Have a cordial greeting, my last goodbye ...
A mobile than my fragile strength compels me to write these few lines. Why do it? What I try to justify the unjustifiable? I do not know ... Now, I just make the best decision of my life, why worry about finding a possible is something that has no importance. Might lie, and give a reasonable explanation to all, could, if wanted, shouting my truth, make them complicit in my sorrows and joys ... or, if so decided, could not say anything, and then leave the distant or no place where the roads end ... but no, it will not. I'll tell you, trying to avoid prolixity, some things I was forced to limp to do what I did, which led my steps on paths of darkness. If I want to hear, no matter, I understand perfectly, and forgive.
I was a young inexperienced, naive, vain, meat, ash, dust and divine breath, accurate picture of my peers, unfinished dream of a god of course. Is it part of society? Of course, modestly proud of possessing the intangible glory of a promising future. My plans were the same as any: Travelling to remote places, enjoying the pleasures that give me life, build a niche to put down roots, having a child and feeling perpetuated in their blood and their genes, buy one or more cars, get married, cheer, find ways to unravel everyday mysteries of the world ... and I have it all, yes, all that, perhaps more ... fame, success, the many trinkets you can buy with money.
But fate had written another way for me. One day, when he walked down the street, thinking about some nonsense, I stumbled across a body that walked in the opposite direction. It was an old man, toothless, his beard chimó blackened waste. He, to me, after the slightest touch, I showed his toothless gums in a gesture of joy and innocence, and said, "Excuse bushté, jovenshito, this sholacho bites me in the face and you do not watch where I walk. .. ". I feel good energy emanating from the old man, he answered honestly: "Excuse me, sir, it's me who does not see where you walk ...". The grandfather, smiling again frankly, I whispered, "Esho not matter, child, no matter pa 'ná ... the trail is biting its tail, like dogs pulgoshos ... it does not get pa 'no more than over here, even if you have a good horse ... and bushté be no more than a pigeon trying to return to the nest ...".
After those words, I said goodbye to the old and continued my way. I wanted to stay with him and talk a while, perhaps to hear some stories that could distracted, or teach me anything, but I left him, and continued my way. However, to get away, I discovered that his brief talk I had left a taste in the mouth acetous. Quickly lit a cigarette, ready to plug that unpleasant taste with the first thing that came to hand.
outside a church in the early hours of any given night, I sat down to share my glass of liquor with beggars. They never asked for my company ... Even so, I sat next to him to annoy with my questions fools:
"Are not you afraid of you, sir, sleeping in the doorway of a church? I asked the nearest wreck human, face hidden by the many hardships endured "They say that souls will come to rest Penant these places ...". "Yes," replied the beggar, yes I'm afraid ... I do not like to sleep here! I do not know how they do, "he added, pointing to a shapeless, two or three strangers who drained his fatigue on some old cartons," it is as if he cared that cold air coming out from under the door ... those are the souls of the Penant, traveling in and out all the time ...". After saying this, the beggar was plunged into a bewildering silence, facing one of the columns abstracted the entrance of the church. I handed my glass of liquor, the content completed a sip, and asked: "And then, why you stay here?", Almost immediately regretting for having taken from his distant corner bleak. He stopped his eyes on me, too shady to understand my condition of bourgeois child, and I said nothing.
After a while, before the sun began to peek over the horizon, rose from his precarious shelter and left, with eyes marred by a mixture of hatred and resignation, they went away, ready to walk to where they forces reached; infinitely far away, beginning a circular path to take them every night to the gates of that old church.
A bitter aftertaste whipped my chest when I began to understand how hard that could be the misfortunes that ourselves, men and women, orphans of God, we are capable of inflicting. But I felt distant, alien to me ... a drop of compassion for a thirsty ...
saw the faces of a thousand girls, beautiful and fresh, perfect and radiant, as pure as the watermark unreadable to form a slice of fresh mandarin. They all smiled, and some I smiled ... but I could not love them, because they never knew. Never caught a timid hand stretched springs from the heart, and struggling to touch the souls of quines permit. But I was blind in my solitude for long. I left obscure by the small talk, brightness naive easy friendships, by the false estimates that I made up myself. I dreamed I was busy, important, tireless globetrotter, without ever sensed that the target is a pulgoso dog that bites its tail ... Who is not deceived, willingly or not, when you close the voluptuous lips of a beautiful woman whisper: "I love you"? Who does not feel important, when he tells his stunned colleagues that his wife was a show queen, your house looks like the castle, much to win in their spectacular work, or what pain his death the world cry? Who has not enjoyed the fleeting glory of a win occasionally? Vain all so vain! But I let the wine drunk by the companies ... I was a prisoner, like many of his lies dogmatic and moral ... because, ultimately, we are too alone, and our smallness begins to scare when we discover that we are not just a bunch of stuff that starts to decompose from the moment he is gestated ... and beauty, fame, glory, success and theoretical goals, conditioned or not, we end up accepting as our own, we become needy, in simple sad little boys in search of a caress desired.
