Many years later, facing the firing squad, we were filled with frustration that we had spent our lives putting off what we wanted to do. We hope that the planets align to lose our fear, throw ourselves into the water and conquer what we have always wanted: that job, that trip, that love, that life.
Once upon a time there was a pandemic that came with many changes and showed us, once again, the imminence of death, vulnerability and helplessness.
Once upon a time there was a grandfather who died from covid. This grandfather had a grandson whose heart melted in his absence. In the midst of pain, the grandson understood that he could also die without doing many things that he wanted. What was he waiting for him? It is not known. It was a longing that was being postponed for other things that today, seeing it in perspective, feels unimportant and futile.
Once upon a dream. A bookstore with coffee. In that bookstore, writers and writers were given lodging. Virginia Wolf had her own room. It was very common to find García Márquez and his immortal phrases, Pamuk and his Turkey, Vallejo and his illustrated cantaleta, Saramago and blindness, Oriana Fallaci and his unborn son. The words, the sinalefas, the alexandrines, the metaphors, the ecumenical song of words were housed there.
Once upon a time there was a reader who summoned a team to turn a dream into a real bookstore. A bookstore for everyone: those who are beginning to read, those who don’t know what to read, those who buy and don’t read, those who read everything, even for those with airs of intellectuality who look down on others, those intellectuals sidewalk that have a cloak of pride that covers their eyes and does not let them see that those who read to feel superior to others have not read well.
Once upon a time there was a bookstore that was born in the Belén neighborhood of Medellín a year ago while the country was struggling with unemployment, protests and the blockade. Some, learning about the creation of the bookstore, celebrated, others asked with astonishment: and who would think of opening a bookstore, in a pandemic, in the midst of a strike, in a country where a person reads on average 2, 7 books a year? Crazy.
Once upon a time there was a columnist and bookseller who was happy because that bookstore was one year old and he wants to remind them how useless and frustrating it is to wait for the right moment to fulfill their dreams, that if they want something to happen, they should not wait and go out looking for it; It won’t be easy, but it won’t be impossible either.
Once upon a time there was a grandfather smiling from heaven when he saw his grandson with his bookcase. Once upon a time there were some readers who, upon reading this column, began to plan their own dreams so that their lineage would have a second chance on earth.