the other day i was looking at some old dvd’s and i found a few forgotten documents on it. there was this one that brought my attention, it was called: the first.
i was always eager about stories, so i have folders and folders full of ebooks. i started reading the first. the writing was so beautiful and appealing! it spoke right through me. i was trying to find the author, asking myself if it was me that wrote that. but at the same time refusing the idea, because i couldn’t remember writing in such a mesmerizing way. it may seem like i’m bragging, instead i’m letting you know how i felt. as honestly as i can.
it felt like a sign, though. that was me, telling my story.
i was speaking from the heart, and it seemed like it was the universe itself flowing through me. that is not uncommon to artists. many of them told a similar story: how just the words went through them, all they had to do was write. or paint. or sculpt.
my love story, which is kind of my whole story, is one worth of writing, of telling and showing. i believe the world needs to know about it. it has many difficult moments, many childish behaviors, a lot of desperation and craziness. but it’s also engraved by magic, by beautiful details, by wonderful, caring moments, by ecstatic instants of joy and fun, and, again, craziness.
i think my life has something to teach you, to inspire you, to make you feel that you’re not the only one, and that if i did it, you can do it too. i’m here to help, to encourage. to remember how strong i am, how strong you are.
i’m not perfect. i don’t have lots of money. nor am i an expert on anything. but i have value. something to share.
today, i’ll leave you with a fragment of what i read on the first. so you can tell if is all that good or just my ego talking. if you want to read all of it, you’ll have to wait for my newsletter, tomorrow!
life is a nest. – i thought one day – a set of tangled branches, full of knots and braids that snuggle or bark at us.
and we… we are errant birds that fly between the winds and reappear in a tweet at a corner of a window.
every existence has a story to tell, and from each one we can write a book; with every one of them we can laugh, cry, get emotional, to feel horror or fear… every life carries a moral, at least.
and if we bring together the story of every being? we would create the universe’s biography! that immense entity, from which we know almost nothing…
everything came from an explosion, the cosmos and my souvenir of the past. it’s amazing as something that no longer exists can still take an effect on us. there is only a bright and dusty trail that shows us where it came from and how it connected with us.
it is confusing, isn’t it? something that invokes destruction, being capable of conceiving a new essence…
our heart always have been a small volcano of feelings, entering into eruption as soon as it is provoked. sparks of love, and hate, of joy and sadness can jump and warm, or even burn, whoever is near us.
i always lived by my heart and i never knew how to behave differently, even if sometimes i felt regret…
however, today more than ever, i feel the urge to burn the little box of the past. and it bursts in me the fire of rewriting it in a different way.
the present is being a gift that helps me to wake up every day, and that caresses me when i lay down every night; at the same time, in certain moments, it provokes revolt and i am ashamed of the person i used to be and the acts i had the courage to execute. after all, a part of me ended confiscated.
the present could be a lot better if i had learned other kinds of realities. i would know how to give more to whom is by my side, and that person wouldn’t need to suffer as much when remembering the times when he weren’t part of my sphere.
no one guesses what will happen and we end up living in a sloppy sort of way. i’ve always been a bit distrustful, i didn’t accept myself and for that i had always considered to live by myself the rest of my life: to marry was never on my plans. but, the unexpected touched my heart while i was giving my back to life itself.
i could do nothing except to follow it, blind and empty so i could be filled and see a whole new world.
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