Seven absent years, but always presents. If you don't love you, you will never be able to love nobody.

It seems that it went there are moments, but already seven years accumulated. The time is shown insensitive before the ephemeral adventure of the life. Our parents improve for us to guarantee us the possible best, but the impossible of the men bad pursues us, and the unhappiness that they impose is us our constant fight of seeing to be born and dying of the days. 

When we took long trips for the highways remember your anguish of showing me the unknown world that surrounded my youth and that I made an effort for photographing for later to remember. All of the moments are perennial of life, but those, let us say, abstractions, get lost because we lived momentary aspirations, that we looked for to tranquilize in the plots of the love, and when finally the door of the happiness if he opens us, we are already prepared to receive the prize of the death, the Beyond that it waives us constantly and that we faked not to see, as if the death didn't snatch us, as if we convinced ourselves that we will live many and many years, in the vain attempt that the other ones to our turn embark for the funereal paradise, and us no.   

How many and how many gestures of tenderness and encounters in the bedroom of the love refused because there was, there is, a work that she cannot postpone. Yes, for terms success we have to despise, to postpone who in the owner because the television cameras and of the movies they wait for us already almost or of facto celebrities. What is more important, the love of those what surround us, to who we should love on all of the things, or the ephemeral success of our business career, politics, mundane? It is later, already celebrities, public illustrations, we returned to the nostalgia of the after all we wasted our precious time to love the mundane things, when our lover's abandoned buried love, everything in lost efforts. 

To refuse, to despise the love is to annihilate our body, as the smoker that prefers to destroy because he doesn't have anybody to who loves. Because who doesn't love her body cannot love somebody else, and if he does postulates him the laws of the hypocrisy. If you don't love you, you will never be able to love nobody. 

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Because to trust the love it is easy, difficult is of him to free ourselves

I look at those moments as if they were the last ones, and I hear the soft traveled chords of a piano, as if a very stormy afternoon pursued me. Does it seem that we don't know, or did we fake, what everything the one what in the fence of sadness also fills with joy, that little or does he swim remains already of our feelings? My God! As we are so confined! Because in our youth we waited, and did we trust, whenever anybody frees us and again do enslave us? Because we didn't free ourselves? Because to trust the love it is easy, difficult is of him to free ourselves. 

As it is salutary to hear the murmur of coiling of the water of a creek, sweet, sad, as sliding of the fingers in the keys of a piano of the lost Freedom, spoiled. It is the sonority of the fortress of the Freedom and of the love that they move us for the tenderness of the lost years. As it is difficult and heavy to believe in somebody, because the hypocrisy is the hymn and the flag of so much democratic falsehood. There are human monstrosities that under the champions' of the democracy disguise and of the human rights, they are the denial of the love, and of the human species. 

Everything consumes energy, the Freedom also, it just awaits for our decision, so that it wakes up of the artificial sleep. As if love banks existed, and in them it was allowed to open up a bank account on behalf of the Love.

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