These days I've walked cuzqueñas mountains, I've drowned by the height, I sang bossa nova in a bar, I embraced it, I wanted to, I cried for a farewell. These days, even if I have disappointed of Christmas, my mind and my body travel through the years that have passed, as if I were dying, I'm now this, are triggered ideas of what I do, live in stories in my head through deserts, in the midst of thirst in the midst of madness, stories of mothers who lost their children, stories of men who only want to walk alone, stories of people who do not want to leave your place, as if something inevitably tie, stories, voices, rain, humidity, faces, many people want to meet new people I do not speak my own language, I see colors that never knew existed. How fortunate I am, I am dedicated to telling stories, that live, breath that motherfuckers what aforunada am able to do the same since I am a girl who drew her thoughts in the air, on the floor, on the ground garden and then the sheets of paper. I'm immersed in a large centripetal moment where I realize that I am another human being. Be hu-ma-no. Me.
0 comments:
Post a Comment