The city breathed with the rhythm of a sick pulse. Between the smoke of the escapes and the murmur of the hurried crowds, the traffic light raised its three -eyed lighthouse on the corner of the avenue of the forgotten. It was not an object, but an iron and cable witness, a sentry who had learned to measure time not in seconds, but in human sighs. Its red, eternal and bleeding light was the scar that divided the chaos of order.  One day, when the sky was torn in lead and orange tones, a pedestrian stopped in front of him. It was not anyone: he wore shoes spent by hurry and a tie that strangled his dreams. He looked red with disdain, as if that incandescent circle was an arbitrary judge.  "Why do you insist on stopping me?" Asked the man, his voice full of the bitterness of those who have lost too many trains. Red is just a color. You have no right to govern my time.  The traffic light flicked, not by electrical failure, but as a metal eyelid that tried to contain centuries of stories. His answer came in the form of static, a whisper that sprouted from the entrails of the city: "Red is not a color ... it is a mirror." It reflects all those who, like you, believe that life is a career. Stopping is not to surrender: it is to remember that even the rivers make curves not to exhaust their channel.  The pedestrian leaned against the post, feeling the cold of steel penetrate his jacket. A rain drop slipped on his forehead, mixing with the sweat of impatience.  "But I ... I need to get there." It is always now. It is always urgent, ”he murmured, more for himself than for the traffic light.  The red light intensified, turning crimson, like an open wound at night.  "Do you think that green will give you what you are looking for?" He replied the traffic light. You will run, yes, but towards another corner, another red, another wait ... Do you not see that the true destination is not at the end of the street, but here, at this moment where you breathe without hurry?  A bus roughly, splashing puddles that drawn ephemeral rainbows in the asphalt. The pedestrian observed his own hands, marked by stress stretch marks, and for the first time noticed that they were trembling.  "And if I stay?" He asked, almost in a challenge. What I win with your rusty cable philosophy?  The traffic light issued a serious buzz, as an ancestral laugh.  —Gan the silence. Red is not a cage ... it is an altar. Here, in this forced pause, you can listen to the heartbeat of your own heart, the one that drowns with the noise of your steps.  When the light changed to green, the man did not move. He remained there, under the drizzle, while the crowd dodged him with reproach looks. Someone shouted "Crazy!", But he didn't hear. He had discovered that, sometimes, staying motionless is the most radical way to move forward.

By Carlos del Puente relatos