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Once upon a time - although not necessarily there yet - a beautiful bubble.
cleaned of soap that clothed it contained within itself all the virtues, was beautiful and happy. He dreamed of soaring high in the infinite spaces, light and without fear.
One day, however, wandering through our land, fell in love with the spine of some bush. Of the reasons I will not speak, although it is important to know that this emotion was paid.

The small thorn, in his world was young and strong, proud to fulfill its role. She felt like a sword and when he offered his best, it was.
was clear, however, that unless a solution, the meeting was dangerous. The bubble in danger of being injured or even die, in which case the plug, in addition to dry by grief, was corroded and dissolved by a soap so strong. Yet the attraction was

intense.
The bubble wrap that obtained from the tension of his ability to fly, he could soften just enough to mold itself to the contours of the spine and so caressing.
The plug could dampen its point, so painstakingly built, just enough to be harmless in the embrace.

Maybe they did for a while '. Maybe they did it for ever giving up their gifts. Maybe they left each other - but now some of what they left. Maybe they died together in a futile attempt to join.
A tale worthy of respect could accept only the latter case and continue with it. A story that does not give up, however, may find other hypotheses.

Maybe the plug, offering only his best, he could always be a shining sword. This provides a handle to offer to its spirit while maintaining its most precious gift. Maybe the bubble could be modeled on the handle, let him enter, accede to it so intensely that they lose nothing of its power. Maybe. But, as so they could join and keep their gifts, they also learned to use them? He flew in the bubble top heavy by the sword? the sword would have defended its people?

But maybe they could even trust their gifts to point to lay it down for love. And then regenerate them without fear of losing them. This

story, although told in the past and although that happened a thousand times, has yet to unfold. Perhaps
will develop in ways not imagined or planned, maybe it will be victorious. If you do not know but I hope to do so could at least be brave, because only the heroic stories should be told to grandchildren.