Then I was tired of my world of props. Slowly, he began to disgust me passive complicity with all the misery that surrounded me.
Fate decreed that a stranger wanted to break my health condition. The doctors who treated me ignorant of their origin, and, of course, its cure. Consumed a thousand remedies without my evil improve, and started for the first time, to fear the inexorable scythe of death. My heart was always hard to the deaths of others ... I felt, every time he heard that someone died, that death was part of the majestic cycle of life, treating them as objects to my peers. But fate decreed that I get sick this time, and felt, firsthand, the brutal death vertigo.
and feared death. The horror got into my heart, worse than any nightmare child. The idea of \u200b\u200bknowing I am so fragile, so dust, so helpless before the final eternal mouth, began to harass me, and fear moved to sanity ... each step he took, every corner, in every dream, coming to me with great secrecy, with his tireless hook waiting for my last bite, with its skeletal hands always ready to suffocate, with his sharp scythe ready to mow my soul was it the dark lady, cool lady.
My fear stemmed from what I kept clinging to my dreams imagined. It was understandable, among many things, only owned my life, my body material of my millions of cells, and her death, his disembodied smile, his gaze impassive, I hinted that he also owned.
So, as suddenly as it came, just as he healed my condition. They finished the pains of my body but my soul was resentful ... this was not going to die, but, someday, end up losing the battle. Going to die someday, as all as all, as anyone, and would become food for worms and bacteria, in a pile of dust to which he escaped the blast magic of God, an entity report without thoughts nothing ... my ego, my ego, the synapses of my brain cells, all of me, turned to ashes ... ashes without memories, sad ash, ash trail in a few years no one will cry ...
My life continued, and living it, I discovered how much it hurts injustice. A neighbor, an elderly gentleman who only spoke of her granddaughter, was ruined. I had a good business, for plays cruel fate, one day broke. Brought the bankruptcy debts. Money owed much more than I could afford. Then, the invisible head of a bank, belonging to a national corporation, which was part of a vast crime, ordered the seizure of all My neighbor's goods. The good man is resigned to losing with dignity, your apartment, your car, your furniture and family heirlooms, and, to my knowledge, had an unwavering integrity ... But when he saw his little granddaughter crying because he lost his kids' corner, when he felt the despair of his daughter, who asked: What can we do, Dad, if we were left with nothing?, did not have enough courage in the heart to continue fighting. He opened the window of his apartment, and, without telling anyone, was launched through it and crossed the void with crazy movements. I walked down the street quiet, thinking of nothing, thinking nonsense, not knowing that was to witness the sudden collapse of a good man who, desperate and cornered, he had decided to end his life.
My neighbor spent over half an hour in a strange position, inhuman, pouring out his lifeblood on the street until the police finished their work and gave the order to pick it up. More than half an hour. He had not wanted his granddaughter to remember him well for the rest of his days ... "My grandfather? -Tell it in the future I do not recall her face, or if I wanted, or if he liked playing with me, I do not know if I told stories ... but I have never forgotten the position he acquired his body when vertebrae in your spine erupted after the coup ...". No, he would not have wanted that. His entire life fighting to stay in the memory of her granddaughter as a battered mannequin ... was simply a weakness ... was persuaded by the bland voice of eternal skeleton ...
continued my life, and met many people tired of being who they were, without love children, the elderly, lonely and shivering, tired of wanting women in vain, worn men in the endless quest to find a flower that did the understand ... through them I discovered the nonconformity, the cruel habit that drives us to be so miserable, so miserable ... and misery I saw in the faces of my fellow walked into my mirror in my veins, in the depth of my bones ... What if there redemption? What a fallacy! Beautiful, but impossible ... we are unhappy by our own choice, by our own will, improper use of our freedom. We take as our numbers of weights that do not deserve, which end up killing us without pity, when we got tired of dragging.
