One time. One day. One person. It doesn’t matter who, how or when. Just it can happen anytime, anywhere but not with anybody. Our story, which we are, what we’ve wanted to do? All are truth but can be a story. Story about getting to be. To be or to want? Who knows?
Writing at night can get mad a person. I think I got mad. It’s almost 5 a.m.
What we wanted to do? When I started to do, to activate or want to change the world? And now where I am and what I’m doing?
Questions are like a tsunami. They are going to destroy me. I have to take them easy. As easier as I can to pass this limbo. Maybe for reaching the heaven as soon as possible. It is possible. It’s a life. My damn life.
This can be my inspiration today.
Just I got this point: Love story is a trust story. Any story without having trust is a joke. A horrible joke. Exactly like that tsunami that I’ve said before. It’s too hot. Much hotter that what I have been expected. The sun is rising. The day is going to start and I have to go to sleep. This is how the seeker asylum passes days over days. Waiting and following a time. A time to have somewhere to live.
No place can be home. But at least it can be something like home. Home! What a strange word! Where is home? Where can be home?
Forget it. Sleeping can a good drug for these deliriums.
July 29, 2015