What do I see? I see a model posing with her most captivating gaze—the one she has learned to master, to conjure out of thin air; the look that draws men in and makes women stop and stare. She is angry; she is tired of posing, tired of going without a bite to eat just to maintain her size.
What do I feel for her? I feel that I would never want to trade places with her; I feel no envy. She is beautiful, yes, but she is a slave to her body and to what people might say about her. I wish I could tear up her contracts and set her free to live her life, doing whatever she pleases.
Que miro. Miro una modelo que posa con su mirada más cautivante, esa que ha aprendido a manejar, a crear desde la nada, la que atrae a los hombres y a las mujeres hace mirar. Esta enojada, esta cansada de posar, está cansada de no llevar bocado a la boca para no perder la talla.
Que siento por ella. Siento que nunca tomaría su lugar, no siento envidia, es hermosa si, pero es esclava de su cuerpo y del que dirán de ella. Quisiera romper sus contratos y dejarla libre por la vida, haciendo lo que ella quiera.
Stories always intersect—on a bus, at a stop, or even in the subway. When souls are meant to be together and meet, paths collide to set the story in motion. Sometimes, it is as simple as seeing an advertisement and becoming captivated by a gaze. He would not rest until he found her. It began when he discovered her letters—which must have fallen behind the furniture. There, in the unmistakable handwriting of her childhood, she had asked him to find her. She felt alone in a world that did not understand her; she felt weary in a world that never stopped moving.
His ailing mother had called for him, and it was only after everything was over—while he was painting his childhood home—that the letters came to light. His mother, who could no longer speak, had kept her gaze fixed on that piece of furniture. He came to suspect she had hidden them from him—a question he would now never be able to ask.
The address was old, and she was no longer there. However, the building manager recalled that she had left a phone number in case anyone came looking for her. The call went through, but the voice on the other end was not the one he expected; it was a man's voice. Yet, when he mentioned her special nickname, he knew she was there. And so, like many stories that revisit the past to give things another try...
Las historias siempre se cruzan, en un autobús, en una parada y hasta en el metro. Cuando las almas deben estar juntas y encontrarse los trenes se chocan para dar paso a las historias. A veces resulta tan simple como ver una anuncio publicitario y prendarse de su mirada. El no descansaría hasta encontrarla. Desde que encontró sus cartas, que supone se habían caído detrás del mueble. Allí con su letra inconfundible de la infancia, le pedía encontrarla. Se sentía sola, en un mundo que no la entendía. Se sentía cansada, en un mundo que no se detenía nunca.
Su madre enferma lo llamaba y al acabarse todo y comenzar a pintar la casa de su infancia, aparecieron las cartas. Su madre que ya no hablaba tenia la mirada fija hacia ese mueble. Llegó a pensar que se las oculto y eso es algo que ya no podría preguntárselo.
La dirección era vieja y ya no se encontraba allí. Sin embargo el administrador del edificio recordó que dejo un número de teléfono por si alguien venia a buscarla. La llamada entro pero no era la voz que el esperaba, una voz masculina del otro lado. Al decir su apodo especial supo que ella estaba allí. Y como muchas historias que a veces vuelven a retomar su pasado para volver a intentarlo una vez más.
This is my entry in the contest A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words
Esta es mi participación en el concurso A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words
Fotos con fuente identificadas
Traducido con google (versión gratuita)
Photos with source identified
Translated with google (free version)
¡Gracias por tu visita/Thank you for your visit!