My eyes were open a little longer, before the pain forced me to desist. I had the opportunity to meet some people who appeared to be happy. Were they really? I do not know, but I have faith in that way. Perhaps it is they who to exempt the grace to live. ¿Qué motivos tenían para ser felices? Varios: amor, placer, codicia, contemplación, y muchos otros; sí, muchos más... cualquier cosa que lograra hacerlos vivir con pasión... quisiera creerles, pero sólo soy un inquilino en mi cuerpo, un transeúnte de este mundo, lo que evita que pueda integrarme a un corazón ajeno para descubrir cuánto de verdad hay en sus palabras. Lo único que puedo entrever, en algunos escasos momentos de conciencia, es qué cosas hay en mí cabeza, en mi pecho, qué sentimientos fluyen por mis venas. No puedo saber si un hombre es capaz de marchar sobre la miseria sin contaminarse... la verdad, es que nada sé... sólo creo en el llanto, porque he llorado; I believe in sadness, because I have suffered; believe in pain, because he has torn, and, above all, believe in death because, for the moment you, who you may be, is reading these words full of regrets, and I'll be dead.
I'll be away from everything. I'm tired of so much pain, to live in fear, to crawl and beg ... I'm tired of my self-pity, of myself, everything, every atom of the world ... death came to me, smiled, patted me, and his hands were stiff me not ungrateful. His breath smelled of old flowers enthralled my senses. Its spectral smile told me that you can avoid penalties and suffering, and crying, once my body returns to land and rest in peace forever.
do not believe in the afterlife. I do not believe in the Godhead, or in reincarnation or in heaven, purgatory, hell or whatever name you want to give men their desire to continue suffering in this harsh existence. "Prolonging life beyond my death? For what would I want a new life, if I am giving it to the unbearable weight that exceeds the capacity of my strength! "Becoming a more angel in heaven? For what would be an angel, if doomed to keep looking human misery over their heads! No! I I do not want to live, and that is my choice ...! It is my desire to be choice for the first time, the master of my fate, if only to lose it.
No matter how you do it. Perhaps out my picture in the yellow pages of a newspaper second. That will have the details, and rejoice rearward expression describing my dead body ... but that I will not be me ... I, I will not be ... break the path, kill the dog pulgoso, destroy the perfection of the spiral ... that will be my last step ...
A farewell tear for you. Sincerely cry because of my death I will have the pain of knowing you live ...".
I was a young inexperienced, naive, vain, meat, ash, dust and divine breath, accurate picture of my peers, unfinished dream of a god of course. Is it part of society? Of course, modestly proud of possessing the intangible glory of a promising future. My plans were the same as any: Travelling to remote places, enjoying the pleasures that give me life, build a niche to put down roots, having a child and feeling perpetuated in their blood and their genes, buy one or more cars, get married, cheer, find ways to unravel everyday mysteries of the world ... and I have it all, yes, all that, perhaps more ... fame, success, the many trinkets you can buy with money.
But fate had written another way for me. One day, when he walked down the street, thinking about some nonsense, I stumbled across a body that walked in the opposite direction. It was an old man, toothless, his beard chimó blackened waste. He, to me, after the slightest touch, I showed his toothless gums in a gesture of joy and innocence, and said, "Excuse bushté, jovenshito, this sholacho bites me in the face and you do not watch where I walk. .. ". I feel good energy emanating from the old man, he answered honestly: "Excuse me, sir, it's me who does not see where you walk ...". The grandfather, smiling again frankly, I whispered, "Esho not matter, child, no matter pa 'ná ... the trail is biting its tail, like dogs pulgoshos ... it does not get pa 'no more than over here, even if you have a good horse ... and bushté be no more than a pigeon trying to return to the nest ...".
