There are distances that are not shortened by a plane. Sometimes one arrives at a capital city sooner than at what is happening in it. Then the map remains: it is enough to fold it for the seas, the borders, and even the accidents to disappear. Paper has its own forms of justice: it awaits everything, endures everything, creates nothing.
From the islands, Spain is an hour's conversation away. Close enough to discuss it, far enough for it to seem like one is talking about another place. Hence there are days when one recognizes oneself in its word and others, in the landscape, both separated by the horizon. Where the day ends and opinions begin. Many are inherited from afar and some need too many messengers; few involve decisions and others, rumors. A considerable part of life passes among them. To pass the time. Until making room.
The distance between them is not measured in kilometers, but in seasons, in missed calls, in late-night snacks, in prefabricated boxes. Until the encounter becomes natural, which is the only way for it to stop seeming so. Like the sea, which does not have too much opinion about the shores as they separate and reunite with identical indifference. One could spend hours trying to figure out what makes them different, until discovering that the question is wrongly formulated.
No one has moved the shores.
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