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Sometimes you swear a thousand times will not do something that will not make the same mistakes, you will not stumble on the same stone, but the fate or what have capricious and headstrong thing makes you go on and on in the same. Surely anyone reading this and you will realize what I'm talking about, but is that really so difficult to understand how, at first glance , a jerk can be as followed in the same errors and mistakes forever. But after pondering a bit, and give a few laps in my head empty of ideas (the holiday period justifies it), I made certain assumptions and have drawn some conclusions that I present below:

Before anything, I would say that this case in particular I'm grieving for a crime still have not even committed, putting the patch before the injury. Sure, it happens that in such cases, one naturally wants to avoid at all costs that those same mistakes of the past that I talked a little back-surface new, but at the same time see how everything is happening and realizes that it is exactly or almost equal to what has happened several times already. It's really hard to take: one insists on avoiding error, but all roads lead to him, the same personality betrays one in his zeal, and at the end of all our belief in the beginning gives way to the impulses to be saying, first, timidly ( as for example in this paper ), and then, when there is no turning back, there is no other as long all.

As one song Saiko if I am not mistaken, "I learn from the mistake" of course! After so many cagazos an end to learn that one is fairly predictable, in the eyes of oneself, of course, in terms of reactions to certain circumstances and when it finally comes to these instances of knowing how the mechanisms of one, when one ends meet, and I think nothing left to give up on trying to act and molded to each mine, accept and resign ourselves to what is self "is what is just" and wait for one of these many failed attempts is not the end , formerly called the error ceases to be and the way we are is the right way to be, even for one person.

may sound like that "some of all has to work "but does not mean they are going to go through life-as we say in soccer jargon- " hitting everything that moves " , but establishing a pattern of conduct (the be yourself), even by a matter of statistics and probability, at some point going to work. Well, if you go to the romanticism should say: "The key is to be yourself, but if you are already tired of the clichés and wants to be slightly cooler, we recommend the previous option, the math: among many failed attempts, one will be.

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Each time I have written drought open the Word to try to get something mildly interesting, but I always get the impression after about three lines I do not think many people want to read the existential problems of a fool, or young or a man of 18 years. A guy who does not yet know for sure where he goes to micro, that studied little or nothing, who likes a girl and does not dare to gamble, they say they have friends who see little or nothing, having lunch alone in the courtyard on Friday , arriving late for classes or all the hair is pulled to see a problem with Enter.

I've counted seven lines (in Word ) and I decided to stick with it, to see what happens. I remember the last time I wrote out what, in my opinion (and that of several) was the best essay I've placed here: that of Deborah and I contemplate a half hour. This time it was all of a sudden, it was real inspiration was a thing of wanting to get home quickly, grab the notebook and type. Those are the elements needed to achieve a rich writing: inspiration, like writing. But lately that my special corner on the web, in addition to being overwhelmed by the simplicity of Fotolog (which, despite what may seem banal allows me to show another side of me), has not had food since there has been none of the above. No inspiration. The things that have happened not to want to have a mad desire to write and express to the world, and after all are the same as ever, and as someone once told me that, you can find here, or in any Blog of a person my age, or even less. On the urge to write, I have not failed to tell the truth, but as I said in the first paragraph, the concept is uncertainty of unknown origin sick of not knowing what (or who) write.

I guess I needed attention, because it also has become a pathological thing to review about 10 times a day Fotolog when I get a new picture for new posts ; similar thing with this, when I write something new. I do not know if it fills me know that I read or look at my pictures, or know me, or leave me messages, I really do not know. I've always pretended and at times tried to reflect an image of self, but I think many times I also pass the bill, and so when there are dips deep enough, to think the right and necessary, lie down and close my eyes and wait pass. And it happens, luckily, if I do not know what would happen to me.

I worry people think about me, who I care so much that I should care. Of how such type talks, how she dresses, who is coupled with, and so on. I trust not too worried as the rest, not socialize like some others do. I was also sorry to see my side and do away with people who believed they would be closer. Confuses me sometimes that my life is linked greatly to a computer, a group of nicknames givers phrases. Interesting phrases, but virtual. Could be real but I miss my mind my being antisocial.

At this stage of writing I can apparently more depressive kind in the world but it does not convince me. I still hope the providential event that will bring me out of lethargy. I keep waiting. Perhaps too static, but continue waiting.

Photo: "Night." Torre Coraceros, Viña del Mar. 7 February 2007, by Diego Cordero.

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Yesterday, upon arriving to class I sat watching television, in that typical time lag when you do not want to do anything after the U. Then I came across this.

The title of this post says "Here is a dream." Dream circumstantial understood. Exit lethargy, nothing, to sing. People semihipnotizado a beautiful song. A dance of all with all ...

is a love song, paradoxically, the further away is that, personally.
Still, captivating melodies, and with greater force the video.

Greetings.


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Travis The Boy With No Name (2007)

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Here is a dream and I

Yesterday, with nothing to do sat to contemplate what I think is poetry made woman. There are so many "art galleries roaming" really driven on the streets and you see every day, ie, captures only a second, but there are very few times that you have the opportunity to take time and sit to admire, what work of art in an exhibition, a woman.

I sitting, smoking his last cigarette from the pack and her two feet from me, alone on a cold foggy day. For the post was perfect, as always the stick with the right song, and started to look and tell every detail it was possible then verbalize through these lines. Excuse me in advance for use as a muse without their consent, but in view and considering that for quite a while that I was not the time to make a good letter, the timing was perfect to update the issue and incidentally, pay tribute her being a woman.

The truth is that the notebook I took then to do as I studied it was only an excuse to stay there marveling at it, perhaps not to feel a fool sitting in the cold doing nothing.

was browsing, something serious, the notebook, as she did the same with a book. I was surprised, particularly their loneliness. So tiny it there so put aside. Probably wait for someone who never came, but could also find that loneliness. Soledad something inexplicable, because with its innate appeal was rather strange that a boy had at least next to it. Well, actually, yes there was. I was.

just smoked my cigarette and after a while she lit one. Was to move to a new cadre of exposure, but by the same artist: the profile that one could see it had changed diametrically. Now she smoked, and for a reason do understand, but I can not explain, it became even more attractive, even more women. His apparently innocent drifting student vanished on that one detail: the cigarette.

Then, seeing her smoking realized that my own pack was empty. I went for another and returned to the exposure. The excuse of the book I was doing something ridiculous and childish, so I opened the pack and lit another cigarette. It was the third day, and the second on 15 minutes but 10 minutes were worth less to live another 5 further immersed in this gallery .

Soon came a couple of mates, a little chat and it was time to leave. They left and I was finishing throwing smoke. Providentially Tell me I was given 5 minutes to watch this time, no excuses: the problem of closure of the bag was real, so I was taking care of it once as he dropped his furtive glances figure had returned to the innocent girl without the cigar.

accommodate a chair from his table and departed, without having dared to say "Hello, your name is (...), right? Choose to send greetings to your sister from Diego. "

If you were to read this: Excuse me for plasmarte here and thank you for leaving your company away. I was the guy in the blue jacket, the same numb with cold. The study and saw you smoking that cold Friday 29.