May 20, 2010
I've always liked the picture of stray dogs. Stray dogs, not just for my shady past and suburban . I always have caused a deep affection these dogs sleep curled up next to the doors of establishments plate, attached to traffic signals at the bottom of the ruined buildings ...
I have a sleepless times. I certainly do not wish it on anyone. Suddenly, four in the morning, open my eyes as two hatches and there is no way to get back to sleep. Above all, there is no way to stop thinking. At four, five, six in the morning, in the silence and darkness of the night, is all, however, crystal clear. One notes the circumstances of his life in all its nakedness and, above all, you are presented with greater clarity their shortcomings and failures. The sad thing about their gigs, their meager salary, bored with his everyday life ...
the arrumbadero is presented that have ended their dreams: the novels of the drawer, the attic full of returns from bookstores, the guitar with which one dreamed one day go to the Riviera, as the Stones, those sunny environments the great world in which Picasso lived to compose Exile on Main Street ... A guitar which takes years ago not a single note.
If anything good I have learned over the years is not to blame anyone for my bad luck. There is no bad luck, really, nor is there a conspiracy determined to hinder a possible career as a writer. It comes down to something as simple as not having talent, or character, or may not have even known mischief to move in certain areas. If my work is sad and dull, have studied harder. All those years spent in the arcade, playing pin-ball rather than hit the books, I represent in the middle of the night and seem to give me a punch in the side! If I have not traveled enough, blame my lack of decision when making a bag and get on a plane. If I still have many books to read and so much to know, the charge is not the fault of society, but to me, against the opinion of my parents and my teachers, I walked a lot of time goofing around.
What I admire about the stray dogs is that, at dawn, and although no prize for them seems to have life, however, which felt a ray of sunlight, get up, yawn, stretch, with great pomp all its body, which has been left numb, and then start to walk slowly along the street. That kind of stray dog \u200b\u200bto get up every morning without hope, despite all keep walking, I feel much more beautiful and impressive the crowing of cocks, the chirping of birds and the fluttering of butterflies that greets the new day.
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