabras como “libertad” y “elección”. Pero por las noches, en silencio, se abrazaba a sí misma. En el fondo, sabía que todo era un disfraz. Una estrategia para sobrevivir sin perder el estatus real que aún creía merecer.
El templo al que soñaba entrar seguía cerrado.
Ningún oro la hacía sentirse rica. Ningún beso pagado le devolvía el calor de los abrazos de su padre o el amor de su madre. De hecho, comenzaba a olvidar sus rostros.
Un día, sin explicación, se hartó.
Dejó el disfraz sobre la cama. Devolvió la capa, las joyas. Guardó los zapatos en el armario. Colgó los vestidos en una percha y escapó del palacio por la noche vestida de sirvienta. Caminó descalza por las mismas calles donde antes desfilaba. Sintió la tierra bajo sus pies. Y con cada paso, reconoció que su piel, su alma, su hambre... eran suyas.
Cantaba.
Mudaba de piel.
Decidió que, si iba a morir, prefería hacerlo sin tanto adorno encima. Comprendió que hay disfraces que pesan demasiado para sostenerlos. Y que al final, el personaje no es más que eso, una mascara.
Y su voz, esa que había estado silenciada por tanto tiempo, comenzó a despertar.
Mensaje oculto:
Cuando el cuerpo se ofrece sin alma, el alma se exilia.
Pero también puede regresar.
Hoy escribí un poco del merecer, este es el primero de tres cuentos con los que estuve jugando, no sabía que foto poner y recordé haber tomado está desde mi telefono, una foto en la bañera mientras me relajaba y me regalaba tiempo para mí misma, merecemos placer y mimos de nosotros para nosotros.
Esto continuará...
There are stories that can only be told with symbols, tales told with imagination and a touch of paint in every color.
Here I present some stories, fragments of my soul, acts of psychomagic that were written to delve into the value of being, into love and deservingness after scenes from life that hurt and with which I lost myself in order to integrate into the whole that I am today.
I. The Girl with the Lost Coins
Once upon a time, there was a girl who walked among marble columns and sacred books. She was the daughter of a bastard prince from a fishing island and a noblewoman, a descendant of the most famous family of artists at court.
She studied to become wise, to have a great future, in the name of her two lineages. But one day, the prince was kidnapped by a supposed witch, who took him to the snowy forests and bewitched his memory. She gave his wife a poison so subtle that it turned all her memories into nightmares. The woman, who once played the lyre in gilded halls, became hostile and dangerous.
The girl was forced to marry an old peasant who was rumored in the village to have a dark past. It was said that he was a demon who fed on the vitality of his wives until they died mysteriously. Seeing the danger she was in and her home destroyed, she fled.
She changed her identity, pretending to be a baron for a time, until she could no longer hide her feminine nature due to her obvious female body. Finding herself exposed, she felt defenseless and without means of support, so she left for the city in search of new ways of life, love, or perhaps a family with whom she could live without the dangers of being alone.
One night, when she arrived at one of the most popular bars in town, some men overheard her talking to the innkeeper about her need for work. Captivated by the young woman's beauty, they invited her to accompany them to the festivities that would take place in the palace during the town's harvest weeks. She accepted. They showered her with compliments, gave her beautiful dresses, and offered her wonderful jewelry. She drank, ate, and enjoyed herself in their palaces, and in return, she had to dance for them every night. It wasn't long before some of them felt provoked, and they imposed on her the duty of lying down beside them, without protest, to satisfy them. Besides, where else could she go? She was already there, and it was a "small" price to pay at court to belong and be safe.
She accepted.
She no longer remembered how much she was worth. Images of her childhood among silks and delicacies floated in her memory, and she thought that this world, though twisted, was familiar to her. Men demanded pleasure in exchange for comforts and status. She told herself that this was the only way she knew how to belong to royalty.
She dressed in expensive clothes, put on makeup, and wore high heels. She went out into the streets with a steady gaze, repeating words like "freedom" and "choice." But at night, in silence, she hugged herself. Deep down, she knew it was all a disguise. A strategy to survive without losing the royal status she still believed she deserved.
The temple she dreamed of entering remained closed.
No amount of gold made her feel rich. No paid kiss could bring back the warmth of her father's hugs or her mother's love. In fact, she was beginning to forget their faces.
One day, without explanation, she had had enough.
She left the disguise on the bed. She returned the cape and the jewels. She put the shoes in the closet. She hung the dresses on a hanger and escaped from the palace at night dressed as a servant. She walked barefoot through the same streets where she had once paraded. She felt the earth beneath her feet. And with each step, she recognized that her skin, her soul, her hunger... were hers.
She sang.
She shed her skin.
She decided that if she was going to die, she preferred to do so without so many adornments. She understood that some disguises are too heavy to bear. And that in the end, the character is nothing more than that, a mask.
And her voice, which had been silenced for so long, began to awaken.
Hidden message:
When the body offers itself without a soul, the soul goes into exile.
But it can also return.
Today I wrote a little bit about deservingness. This is the first of three stories I've been playing around with. I didn't know which photo to use, and then I remembered taking this one with my phone, a photo in the bathtub while I was relaxing and giving myself some time for myself. We deserve pleasure and pampering from ourselves for ourselves.
To be continued...
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