· First of all the neutral environment was the one that moved my restless sleep, my mother had already left and the dizziness when I woke up drew infinite spirals that probably were the beginning of my visual doom. My dog lay beside my bed with a world dwelling behind his eyelids, he had a mental amusement that his position demonstrated his enjoyment of it; his body was shaped like an arch and just the sight of him made my moment happy. I refuse to predict that this day is going to be a waste but I think I will be wrong; I really wish the days in my home stay were beneficial, I would like to take a week of rest and relaxation to be able to unveil all those worries that drown my face, but.... One of them, dazzles by its name, brings a headache that screws up my moment, but you may wonder what is it? Well, it's my father, the lord of all my silent havoc.

I honestly don't mean to invade this with malice, but I just had to get it out. But I would like to share one of the things that is running in circles in my brain, and that would be the very famous phrase from my sister of letters, Sylvia Plath; it is that this phrase is found in her novel "The Bell Jar" and it goes like this:

I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am

Sometimes I tend to remember in this every day, and that refrain I think is usually used in every walking human and capable of reacting to the real oxygen, that little by little will turn into the carbon monoxide in which we will drown. Questioning the ambiguous "I am" is the multifaceted review that really reflects the line where most of us ourselves want to draw; that destiny we want to be, where it would generally be stained by complex situations that would be marked from a mature age to the habitable today. Those incongruities are those thorns that although they are from an insignificant point of view when we feel them there the pain will be felt.  For a final conclusion, to fulfill the melodic of the novel, that last "I am" that when reading it literally seems like the sound of a beating heart; despite going through hell, you survive it and most of all you endure it without looking back.

All this reminds me of the great person who was expected to be the owner of the publishing house, which I saw at a book christening which I attended about half a month ago. The point is that after showing her one of my absurd poems, she first stressed to me several times that letters are the most silent means of expression that can exist in this world, and she is right, those symbols that have almost accompanied us throughout our existence (I say almost, because in prehistory the written language had not been founded as such) have had an impact, and not only to speak it, but to be able to shout on paper what you have mostly swallowed. After seeing her with a face obviously marked by the admiration that emanated from me, she congratulated me for having intuited poetry at a key moment and full of much adversity. The truth is that I am glad to have found so many interesting people in that place, I regret not having enjoyed that moment to the fullest since in the cave where I sleep that world does not exist, I am the torch that invades that darkness.