It remains suspended. Attached only to hope. One to which you want to believe tenaciously. To which you morbid attachment. Obsessively. Otherwise it would be in mourning. The prorpio. Then necessarily exist. Must exist. In any form. As God as human potential. As revenge. How I hate. As love. The mind gets used to believe that there is a ground on which to rest your feet firmly. And the search. Everywhere. But if it had trouble finding it. Do not recognize him. "No." say. "This can not be happiness! No. That was not my hope! I shook dreams, climbed mountains, I was alive. I flew in the sky." Instead it's all here. So!?
stripped of all clothing when you're not normal. But when you lose hope, nothing more is normal. The clothes fit well but not like anymore. Then it is normal to undress and remain empty. Do not fill more than gold and silver. It must be the hope. Always. To me unless you are strong enough to recognize any sense and move on without meaning to. Unless you rely only on brute laws of this world and not look elsewhere improvements. Remain anchored to the ground and not look at the sky. The point is that you get older and my back is curved down. It will be increasingly difficult to look at the sky. But keep hope alive. Hope to see everything a little better. And he resists until you come to a puddle of water with a stick that helps us to walk and see reflected there, in that putrid puddle once again the sky. From the tears of God falls and stagnant watch the colors of the rainbow. And though disappointed by life, still so full of bitter memories, we will not have the courage to use his stick to strike the puddle splashing and standing water. We become intoxicated once again that image even if dirty and worn. Because human beings are attracted to the illusions. If you turn off the light, we become just a machine. To live we use everything and everyone. Bitter truth.
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