Anatomía de una bañera
This is not a book. It is a bathtub. And you may ask me how this bathtub can have these corners. It is true that it could look like a book. Because of the pages or its smell, the covers, the size, all this text or the capacity and desire of its pages to fold. But it doesn’t. It is not. It is a bathtub. A marble bathtub, because since I was a child I have believed it to be so. And when I began to engrave my words on this marble, I became one myself.
Before I was a bathtub, I was a child. Then I grew by accumulation of salty drops and I stopped being one. Or not, I don’t know. Nothing lasts but what is gone. After that I started to write. To write about the things that made me a bathtub. To write about how to sew caresses. About how sometimes you don’t banish the one who leaves, but the one who stays. About ceasing to be and learning to lose. About those silences that will never seem uncomfortable. About how nothing belongs to anyone or about the kinds of thirst there are. Or about the aches I sometimes get for missing me, for example. And in this bathtub I have also asked myself many questions. Things that are difficult to answer: why have I never cried because I haven’t cried enough, what will be my last word, how much pain can a person hold? I know this one: 230 litres. Exactly as much as a bathtub can hold.
