As I have a birthday (faster and faster, it seems incredible how time flies), I'm stripped of adjectives, targets, reduction to the simple goal seems to be the I write, what I am.
Sure, they get it is another matter.
Perhaps what we call maturity is not more than that age where you learn, and you resign yourself to accept yourself as you are, how bad you weigh.
You reach an age where it is better not to have dealings with the promises, because just when they say them to others or you yourself the offer, anyway, are converted as if by magic double-edged sword with which it is impossible not to cut in vacuous purposes you know for sure that you will not be able to accomplish.
0 comments:
Post a Comment