I'm plunging into the summer. As a boat overloaded with fruit and bamboo trees somewhere in the difficult waters of the South. The water is shimmering over the edge, watering the bottom and bare feet on an unsafe stronghold beneath me. I'm immersing in the summer, the smell of dark, green foliage, in the sunny skies and glowing days without a breeze ... plunging. Another, better or worse, I know it's just another one that will pass like all the past had passed, ruined by tortures or make-up smile, it will pass..
I do not live like other people, (or, do not know how other people live). Just what it grew up in my dreams is real for me. It as the only truth that may not be true but at least it is mine. In the world where they respect possessive pronouns, have something of his character is a status, a symbol of success, which leaves a trail behind him like a jet through the clarity of the sky, a trail which can be so quickly lost.
Where are the others? Where are my people, asking the mute language of every child in every man in the long search of its kind, under the wide roof of homo sapiens. We may be yellow, white or black, autistic or above average intelligent, born in the metropolis or the other side, maybe we're destined to us understood only by those whose basic assumptions similar. We choose where we are home, we choose cans with expiration date and additives, we choose clothes, programms, actually, we are chosen. We are chosen by smart deliberated advertisements, we are chosen by parties and hypocritical social programms, we are chosen by country and registry offices where we are branded after our birth, without asking anything, as we could have respond, even is they had asked us. In addition to the open window, the stale commotion air out and freshed evening that penetrates the overlay and the police, I feel that some faint fluid emerges from somewhere, from the ancient being born in me and go, go like a stream of solid glacier, the brave, a small stream that runs into the night.
I can not write about the traditions, I can write about events, people who have lived, I can not write about it pretty well... I tried but at the end of all those great candid and truthful sentences have changed in the disgusting pinky color, and somehow one step away from the ground or in the air or on the land, such as a false and shallow ponds on the road.
I can not write about it because I do not really know anything about it. I can not keep the story, do not know how to design plots and in the end still wish to kill all the main heroes. Masochistic act of killing yourself, think of the characters that the writer always carry a part of him, metaphorically, altered beyond recognition, but a piece of meat of his spirit.
