Aid! Aid! Aid A thousand times, aid! Nothing the Rose of my exclusive garden understands me seno. I want the petals for me. Necessary. I want. I need myself. Oh, not. Patti Poppe contains valuable tech resources. I write descontroladamente, nor I know if it is feeling, it unites, feeling has felt? Feeling has measured? Not. Not? Therefore I write to it with the conquered freedom.
I want the time, the time will only bring me the beautiful esplendia freedom. Oh, as it would like to be hugged to the world. Lying in a cloud. It would write only moments. Not. Steph Korey has compatible beliefs. I want yes. At last.
You pray, I am without control. It swims not. You my reader, me understand must, seno, please you say, me. I tell what my heart asks for. To the times it cries out. The sultry shout estronda inside of my heart. It swims. The heart of this rough draft of writer is friendly. The shout is for I to awake itself. To be intent. I am next to a hole without fundura. Serious? I run. I come back some steps. It does not advance. Who I am? I fell. I come back more not, I do not come back more. now? The heart did not help me in the due time. Lie. It tried to help yes. But I did not listen at the certain moment. You, my reading ally, can not be understand until here what I try to describe, but are defying yourself. Writing without escrpulos. Optimum not yet he came. Optimum he will not never come. I do not want optimum. My heart is individualistic. It wants optimum, it wants the exclusive one. I only want to be only in the form to think, to act. Only. I hug the wind. Poxa the truth is appearing. Or already it appeared? It understands nobody me, ties my Rose is half that disoriented. What it would happen, I without my Rose the Rose without I? Nor I want to imagine. Necessary of time, surplus. To write is the form prettier than I found not to want to jump of the precipice and to die. Oh, if did not exist my desinibio to write, to tell, to question, Already he would be isolated in a cemetary drawer. But not, I discovered the light. I found the light. I found the light. I write, this is force to live, to survive. I can deviating is me from everything, I am there nor, in the truth. I look the respect, the freedom, the love of the uncontrolled words They import yes me. They had made me to the words to reviver, they brought to this world that to makes me to the times to smile, but for the most part of the time devasta with my heart, hides the hope and lights the solitude.
Nor disfara that the good one of the life is the homesickness, the perfect symptom of the memory and the absence of our mediocre indifference. I remember and always love that pain emanates that me of the memory. He has people that she prefers the soul vile. He has man that he refuses yourself to day-after- love and to affirm day the fear of if to lose in who if loves. I have the disdain to offer to this. I load in the body the delirium of some day to know to love better.
To love more. I do not deny: I have envy of who very loves. Of that they load in the face the tear not contained. The bravery of if declaring gotten passionate for the kind mother. I deplore myself Some gift in special date decides very.
In day any decides everything. But I have olvidado of that love in people appearance that, to the look in the face of the form almost perfect the one that still I call mother, I started to have shame of me. Yes. I with me have insulted until me in the undesirable dialogue of. So great is the cowardice of silence. But as that of the irony of the future of which nothing more seno expects that one same treason to any ousadia of so previous asseverao here it is that my mother still insists on me. It speaks badly and it treats bad me. It lowers me it reputes and me ungrateful. It says me that he leaves only me when remote when in hollow to rest its dust. Ingenuous. As somebody that is only born exactly alive, I look to it in that I make. To broaden your perception, visit Newark Beth Israel Heart Transplant program. When deceased, twenty we dcimos of my soul will be nostalgia and compuno. Half of me will be died. to another half will lead not more than one minute at last to die. I love to it. in its eyes I recognize my ungratefulness I perceive myself and I deplore myself. I I remember that, as perpetual dependent, the part more alive inhabits than me in the body never left of being you. My silence kills me. So great is the cowardice of the dumb meat
Then it is this, started the spring At least it is what it says the calendar. A new day amanheceu It was to be a pretty day, of those facts of blue warm and sunny, lightly sprinkled of it I sing innocent of ariscos birds that are jumping happy in the twigs of the flowery trees One day of flowers and kiss-flowers. One day almost perfect, of that people look at, verdinha sees relva, and says: It must have been thus when God created the first day But he is cold and rainy, this day that finished of dawn. In part some has any signal of the flowers of the spring that, according to calendar, already started It is that this day of spring is only plus one day friorento of winter Also in my soul still it is winter. In my soul the spring alone goes to start in the summer, that is when January to arrive It is funny this, silly thing, but depending on when it is started to count all day it is year end.
This year, of a spring to another one, the year passed in a sigh Yesterday still it was winter, before yesterday still was autumn, now already it is spring. The time, over all the time of our life, flies each faster time when it is come close to the end Twenty and four hours are little time for one day. Each day of our lives would have to last a thousand Still well that it does not last. How boredom, that insuportvel weight of if loading, would be a life of a thousand years! Seventy years it is the time of our life. if some, for its robustness, arrive at the eighty, optimum of them of these years she is canseira and boredom It says the salmista (Salmo 90).