My Son Is Complaining About Soar Legs

Foreign'm in my own history.


Every day I go back to small spaces of my past. Back to places that were familiar to me, I remember ideas that filled my mouth words, think of the people I were recurrent and somehow had an air of permanence in my life as a feeling that would be there forever.


I always go back and wonder, the capacity to do, say and think. I'm surprised because I recognize in these places because if I do not see saying them would not recognize my words, not because I have a constellation of scars on his body would tell stories that are lies that shows me my memory.

Words are strangers in a foreign language, people are unfamiliar ways and appearances, are somehow lost and directionless. Foreign

'm in my own history.

Sometimes I forget just what is to follow a path, I tired eyes do the same eyes that look like they want to see, like a mirror too small to reflect the whole picture and is always focused on the same site.

Sometimes I even think that I am lost.