These days, a friend of mine, told me that I should write about bragging. It would be indelicate to talk about people in general, to say the least, so I decided to talk about myself. Sincerely I can’t remember one time that I had as much difficulty to write something as I had this time. Usually I just let my thoughts flow and it doesn’t ends up that bad, but after a long time thinking about it, I realized that it would take way more of me than I tought.
Maybe because all of my skills are fairly ok, nothing exceptional. I can play the guitar, but I can’t read music sheets. I can write poems, but I always sound like a whining widow. I can get good grades in classes that demand my creativity, but not in the ones that require my full attention.
Maybe the reason for that just happens to be the way I see things, the way that life shaped me through the experiences that laid in my way, the stones that laid down in my path, while I was distracted staring at the horizon. During a time where I bloomed, facing the spring of a lifetime, where pebbles were much more relevant than stones.
Maybe I should regret being like that, and chase a new beginning, having the experiences judged adequate for a young man, it could be the solution to be shaped in the way that my mom always dreamed of. Have a wife, a couple kids, and a two-story house, with three bedrooms. A diploma on the wall, a job that makes me a teardrop in a stream of conformism. Waste all my health to make money, retiring, and spending all my money to regain my health. Enjoy the fake taste of canned food while staring at the label, being sure that the good part is to come at some point. Build a castle made of sand that as once a wise African American man sang, would eventually slip into the sea. I think that’s not the meaning of happiness, at least not for me.