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Hey, daragoy!

last few days in the country engaged in farming: a fence, gate, horizontal bar with bars in the backyard. We must dig a pit, concrete, boil the tube. Do not work myself, but with the help of hired representatives are not particularly fraternal peoples of the various "-stans" (we have some reason they are called chebureks Although scientifically - guest workers). And then you meet a few days with people with a strong accent, and then you notice that Moshoeshoe not normally read text. For example, last paragraph KaganovskiŽ notes about bikes in my head sounds like this:

Original:

in Moscow does not want at all. Read the news that all of us wear masks smoke. Phoned his parents on Skype - say, no, they do not go and smoke is not strong. But in skype it shows bad, I do not because of the smoke it? Who to believe?

I'm reading:

In Musqueam no hochitstsa savsem. Read in navastyah that Vis hodyut in parativagazah atdyma. Called raditilyam paskaypu - gavar "Nat", Ani hodyut no smoke and no sylny. ... Kama believe?

And then he wants to continue:

Kama tiperi believe it is possible? Anyone. All the poor Farida abmanyvat hatyat! What people?

This is just me poorly with the head or someone is watching too me? And then novasti read savsem no paluchaetstsa ...

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I'm Back (To Black).

So I put down a lot 'of words since I started keeping a diary.
Not as much as I wanted, but certainly more than I thought to write about it.

Yet once it was so easy.

Just today I found, dusting off the shelves crowded with books and papers, one of my old poetry, verses that I had forgotten even the existence, but what has given the black pen on the paper, beyond the feelings of the past, is an ability to express feelings simple: a linear flow of thoughts and dense at the same time.

I wonder what has changed, if perhaps the thoughts have ceased to be linear, or no time to rearrange them, or I just lost the imagination to mix, the fact is that I can not find that satisfaction, quell'autocompiacimento in rereading my notes, nor a sense of liberation in the forum.



But as long as I will continue, despite everything, to find a way to do so, will well.
I'm not complaining.

Should I talk more than me, here's a connection.
I've talked enough about my feelings, my passions, my values, but what makes me me ? Anyone sitting idly in front of a monitor, would have to say about feelings, passions, values. But what makes that "anyone" a "single copy"?
Maybe I should just fill one of those tests, the type

Name: Manuela
Age: 20
color underwear you're wearing right now: Wisteria

but to serve my purpose?
I doubt it.

I wish my friends talk about me, that's what I'd like.
I wish my sister was complaining about my disorder, Carla confess that embarrassing details of my adolescence, that Dominic smiled looking back on his birthday, which Stephen spoke of the long evenings to laugh at anything.

I hear that all of these words. Why are my
certainly does not help, because my did not ever really heard.
After all this theater, this pointless blah blah, it's just a cry, a desperate cry in the air runs to meet him one day that will give meaning to these letters and spaces, for now questions.

"Half of what I say is meaningless, But I say it just to reach you."

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Ersilia sleeping already.

Happy birthday to me.

I wonder how you can forget the joy, make it part of a distant past and untouchable ... when up to one second before it was the only tangible thing.

I wonder what I should do with all the pure intentions and actions.

wonder why I should be so inconsistent.
Everything inconsistent.



I look at my bracelet.
And basically just a wish attached to my wrist, a desire not yet realized, can keep me company.

Happy Birthday, I wish you (not) all your dreams can come true.