feel that, somehow, in some strange and twisted way, who have the power (the curse) to collaborate with the channeling of the mechanics of the universe through the written word, we are ready to suffer the ravages of a kind of holy desperation. Not be explained without addressing some mystical condition, the fact is that the vehemence, old as fire, exploded in my consciousness and clarity.
Before yesterday, Saturday August 15, 2009, I went out, like hundreds of times a week, like thousands of times throughout my life. However, at this time, the perception was installed on my alternate, achieving a part of a strong internal shock, the need to write quasi-violent. Prose cramping began to slip on the back of a ticket that I found on the table promptly, abruptly returning to my home.
laughed leaning back on the back of the door.
Perhaps it's time to revisit the therapist, but still expected literature was present.
The diversity of the vastness makes me scream until the harassment of vomiting. Civility and its accuracy fateful officers on the streets are violent, self-sufficient and able to paralyze sordid. They managed it moments ago, again.
raining.
The clouds of insanity did not stop to break into his own vortex. Unbelievable is the world that persists in the everyday fly as unusual headband. Among the nefarious
huracaneo, postcards windy dismissing reason. The hair spray and stuffed with mandates, empty matrons walking their dogs out of step and playing the favorites of Helicon, the joys of the light dark underworld orillera accepted the strength of nothing, time and drabs. I was overwhelmed by the telluric symptoms of satiety, suffered impairment of daily horror, I had (lived) the inherent certainty the fate of cyclic loading recognize that the universe will not change ever.
much of this afternoon decline in mourning.
deep breath, walked toward the grocery store. I rebuked the flash of a quadruped stock, and did not hesitate to return to the path of those who go to Tartarus unknowingly, or worse, of which they sense, well below the layers of the psyche Onions, who travel to a destination nefarious no escape. Still, I remembered the legend recorded in a pennant cheap, but deep and enduring as varicose veins of credulity and hope: "If I knew that the world ends tomorrow, also plant my apple tree" this outline of light from such a heaviness of heart, had been written, apparently as I remember my distant childhood, who, I learned much later, was one of the greatest champions of brotherly love and equality during the past century: Martin Luther King.
"I had a dream," repeated the indelible black, "I have a dream", I thought to myself tell me, right there, right at that moment.
The street was changed to a surreal level where the wind from the horizon, fluctuates still recovering from my self dead. Autoenterraba Gibran is a thousand times before the duel of ignorance, I do in the name of which I once was, unknowingly, killed myself with no option. In this context
unruly, I braked in a corner to tie my shoelaces inaccurate. At every turn intimate, in each bun unfortunate, I was surprised, deeply and instinctively, running a new and hopeful dream of freedom.
wind disappeared. I looked up.
Sunlight, once more, I was blinded with a sweetly unexpected warmth.
