Mínimas 2

Life, death, joy, sorrow: pages of the same book; words in different sentences of the same happy story.


Every little pleasure in the world has its dose of pain and biterness. When it has the storn of the effort to be achieved, or the fragility of mortality, ot the bite of being exhausting.


I'm afraid that I am as confused as when I was six. What the heck this "have a life" is? To be the same, just as everyone; to be yourself as if it was something really different; to love, but not too many people; to fight, to go for it when there is a good cause to follow; To pursue a dream as it has never been pursued before. To do every single thing into a very personal -unmistakeable- way. To live as the best of everyone into a world that has so many common places.


I find myself standing up, jus staring this tiny spot of wonder that you are, that I am, and having no more to do but letting the pride go, an let this humble voice inside rise in adoration.


With no love, nor company, nor peace, all we can give is nothing but dark, shadowy pieces of death.


There is no need to bo so sad in lost, because nothing is ours indeed. Everything is borrowed or rented and, at the end, the precious owner of all things will come to us and will ask for them and how we used, abused or discarded'em.


I'm in. Completely lost, living, dying... everything. Just having fun!.