I give thousand returns him to the things. And I put them of the misfortune. It would have to enjoy this form every second that is allowed me, but without knowing the reason, the only thing that it becomes is to waste the opportunity better wishing something. It is clear that always it is inhaled to something superior, something insurmountable, superb; but until we did not prune it to acquire, it would agree to us not to apostatize of such way. We would have to learn to savor every minute of the little pretty thing that we have. To think that it is the last moment that we will be able to rejoice of that way. Perhaps thus we are thankful little that us of the life... thus we will perhaps remember every moment which we happened and until we let pass bad moments. And at the aim we will be able to watch back without fear. Because nothing is infinite... Because everything what we happened is taxed, we want or we do not want, and we preferred that he is something pleasant. Because since we lived, it is important to be comfortable with which it is had. And who knows if tomorrow you will be able to do it? Bah, is all utopias. Already. But perhaps they guide us until most similar to them.
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Tired; really tired to hold hours and hours the same, as an endless well... does not matter what they throw to him. And when you really need to throw something, you they have it prohibited. Then the well has filled, is - it says obstructed. Tired of that. Tired to have to hear always the same, and that, never, never listens to you. Tired to need the reflection what so many times there am saying, and now, as a consolation of idiots, I need to listen. Tired to hold every day the same. And tired to need to change
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It takes to paper and pencil and it begins to write. You think about rage, pain, love, in the instability by which it surrounds to you, in imprecisas which they are the words to express what you really feel. To say ` normal' or ` natural' is too generic for which exactly you want to explain. To say ` amar' or ` odiar' is two ends that simultaneously are closely together one of the other. And saying... nothing else is to reproduce words, words that take the wind to them. Saying hill nothing, much more does not cost to us to act, and to act of a correct form, because it is what it really counts. Although sometimes it is not left more remedy than to say what you think and you feel, to say the things with feeling, to be sincere, but everything is necessary to demonstrate it. Day to day and second to second, to the people who you want and that you hate. To be firm with your thoughts, not desviarte by ways that you do not want to follow, nor accompanied of people with whom you do not want to follow that way. To be peacefully with your conscience, to think that you do not have anything to fix, that you have done the possible thing to change your world, and to make of him the best world the possible thing. Nothing becomes nor is constructed with words, the words takes the wind to them. The facts are what counts. To part, the words are dangerous; we have customary to use them too much, until we have arrived at a point that a miserable word can get to us to sink in the own misery, to change the life, to lose what it matters to you more. In certain part, we can feel maniatados at the time of expressing itself. And in addition, the wind takes to them
