Sometimes I do not know if I'm confused or sad or just sad and confused. I feel something inside me that drives me smile constantly and yet I do not. The need to write takes over at that point in my hand, like a crack addict it were, I have to rush, feeling cramps throughout the body until I sit in front of a page and I get to write.
begin to feel a sense of relief as the words are flowing, I relax the muscles and mouth begin to savor the nostalgia. Sad memories hit my head and flow through the arm tingling. Each new idea to drive out this way is a liberation. Sometimes I see as letters refuse to walk out when the comb of the pen, scratching the walls and shouting, but I have no mercy and the role turns out to be his tomb.
If you reread once, the stomach flips and my mind travels to those places, wearing old clothes and old reminds me of lipstick smells and spite. If you reread it sometimes felt more freedom and becomes a smile (albeit temporary) appears on my face. Once my arm is relaxed and there is nothing more than spitting became aware of what happened. I have plunged into a deep depression where even the whiskey has been able to bring me afloat. My table was the blank page and the waves that have led me to the edge points in it The murals. However
feel fear, because fear immerse myself too long in that depression removable, in that sense of guilt, resentment and hatred. In that bloody dance in a waltz that sounds with the rhythm of the past, where this does not matter and even for the future. I fear being addicted to the temporary sadness, pessimism, momentary defeat. I guess just in that state I can show myself, playing the notes that move my soul and to compose the melody of my life.
Is that we are too afraid to be happy?
tristefelicidad I prefer.
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