I am lost again in a sea of useless thoughts, of lost dreams, of endless fights to find a that person, Anahí, a middle-adult middle-child that already doesn't know how to face up to life, face up with a smile and all her strengh, (That is the thing I believe when I think in the moments I lived in a city that now is far) or with a tear, that falls too when I think in the reality of present. And I'm present and absent. Most of times absent. Because I'm not here. I wasn't never here. It's difficult to explain.
There are people who admires me. They admire me because of how I sing, of how I write, they admire my capacity of learning languages (Although I'm lazy) or to understand me with this f.. computers, although sometimes I become their slave. Well, about my artistically gifs, I only can tell something. Writing is not an ability. It's an illness. If yow want witing something good, you must to try it with your own stories and emotions, and sometimes are produced some strange sensations. Too strange. Sometimes almost suicidal.