"Lo lograré" era la frase que se repetía. El cielo nocturno, un manto de terciopelo salpicado de estrellas fugaces, era el único testigo de su solitaria travesía. Anhelaba el amanecer, sí, pero no como un simple cambio de hora. La luz del sol era su meta, un faro que lo guiaría a través de la oscuridad que lo envolvía. Sus ojos, centinelas de esperanza, escrutaban el horizonte en busca de un indicio, una promesa de que el muro de sombras que lo aprisionaba no era infranqueable.
El río, una arteria oscura y serpenteante, se deslizaba perezosamente a través del paisaje. Su corriente, una melodía constante de fuerza indomable, era a la vez hipnótica y amenazante. Fantasmas del ayer, figuras espectrales de anhelos largamente acariciados, danzaban en su mente, susurrando sueños de grandeza que lo llamaban desde el abismo del tiempo. Su aventura río arriba, una osadía que había planeado con entusiasmo, tenía un precio. Un precio que ahora, en la quietud de la noche, le parecía irrisorio, una bagatela comparada con la gloria que lo esperaba.
Pero la realidad era terca. Cada palada era una batalla perdida, un esfuerzo inútil contra la corriente implacable que lo empujaba hacia atrás, hacia las fauces de la noche que se cerraban sobre él. El sudor, traidor, se mezclaba con el agua del río, creando una máscara de desesperación que se aferraba a su rostro. Sus músculos, agarrotados por el esfuerzo, clamaban por un respiro, pero sabía que detenerse significaba rendirse, entregar su destino a la oscuridad que lo acechaba.
El viento, un aullido fantasmal que se unía al concierto de la desesperación, levantaba olas que amenazaban con tragarse su pequeña canoa. Aferrado a los canaletes como si fueran la última tabla de salvación, luchaba contra sus miedos, contra el río, contra la oscuridad, contra su propio destino.
Se había creído un navegante experimentado, un maestro de las aguas. Había subestimado a su enemigo, la fuerza implacable de la naturaleza. La corriente era un torrente embravecido, el agua, un látigo helado que azotaba su rostro, y el viento, un huracán implacable que ponía a prueba su temple. El cansancio lo invadía, el hambre lo acuciaba y la soledad lo abrumaba.
Casi llorando y ante la posibilidad de la ruptura de su cuerpo, claudicó. Ya no pudo más. Dejó caer los canaletes, entregándose a la corriente que lo arrastraba sin piedad. El río, ser místico e imponente, lo engulló en la oscuridad, llevándolo hacia lo desconocido, un abismo de incertidumbre donde la esperanza se desvanecía.
Perdido en la inmensidad de la noche, se sentía solo, despojado de su arrogancia y su osadía. Ya no importaba si volvería a ver la luz del sol. La oscuridad lo había consumido, y solo quedaba la incertidumbre del destino.
El río, implacable, lo arrastró a través de bosques oscuros, donde la vegetación se retorcía en formas extrañas, y pantanos fangosos, moradas de criaturas desconocidas. Animales extraños, adaptados a la penumbra, lo observaban con curiosidad, mientras plantas exóticas, de belleza inquietante, se mecían a su paso. Ya nada le importaba. La derrota lo había consumado, y su mente divagaba en un sopor donde la realidad y la pesadilla se entrelazaban.
Finalmente, el río lo llevó a una cascada, un abismo de agua y sombras donde toda esperanza se extinguía. Su viaje había terminado, su odisea había llegado a su fin. La victoria que había anhelado con tanta vehemencia se había transformado en una derrota aplastante, una burla cruel del destino.
"No lo logré" fue lo que se repitió así mismo, mientras la oscuridad lo arropaba.
I will make it
“I'll make it” was the phrase he kept repeating to himself. The night sky, a velvet blanket dotted with shooting stars, was the only witness to his lonely journey. He longed for dawn, yes, but not as a simple change of time. Sunlight was his goal, a beacon to guide him through the darkness that enveloped him. His eyes, sentinels of hope, scanned the horizon for a hint, a promise that the wall of shadows that imprisoned him was not insurmountable.
The river, a dark, meandering artery, slid lazily across the landscape. Its current, a steady melody of indomitable force, was at once hypnotic and menacing. Ghosts of yesterday, spectral figures of long cherished longings, danced in his mind, whispering dreams of grandeur calling to him from the abyss of time. His adventure upriver, a daring he had eagerly planned, came at a price. A price that now, in the stillness of the night, seemed derisory, a trifle compared to the glory that awaited him.
But reality was stubborn. Each shovelful was a lost battle, a futile effort against the relentless current that pushed him backwards, towards the maw of the night that closed over him. Sweat, traitorous, mingled with the river water, creating a mask of despair that clung to his face. His muscles, stiff with exertion, cried out for a breath, but he knew that to stop meant surrender, to surrender his fate to the darkness that stalked him.
The wind, a ghostly howl that joined the concert of despair, kicked up waves that threatened to swallow his small canoe. Clinging to the flumes as if they were his last lifeline, he struggled against his fears, against the river, against the darkness, against his own destiny.
He had thought himself an experienced navigator, a master of the waters. He had underestimated his enemy, the implacable force of nature. The current was a raging torrent, the water, an icy whip that lashed his face, and the wind, a relentless hurricane that tested his mettle. Tiredness overcame him, hunger plagued him and loneliness overwhelmed him.
Almost in tears and faced with the possibility of breaking his body, he gave up. He could take no more. He dropped the gutters, surrendering himself to the current that dragged him mercilessly. The river, a mystical and imposing being, engulfed him in the darkness, taking him towards the unknown, an abyss of uncertainty where hope vanished.
Lost in the immensity of the night, he felt alone, stripped of his arrogance and daring. It no longer mattered whether he would ever see the sunlight again. The darkness had consumed him, and only the uncertainty of fate remained.
The river, relentless, dragged him through dark forests, where the vegetation twisted into strange shapes, and muddy swamps, abodes of unknown creatures. Strange animals, adapted to the gloom, watched him curiously, while exotic plants of disturbing beauty swayed in his wake. Nothing mattered to him anymore. Defeat had consummated him, and his mind wandered in a stupor where reality and nightmare intertwined.
Finally, the river took him to a waterfall, an abyss of water and shadows where all hope was extinguished. His journey was over, his odyssey had come to an end. The victory he had so vehemently longed for had turned into a crushing defeat, a cruel mockery of fate.
“I didn't make it” was what he repeated to himself, as darkness enveloped him.
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