"Everyone in this world, whether it be a hungry, a cripple, a farmer or a king has chosen his experience in order to learn from it. Only when he has learned it and be happy with her, go to another experience, which will provide an even greater understanding of your inner self. " (Bethlehem)
If my trenches and walls demolished. If I raise my defenses and, in an attempt to reconstruct, by inventing a better world in which I live, I open a door and sneak inside ... leaves out the fears that keep you from being kind to me. Leave out the arrogance, indifference and resentment. You do not need armor, or swords, and masks, inside my room.
This is what I am, a half-finished puzzle. Just a mirror, clouded by time and disappointment, but it can still reflect light.
not go to loot, there is little to be ... I just hope enough to warm, at times, certain places, certain corners. He suffered the assault of pirates and adventurers took him almost everything except the desire to believe and continue to grow.
Although nitrate filled, walls, chimneys and soot oxide bars, I still hold in this house, while refuge and den. There are only two full rooms: the set where I get to my friends, like old times, trying to hide with patched rags, all the misery in me. The other is the dark dungeon inhabited by my wishes. There, between wet anxieties, smashing the cupboards to find a memory to burn, when the cold creek me to the bone.
Ghost Whisperer prisoners, when I'm alone and not even the rats visit the mass graves and no one about to throw a crust, pass my days in a vain attempt to recover from the exile. And so, as strange murmuring sound of footsteps, chains clinked to free myself from the madness of silence. And I invented Venetian carnivals, high wigs and lavish costumes, gypsy music and furtive kisses. But sometimes, because when I raise my head chipped crutch, cane weak and eager to curse shouting, laughing instead of pretending.
no mistake, do not think that my front light, perfect places home. I'm not a museum-mausoleum and the cottage where they enjoy the visits, or a dream palace. Mine is like many others, a space built to withstand the weather. Do not think that, although a strong foundation, you can not burn the timber or moth-eaten curtains. Do not believe that intelligence is a shield against despair or pain waterproofing. But do not think I want a rescuer prince ... no, not that.
I no longer want a genie in my lamp. I ask only for now, a little oil in my mirror refracting lights.
This is what I am, a half-finished puzzle. Just a mirror, clouded by time and disappointment, but it can still reflect light.
not go to loot, there is little to be ... I just hope enough to warm, at times, certain places, certain corners. He suffered the assault of pirates and adventurers took him almost everything except the desire to believe and continue to grow.
Although nitrate filled, walls, chimneys and soot oxide bars, I still hold in this house, while refuge and den. There are only two full rooms: the set where I get to my friends, like old times, trying to hide with patched rags, all the misery in me. The other is the dark dungeon inhabited by my wishes. There, between wet anxieties, smashing the cupboards to find a memory to burn, when the cold creek me to the bone.
Ghost Whisperer prisoners, when I'm alone and not even the rats visit the mass graves and no one about to throw a crust, pass my days in a vain attempt to recover from the exile. And so, as strange murmuring sound of footsteps, chains clinked to free myself from the madness of silence. And I invented Venetian carnivals, high wigs and lavish costumes, gypsy music and furtive kisses. But sometimes, because when I raise my head chipped crutch, cane weak and eager to curse shouting, laughing instead of pretending.
no mistake, do not think that my front light, perfect places home. I'm not a museum-mausoleum and the cottage where they enjoy the visits, or a dream palace. Mine is like many others, a space built to withstand the weather. Do not think that, although a strong foundation, you can not burn the timber or moth-eaten curtains. Do not believe that intelligence is a shield against despair or pain waterproofing. But do not think I want a rescuer prince ... no, not that.
I no longer want a genie in my lamp. I ask only for now, a little oil in my mirror refracting lights.
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