that our soul is something so marvelously complex. In a moment, it enjoys living intensely, rejoicing of the positive emotions that it receives from the others and that it offers to the others without pretending anything. It rejoices in giving comfort and relieving, where it may, some little suffering.
At other times, it seems to be lost in silence. And the more it loses itself in the silence of his mind, the more this loves it and it loves to get lost in it so much, that it desires for itself all this as the only reality in which it is his will to perpetrate, consume and exist.
In silence, which often silence is not, but which appears as such because it delves into the depths of our self; and the more he digs, the more he discovers new realities, emotions and ideas of which he was unaware of owning.
Love the infinite: love the mystery that around it persists with the intensity of who observes a beautiful funeral monument, covered by a blanket of questions without an answer on topic unknown to us; and now, in that silence, they born and live questions that get closer to the world that doesn’t exist.
Who am I? Where will I go? How will I do it? Will it be forever?! Or maybe it will all be as one with no memories and no sense!
Maybe I’ll come back, without any memory, in the mundane reality of someone else that already lives inside of me and that maybe has already suggested me every answer.
Who am I? And what can I choose in this life? Does my path already exist? Is my journey marked by memories and Déjà-vu?