Of the Gestation Of a Direction I in one of my neighbors was. I was for insistence of the same ones. It has something strange with me. I have 25 years of age and nothing, absolutely nothing, he seems me worthy of a commemoration. I do not perceive success in an anniversary I perceive as it in the discovery of a mathematical formula, a simple step in the moon, a revolutionary discovery in cognitivas sciences 1 or in the most beautiful sonorous harmony that can the soul of the men produce. In this apraz me the celebration desire. Perhaps it has there, in fact, the reason that I look for to festejar. The reason biggest that gives not more flavor to the food but the real direction of the life that has very searchs, honest.

Fact is that the laugh already does not seem to possess me the same logic of when child. I want something simple e, indeed, arduous of if having. I want the reason for which I can justify my laugh. It lacks to me more: that feeling of happiness that heats the chest. That more it makes to laugh that to deplore, when relembrar, with almost absolute disdain, the uselessness of that instant where only body lived.

Where my spirit? Already more I do not understand in what I make, when the direction of if to make more seems already not to guide the hands. If I materialize myself, lacks the pride to the consummated expression of my I-object. Bigger rebo is not to know of me. Anguish is to perceive that, in way to as much, I was not only. I nothing was. Perhaps better they explain the photos where simply I do not perceive myself. In some place in the space-time of that celebration more effect of the custom that of the postulate success where my reason waits to inebriar itself some day was a I-ghost there object amongst as much; a model that much frightens to have me it been one alone moment.