After those words, I said goodbye to the old and continued my way. I wanted to stay with him and talk a while, perhaps to hear some stories that could distracted, or teach me anything, but I left him, and continued my way. However, to get away, I discovered that his brief talk I had left a taste in the mouth acetous. Quickly lit a cigarette, ready to plug that unpleasant taste with the first thing that came to hand.
outside a church in the early hours of any given night, I sat down to share my glass of liquor with beggars. They never asked for my company ... Even so, I sat next to him to annoy with my questions fools:
"Are not you afraid of you, sir, sleeping in the doorway of a church? I asked the nearest wreck human, face hidden by the many hardships endured "They say that souls will come to rest Penant these places ...". "Yes," replied the beggar, yes I'm afraid ... I do not like to sleep here! I do not know how they do, "he added, pointing to a shapeless, two or three strangers who drained his fatigue on some old cartons," it is as if he cared that cold air coming out from under the door ... those are the souls of the Penant, traveling in and out all the time ...". After saying this, the beggar was plunged into a bewildering silence, facing one of the columns abstracted the entrance of the church. I handed my glass of liquor, the content completed a sip, and asked: "And then, why you stay here?", Almost immediately regretting for having taken from his distant corner bleak. He stopped his eyes on me, too shady to understand my condition of bourgeois child, and I said nothing.
After a while, before the sun began to peek over the horizon, rose from his precarious shelter and left, with eyes marred by a mixture of hatred and resignation, they went away, ready to walk to where they forces reached; infinitely far away, beginning a circular path to take them every night to the gates of that old church.
A bitter aftertaste whipped my chest when I began to understand how hard that could be the misfortunes that ourselves, men and women, orphans of God, we are capable of inflicting. But I felt distant, alien to me ... a drop of compassion for a thirsty ...
saw the faces of a thousand girls, beautiful and fresh, perfect and radiant, as pure as the watermark unreadable to form a slice of fresh mandarin. They all smiled, and some I smiled ... but I could not love them, because they never knew. Never caught a timid hand stretched springs from the heart, and struggling to touch the souls of quines permit. But I was blind in my solitude for long. I left obscure by the small talk, brightness naive easy friendships, by the false estimates that I made up myself. I dreamed I was busy, important, tireless globetrotter, without ever sensed that the target is a pulgoso dog that bites its tail ... Who is not deceived, willingly or not, when you close the voluptuous lips of a beautiful woman whisper: "I love you"? Who does not feel important, when he tells his stunned colleagues that his wife was a show queen, your house looks like the castle, much to win in their spectacular work, or what pain his death the world cry? Who has not enjoyed the fleeting glory of a win occasionally? Vain all so vain! But I let the wine drunk by the companies ... I was a prisoner, like many of his lies dogmatic and moral ... because, ultimately, we are too alone, and our smallness begins to scare when we discover that we are not just a bunch of stuff that starts to decompose from the moment he is gestated ... and beauty, fame, glory, success and theoretical goals, conditioned or not, we end up accepting as our own, we become needy, in simple sad little boys in search of a caress desired.
Then I was tired of my world of props. Slowly, he began to disgust me passive complicity with all the misery that surrounded me.
Fate decreed that a stranger wanted to break my health condition. The doctors who treated me ignorant of their origin, and, of course, its cure. Consumed a thousand remedies without my evil improve, and started for the first time, to fear the inexorable scythe of death. My heart was always hard to the deaths of others ... I felt, every time he heard that someone died, that death was part of the majestic cycle of life, treating them as objects to my peers. But fate decreed that I get sick this time, and felt, firsthand, the brutal death vertigo.
and feared death. The horror got into my heart, worse than any nightmare child. The idea of \u200b\u200bknowing I am so fragile, so dust, so helpless before the final eternal mouth, began to harass me, and fear moved to sanity ... each step he took, every corner, in every dream, coming to me with great secrecy, with his tireless hook waiting for my last bite, with its skeletal hands always ready to suffocate, with his sharp scythe ready to mow my soul was it the dark lady, cool lady.
My fear stemmed from what I kept clinging to my dreams imagined. It was understandable, among many things, only owned my life, my body material of my millions of cells, and her death, his disembodied smile, his gaze impassive, I hinted that he also owned.
So, as suddenly as it came, just as he healed my condition. They finished the pains of my body but my soul was resentful ... this was not going to die, but, someday, end up losing the battle. Going to die someday, as all as all, as anyone, and would become food for worms and bacteria, in a pile of dust to which he escaped the blast magic of God, an entity report without thoughts nothing ... my ego, my ego, the synapses of my brain cells, all of me, turned to ashes ... ashes without memories, sad ash, ash trail in a few years no one will cry ...
