Diary of a suicidal mother
Yesterday lyrics sensed fear in your eyes. These framing your soul leaves spiral bound and concentrate on seeing passing representation of your life. Are you happy? And it is barely an echo. The cries come later. After the wrinkles have framed your eyes and your tongue cigars have bitter sullen. When there is no more to go back and you realize you did it no more than repeat his steps stubbed, you almost have to fall but that she was thrown into a pit six feet underground. She, like you, loved art. He tried painting, dancing, singing and even handed, but then, when all the techniques had failed, was left with only writing. I inherited it. For she started to translate your regrets pages of newsprint. The considered irrelevant and ephemeral. Like everything that until then had done. But your writing was not. For it to preserve your life, and has managed to survive ten years. is a mystery how he got his diary in your hands. "I'll send it from beyond? Impossible. He should leave it charge for a relative who then sent by DHL. So things work today. Even the dead are no longer scared. How did you feel when you saw him? When did you discover that within the plastic bag that cost you break both your letter came clumped in ideas? Ideas were transformed into nightmares. And there were nightmares any but the most intimate. They say that only a newspaper or anyone when he's drunk. You thought it was a joke, right? But then I started to find in this world of spiders vain laconic references accurate in your life and your family. Discovered that there was no turning back. That was when you knew that Alberto was not your brother, but your half-brother. But no one knew his father. Or was the mother who was missing? And Lucy was adopted. Who knew that this cousin of yours, so proud and fine, it would be the stepdaughter of the house. But never say it, but the hate. That's called your mother at the end of the page. Before removing the clip that held the following pages you had to promise not to reveal the secrets that you'd see there. How hard did you then move forward. Had wanted to burn it, like you do with your poems more pretentious. What reason did have secrets they can not yell? You still bemoaning your bad luck, when you came to the April 12, 1984. There, with colorless ink you hear about your father. Come one to know these things so late. Now that your life was level after beating addictions, trauma and psychosis. After spending a fortune on psychologists and soothsayers: if it had been so easy to discover the truth. But how could you know, if he never saw. Perhaps the day I found him in the street. You were so sure it was him. You knew by instinct. Then came the desire to get closer to greet him. And say what? What you say to a father who died wanders the streets? Then I thought of yelling, but you let go. Passed without seeing. Without realizing that he left behind a trail of bitterness and hatred that could never wash the body. Neither soap nor drinks. And your mother always said it was dead even denied him twice that morning. And you believed him. He believed not believe, because it was easier to believe him to ask why. Now you know. And it's too late to scream. It was long. The following page did not contain much. They were just pictures. Green ink drawings on blue stripes. Perhaps a frustrated love, a crime, an orgy. What did you know? What did it matter? Does not have Moms also have fun right? No, not yours. Yours was a saint. Santa in your eyes, because look what would you find out everything on the following pages. How he must have hurt. But it was nice to know the lover of your Aunt Amparo. Is not that right? That little old lady now ninety-odd years, he was always a moral example and devotion to Uncle Fred. Poor Uncle Fred. The black-footed and proud before the world. The bad was, certainly, but it was a routine love. Uncle Fred did not want to ever offend when humiliated in public. She bent her face. How he must have laughed at him then. A shame that the guy never found out Armando. Artist name was Armando. Will this appear on any of the photographs that your mother gave you time before ...? Yes, I know you do not like to mention that word. But how do we call? "His death? This term does not apply to you, you know. Because that is said when people die in peace, surrounded by people who love them. But your mother ... okay, let's change the subject. I know you furious. Follow me counting, "talking about you somewhere?
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