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Yesterday, perhaps in a futile attempt to recover lost time, I felt an uncertain experience of dêja-vu, of which I am not yet fully convinced, but of which I wonder, vanity of vanities, whether it really was a dream or I was a propitiatory victim in the holocaust of an unexpected dysfunction of wakefulness, a sickness of poets, as I understand it, akin to that singular state, which some melancholy sailors refer to as reverie. 
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I believe, if I remember correctly, that my intentions were to meet Swann; to meet him, to try to gain his trust with the weapons of seduction, and once in my field, to extract without violence the secret of his path. But, nevertheless, in order to meet Swann," I thought, I had to first find that literary celestine who was Marcel Proust.
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Walking, then, by the surroundings of the Pond of the Buen Retiro -where that lofty grunt of don Pío Baroja placed his happy nights and the, then recently opened and therefore new House of Fieras attracted the enthusiasm of infants and adults - I observed in awe the faces of all those with whom I crossed, thinking about which of those masks would conceal the spirit of that fortunate son of the Muse, whom some daring modern critic classified not only as asthmatic and amateur of the halls of nobility';, but also as discreetly homosexual and maniac of literature' (1). 
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I thought, in my discreet wandering, and very much to my regret, that the world is not made for those other winks of love; winks not exempt from innocence, in some cases, which nevertheless, however rude their mention may seem, are the Achilles'; heel of that Trojan arrow -metaphorically speaking- whose tip contains the poison of the worst of poisons, which are none other than misunderstood machismo and incomprehension. Live the bonfires';, - I told myself, I build, thinking that Spain was still that non plus ultra' of a country that desperately clings to its Byzantine pyromania and where, if there is no jubilee bull to fight, there are closets whose door is better to close again, in the name of that terrifying Coco', which is misunderstood decency.
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During my walk, paradoxically unknown paths of known nostalgia, I observed some clouds, by whose colour I sensed that the sky, jealously faithful to its own original laws, would soon paint colours of Greco, which would shadow the earth with the banners of chaos. And those clouds, messengers of gods forgotten in the archetypal oceans of the unconscious, resembled, comparatively speaking, an asteroid that sought to do with the tents of the Pacific pond, what that other, millennia ago, did with the dinosaurs.
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In the end, thinking of Proust, and thinking that Memory, after all, is nothing but a thick labyrinth where the Minotaur of remembrance resides, I understood that Swann's path is the history of the path of any one of us, within or outside that selective observation of sorrow and glory, known as good society, whether or not we are liberated from its chains, oppressions and vanities. A story -removed from this complementary circumstance- of those daily, but desperately intense ones, where Love, the Great Mocker of all times, wants but cannot. That comes and goes, like the twin brother of any wind of the spirit. And of which, however, one can also say that he grants himself, sometimes the pleasure of stopping where he pleases long enough, with seductive determination, to achieve the miracle that a person feels fortunate enough to think, that after all, that tyrannical father who is the old Chronos, has granted him the pleasure of a truce, to ingratiate him with a spark of what the mystics define as Eternity. 
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Notes, References and Bibliography: 

(1)	José María Valverde, in his prologue to the edition of Proust's novel, ‘Por el camino de Swann', by RBA Editores, S. A. , Barcelona, 1995.

Related movie:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K-adhE4tfYU

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