There is no way. The days went through as fast as the clouds in the sky, which seem to be slow but the truth is that if we look again after a minute they are already gone. The days are like the years, we don´t notice it but they go beyond.And so are the loves, and the friendships, and the people who die wheter we like it or not. And then everythings is kept like that, stored in our heads, kept like we were perpetual, but we are not. And the memories get mixed and get confused and condensate so much that for lots of years I kept a diary but after the eighth exemplar I gave up the attempt. There is no way, there is no remedy, nowadays I look myself at the mirror and I see the result of everything, even with the cosmetics and everything they offered us but the deep thruth is, as it was already said, if we look a minute after we are already someone else. It is so weird to be, this state between sleepy and awake, this state of walking through the crowd with no idea of what goes inside the others, look there, there that old man who has just passed my side , was he already young, does he know that he is going to die, look there that beautiful dog with such a shiny hair, he barks for food we bark for gold, and some of us even bite I think now. Maybe what makes me confuse isn´t how to start. We begin everything without knowing how, the thing is how to finish, what is this thing that everybody calls life which has a begin a middle and the end where is it, we never know when is this moment, and if we know we pretend that it´s going to last a little more, that is to feel satisfied and pretend that there is still enough time to fix all the sins, mistakes, lack of words of love or the punches we should have given someone. This so called existence must be therefore as a text, which I never know how to end, but if it was that so writers would know how to end it, no, life has nothing to do with a text or a story, it is this thing right without a certain definition from subject, predicade and with which I never know what to do.
"I want to tell you the ocean knows this, that life in its jewel boxes is endless as the sand, impossible to count, pure, and among the blood-colored grapes time has made the petal hard and shiny, made the jellyfish full of light and untied its knot, letting its musical threads fall from a horn of plenty made of infinite mother-of-pearl. I am nothing but the empty net which has gone on ahead of human eyes, dead in those darknesses, of fingers accustomed to the triangle, longitudes on the timid globe of an orange. I walked around as you do, investigating the endless star, and in my net, during the night, I woke up naked, the only thing caught, a fish trapped inside the wind."
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