is my last day of vacation and the fact is I've gotten a few strange things. Of those countless things metaphysically but right now I crave each story to help me with your own conclusions. But before you tell me that both a human being can feel that something infinitely related can cumulatively committed in just one day, last of all. Although it is by the way, these perceptions are specific, others can not understand them to be very accurate either, however unreal that have been made.
all starts last night, after having patiently read column in The Mercury News article. As soon as I closed the diary and turned off the lights gave my room I fell asleep. Unconscious and began to happen in my dreams a series of events that make me very difficult to describe there are no adequate words that could reflect. I can only add that I sounded much the concept of multidimensional universes. " In my dream I was falling in different energy levels to be able to reach a kind of earthly level. I was in a large, dark room, there were many unknown people and the silence was perpetual. There I was alone and uncomprehending, as if to escape something that I was superior and did not understand. Just something special and unexpected could change the course of my feelings, of course was, that something happened. Among the many people who I could see him, with its slow pace, his blind eyes and years old. I was unmistakable, was exactly as I knew him in the photos, was undoubtedly Jorge Luis Borges. My heart sped up the trance, I reached out my hand to hold the cuff of his jacket. At that moment I was snatched from him a value, I think, stupid but intriguing question, why had a fascination with encyclopedias? Thus, so as usual, just after delivering the last syllable of my question, my dream is gone.
In the morning I had to go to Providence to meet a minor errands for the high school. Had decided to move to a nearby galleries to buy about two or three used book after completing my respective procedures. Intended to buy two works, the first was "The Curious Incident of the Dog Midnight" by Mark Haddon. The second book I had a lot of attention because of an upcoming movie was "In Cold Blood" by Truman Capote. I must admit that I was so determined but it certainly was not my preference. Now go to the point: two books ended up taking completely different, "Red and Black" by Stendhal and "Brave New World" by Aldous Huxley. The funny thing is that I know absolutely nothing about them but I'm still under my new acquisitions. I kept talking to
bookshelf, we know from a used book fair, on different works which are in their fascination. For him the biggest thing is born from the letters is Stefan Zweig, he even has a preferred space within your small business library. I told him I still could not decide who my favorite author but so far I was happy with many. He, a great knower, I told the story of Cousiño actually conceived as the voyage of exploration of Columbus. I listened attentively and without interruption. Suddenly I remembered that I really wanted to read "Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair", and mentioned it from the bottom of a shelf pulled a book grungy, worn, quite opaque and of a quality that I attracted a lot of attention. It was precisely the work that I mentioned earlier, except I thought that cost no more than five thousand pesos. My surprise was great to hear that this copy cost no less than sixty thousand dollars. The reason was overwhelming and amazing, was not the first edition was the fourth. The special thing was that after opening the cover was an inscription written with green letters by hand and with them a flower. The words were simple: "To my friend Edward Bello Joaquín de Pablo Neruda."
When I got to ride the mic is back home, I saw that behind me was a man with his face completely painted. I thought at first that it was a mime, but after studying su ropa supe que no podía serlo. Llevaba un bastón en la mano, su cara blanca traía arrugas gruesas intencionalmente pintadas. Vestía un cortaviento blanco que estaba abierto, debajo llevaba una camiseta celeste y una huma café en el cuello. Finalmente lo coronaba un gorro del mismo tono que el cortaviento. Daba la impresión de ser un viejo acabado por los años, un resignado de la vida que empezaba a despedirse sin gloria alguna. Subió hablando fuerte, saludando a todos, para luego empezar a decirnos:
When I got to ride the mic is back home, I saw that behind me was a man with his face completely painted. I thought at first that it was a mime, but after studying su ropa supe que no podía serlo. Llevaba un bastón en la mano, su cara blanca traía arrugas gruesas intencionalmente pintadas. Vestía un cortaviento blanco que estaba abierto, debajo llevaba una camiseta celeste y una huma café en el cuello. Finalmente lo coronaba un gorro del mismo tono que el cortaviento. Daba la impresión de ser un viejo acabado por los años, un resignado de la vida que empezaba a despedirse sin gloria alguna. Subió hablando fuerte, saludando a todos, para luego empezar a decirnos:
“Si pudiera vivir nuevamente mi vida,
en la próxima trataría de cometer más errores.
No intentaría ser tan perfect, I would relax more.
would be sillier than I have been
very few actually take things seriously ... "*
was a magic moment. I feel that in a city that breathes smog tiresome and mechanical routine, there are still shell for shelter and moments of joy. To surprise us like children, to hallucinate without drugs, to realms without morbidity, of course, too, to enjoy without guilt.
* The above poem is not written by Jorge Luis Borges, was not my intention atribuísela.
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