El Prometeo de estos tiempos 2025 CC
Cada tarde un hombre encadenado a su circunstancia, a una montaña de inconvenientes, al igual que Prometeo, entra al Bar. Yo lo miro desde la barra mientras le sirvo tragos sin reserva y no alcanzo a imaginar cuál deuda ancestral, o gesto desobediente, pudo enojar a los Dioses, para convertir a este hombre en un nuevo Prometeo. -Casi lo admiro-. Cada día se juega los afectos, el amor, en una entrega incondicional y cada día tropieza con un nuevo y renovado inconveniente. Es inevitable caer derrotado ante un Dios embravecido, pero no se rinde y persiste en amores desmedidos, en conquistas imposibles. Me intereso en su vida, en su suerte, que roza de costado la mía. Lo veo caer una y otra vez en ese empeño suyo de construir futuros amables y duraderos. Sabe de antemano que no cruzará la frontera, que terminará encadenado a los recuerdos de esos amores desteñidos, amores que se pierden, como se pierden, a veces, los caminos. Los amores inconclusos, los afectos perdidos, los fracasos, lo traen de regreso a esta herida abierta entre dos esquinas y aquí, envuelto en el barullo de conversaciones ajenas, intenta ahogar el hígado en alcohol, semejante al águila que ataca cada día a Prometeo.
No podrá escapar jamás de la ira de los Dioses, pero ha decidido amar sin condiciones y paga las consecuencias sin una queja. Yo lo miro escribir su próxima derrota con letra gruesa y le acerco un vaso, cuatro dedos generosos de ron Santa Teresa de 1796.
The Prometheus of these times 2025 CC
Every afternoon, a man chained to his circumstance, to a mountain of inconveniences, like Prometheus, enters the Bar. I watch him from behind the counter as I serve him drinks without restraint, and I cannot imagine what ancestral debt, or disobedient gesture, could have angered the Gods enough to turn this man into a new Prometheus. —I almost admire him—. Each day he gambles his affections, his love, in an unconditional surrender, and each day he stumbles upon a new and renewed inconvenience. It is inevitable to fall defeated before an enraged God, but he does not surrender and persists in excessive loves, in impossible conquests. I take interest in his life, in his fortune, which brushes against mine. I see him fall again and again in his determination to build kind and lasting futures. He knows beforehand that he will not cross the border, that he will end up chained to the memories of those faded loves, loves that are lost, as paths are sometimes lost. The unfinished loves, the lost affections, the failures, bring him back to this open wound between two corners, and here, wrapped in the noise of others' conversations, he tries to drown his liver in alcohol, similar to the eagle that attacks Prometheus every day.
He will never escape the wrath of the Gods, but he has decided to love unconditionally and pays the consequences without complaint. I watch him write his next defeat in bold letters and I bring him a glass, four generous fingers of Santa Teresa rum from 1796.
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