Kids: do NOT stay at home for longer than 4 days.

It happens everytime. It happens every single time I wanna write something. I fear that thin line that flickers on the screen on the white background, every single time, I swear. It drives me crazy cause I really have something to tell, and the 99% of times I do not, just because of that filthy thin line. Stupid fucking filthy thin line, I hate you. And I'd call you a thousand of worse names, trust me. I'm just being nice, keep that in mind you whore.
You see? That wasn't the point. I forgot what the point was.
Maybe that's the point. I know I need to get this out of my chest, I feel the need to write. I think I lost all inspiration. The other night I had some extraordinary ideas, and I wanted to write them down, but I was so tired that I fell asleep. Next morning I just didn't have that... Impulse. God, I don't know what the fuck I should do, with any of this. I wanna write, but I can't. I wanna draw, but for Christ's sake better avoid the world that senseless torture. All I can do is write on my diary, or here, where I feel more comfortable because I can erase things, and think them twice. And just because I know nobody reads this shit, I feel a little bit comfortable writing this in English. I feel less stupid writing in English here than in my diary, I read it constantly. And sometimes I assert myself. Creepy.
There's just something I feel I miss. I don't really know what it is, but I feel that something's missing inside me -not literally, that would be disgusting-. I feel somehow, somewhere, I lost a very important part of myself. Mental Note: check the drawers and under bed. Just in case.

Things are getting pretty strange round here, you know. I've just seen American History X and Seven, and I realized how cruel the human beings can be. How insensitive, how unsympathetic. And it gets me really upset, it's something I just don't undersand. I'm not talking only about nazis or crazy people who murder other people basing on the seven capital sins, not at all. I'm talking about people. About society. About everything we know.
I knew world was a rough place to live, that life itself was rough, harsh, cruel, ruthless. But not that much. Yesterday somebody tried to get out of my head the idea that people can't be good, but he just couldn't. I still belive in people. It just gets harder and harder to keep that in mind, but faith won't be snatched from me. No, sir. But I addmit, sometimes I need to remind myself I really trust that, because there's so much injustice. I see people waste their lives for a stupid idea. Because, as somebody once said, a simple idea becomes dangerous if it's the only one you have.
Sometimes I feel like people want me to hate myself, or to blame myself for things that probably I haven't done, and for some reason -but just for a second- I trust them. But then... I realize that it's not me who I have to blame. They make me blame the world, blame people, blame them. And that leads to a self-blaming for all of that.
Sometimes I wish I could run away. Far, far, far away. Where anyone knows me, and they're not to judge me, cause they don't know me at all, not a spoken word about me. A stranger. To camouflage myself with the background, be part of everything and pass unnoticed. I need some time with me, myself and I. And some music. A bit of selfishness. That's all.
That's all, J. That's all...



Today, Robin Hackett made my day.

Oklahoma City National Memorial

The Survivor Tree.

An American elm on the north side of the Memorial, this tree was the only shade tree in the parking lot across the street from the Murrah Building, and commuters came in to work early to get one of the shady parking spots provided by its branches. Photos of Oklahoma City taken around the time of statehood (1907) show this tree, meaning it is currently at least 103 years old. Despite its age, the tree was neglected and taken for granted prior to the blast. Heavily damaged by the bomb, the Tree ultimately survived after nearly being chopped down during the initial investigation, in order to recover evidence hanging in its branches and embedded in its bark. The inscription around the inside of the deck wall around the Survivor Tree reads: The spirit of this city and this nation will not be defeated; our deeply rooted faith sustains us.

The Gates of Time.

Monumental twin bronze gates frame the moment of destruction - 9:02 - and mark the formal entrances to the Outdoor Memorial. 9:01, found on the eastern gate, represents the last moments of peace, while its opposite on the western gate, 9:03, represents the first moments of recovery. Both time stamps are inscribed on the interior of the monument, facing each other and the Reflecting Pool. The outside of each gate bears this inscription: We come here to remember Those who were killed, those who survived and those changed forever. May all who leave here know the impact of violence. May this memorial offer comfort, strength, peace, hope and serenity.

Reflecting Pool.
A thin layer of water flowing over polished black granite, the Reflecting Pool runs east to west down the center of the Memorial on what was once Fifth Street. Visitors who see their reflection in the reflecting pool are supposed to see "a face of a person changed by domestic terrorism."



It's just somewhere everyone should visit.