My life continued, and living it, I discovered how much it hurts injustice. A neighbor, an elderly gentleman who only spoke of her granddaughter, was ruined. I had a good business, for plays cruel fate, one day broke. Brought the bankruptcy debts. Money owed much more than I could afford. Then, the invisible head of a bank, belonging to a national corporation, which was part of a vast crime, ordered the seizure of all My neighbor's goods. The good man is resigned to losing with dignity, your apartment, your car, your furniture and family heirlooms, and, to my knowledge, had an unwavering integrity ... But when he saw his little granddaughter crying because he lost his kids' corner, when he felt the despair of his daughter, who asked: What can we do, Dad, if we were left with nothing?, did not have enough courage in the heart to continue fighting. He opened the window of his apartment, and, without telling anyone, was launched through it and crossed the void with crazy movements. I walked down the street quiet, thinking of nothing, thinking nonsense, not knowing that was to witness the sudden collapse of a good man who, desperate and cornered, he had decided to end his life.
My neighbor spent over half an hour in a strange position, inhuman, pouring out his lifeblood on the street until the police finished their work and gave the order to pick it up. More than half an hour. He had not wanted his granddaughter to remember him well for the rest of his days ... "My grandfather? -Tell it in the future I do not recall her face, or if I wanted, or if he liked playing with me, I do not know if I told stories ... but I have never forgotten the position he acquired his body when vertebrae in your spine erupted after the coup ...". No, he would not have wanted that. His entire life fighting to stay in the memory of her granddaughter as a battered mannequin ... was simply a weakness ... was persuaded by the bland voice of eternal skeleton ...
continued my life, and met many people tired of being who they were, without love children, the elderly, lonely and shivering, tired of wanting women in vain, worn men in the endless quest to find a flower that did the understand ... through them I discovered the nonconformity, the cruel habit that drives us to be so miserable, so miserable ... and misery I saw in the faces of my fellow walked into my mirror in my veins, in the depth of my bones ... What if there redemption? What a fallacy! Beautiful, but impossible ... we are unhappy by our own choice, by our own will, improper use of our freedom. We take as our numbers of weights that do not deserve, which end up killing us without pity, when we got tired of dragging.
My eyes were open a little longer, before the pain forced me to desist. I had the opportunity to meet some people who appeared to be happy. Were they really? I do not know, but I have faith in that way. Perhaps it is they who to exempt the grace to live. ¿Qué motivos tenían para ser felices? Varios: amor, placer, codicia, contemplación, y muchos otros; sí, muchos más... cualquier cosa que lograra hacerlos vivir con pasión... quisiera creerles, pero sólo soy un inquilino en mi cuerpo, un transeúnte de este mundo, lo que evita que pueda integrarme a un corazón ajeno para descubrir cuánto de verdad hay en sus palabras. Lo único que puedo entrever, en algunos escasos momentos de conciencia, es qué cosas hay en mí cabeza, en mi pecho, qué sentimientos fluyen por mis venas. No puedo saber si un hombre es capaz de marchar sobre la miseria sin contaminarse... la verdad, es que nada sé... sólo creo en el llanto, porque he llorado; I believe in sadness, because I have suffered; believe in pain, because he has torn, and, above all, believe in death because, for the moment you, who you may be, is reading these words full of regrets, and I'll be dead.
I'll be away from everything. I'm tired of so much pain, to live in fear, to crawl and beg ... I'm tired of my self-pity, of myself, everything, every atom of the world ... death came to me, smiled, patted me, and his hands were stiff me not ungrateful. His breath smelled of old flowers enthralled my senses. Its spectral smile told me that you can avoid penalties and suffering, and crying, once my body returns to land and rest in peace forever.
do not believe in the afterlife. I do not believe in the Godhead, or in reincarnation or in heaven, purgatory, hell or whatever name you want to give men their desire to continue suffering in this harsh existence. "Prolonging life beyond my death? For what would I want a new life, if I am giving it to the unbearable weight that exceeds the capacity of my strength! "Becoming a more angel in heaven? For what would be an angel, if doomed to keep looking human misery over their heads! No! I I do not want to live, and that is my choice ...! It is my desire to be choice for the first time, the master of my fate, if only to lose it.
No matter how you do it. Perhaps out my picture in the yellow pages of a newspaper second. That will have the details, and rejoice rearward expression describing my dead body ... but that I will not be me ... I, I will not be ... break the path, kill the dog pulgoso, destroy the perfection of the spiral ... that will be my last step ...
A farewell tear for you. Sincerely cry because of my death I will have the pain of knowing you live ...".
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