Ebony and ivory live togheter in perfect harmony

-Pues a mí me parece que tocas de maravilla- apunté.
-Qué va. Mi tío, que es un melómano de pro, hasta me ha puesto un maestro de música para enmendarme. Es un compositor joven que promete mucho. Se llama Adrían Neri y ha estudiado en París y en Viena. Tengo que presentártelo. Está componiendo una sinfonía que le va a estrenar la orquesta Ciudad de Barcelona, porque su tío está en la junta directiva. Es un genio
-¿El tío o el sobrino?
-No seas malicioso, Daniel. Seguro que Adrián te cae divinamente.
Como un piano de cola desde un séptimo piso, pensé.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C_N6rASqJ0c

En otra vida, en otro mundo, pero a tu lado.

He muerto y he resucitado, con mis cenizas un árbol he plantado, su fruto ha dado y desde hoy algo ha empezado. He roto todos mis poemas, los de tristezas y de penas. Lo he pensado y hoy sin dudar vuelvo a tu lado. Ayúdame y te habré ayudado, que hoy he soñado en otra vida, en otro mundo, pero a tu lado. Ya no persigo sueños rotos, los he cosido con el hilo de tus ojos y te he cantado al son de acordes aún no inventados.



Dios, te ofrezco a Justin Bieber y a Hanna Montana a cambio de Enrique Urquijo y Antonio Vega

Into a place where thoughts can bloom

Está oscuro. Tienes los ojos cerrados, pero sientes que no tienes por qué abrirlos, ves de todas formas. Notas que los rayos del Sol inciden sobre ti, y puedes ver sin necesidad de usar tus ojos. Abres tus pulmones, y el aire roza cada alveolo suavemente brindándole el oxígeno más puro que jamás hayan tenido el placer de intercambiar. Inspiras cada vez más fuerte, pero no porque te cueste respirar, si no porque quieres albergar en ti todo el aire posible. Sientes su aroma, su aroma a paz, a libertad, a menta, jazmín, palomitas y todas las cosas que te encantan.Decides investigar de qué está hecha tu mullida cama. Pincha un poco, pero no molesta. Qué es, ¿trigo? Exacto. Acaricias sus espigas. Sabes que en condiciones normales deberían pinchar mucho más, pero esta vez no. Esta vez querrías hacer de ese trigo tu colchón y dormir en él cada noche. Pero no te importa lo que pasará cuando se haga de noche, porque nunca se hará de noche. La tierra, curiosamente, está húmeda bajo tus pies, y decides hundirlos en ella. Notas cada milímetro de tus dedos hundiéndose poco a poco, frescos, y te da igual si te manchas. De repente corre una suave brisa, fresca, y se te pone la piel de gallina, pero no es desagradable. Y con la llegada de la brisa, sientes que hay alguien a tu lado. ¿Quién es? Se acerca lentamente a ti, mientras que tu corazón late desbocado. Se aproxima a tu oído, y le escuchas abrir la boca para coger aliento y decir....

8 AM.
Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing....

Sientes ganas de matar por haber sido sacado de ese mundo. ¿Quién era esa persona? ¿Y qué te iba a decir? Ya nunca lo sabrás, es demasiado difícil volver a soñar con lo mismo, y de manera tan vívida. Y entonces, justo entonces, sonríes. No necesitas esperar a nada. Puedes volver a ese campo de trigo siempre que lo desees. Es tuyo. Soñar no implica estar dormido.
¿Que quién era? Solo vuelve a cerrar los ojos. Tú lo sabes.
¿Que qué iba a decir? No esperes a escucharlo. No hace falta, ya lo sabes.
Sonríes de nuevo, y.......................................................................................................................

:)

This is no Bridget Jones

I've met someone that makes me feel seasick! Oh what a skill to have, oh what a skill to have. So many skills that make her distinctive, but they're not mine to have, no they're not mine.
Whenever she looks I read the nearest paper, though I don't care about the soaps -no, I don't care about the soaps-, though I'm acting like i'm in an Eastenders episode.
If this is a rom-com, kill the director! If this is a rom-com, kill the director, please!
Carrots help us see much better in the dark. Don't talk to girls, they'll break your heart. And this is my head and this is my spout, but they work together and they can't figure anything out.
So with the angst of a teenage band, here's another song about a gender I'll never understand. Here's another song about a gender i'll never understand.

This is no Bridget Jones

I was missing you, guys! Hope you did too ;)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bXCf6pPjaKw