But you know that you love! Mica to go to look into the folds of life. I see that look at me in secret, pretending to photograph the view across the bay. But I've been watching me the courage to pose, here on this wall. Where my life begins. Why this photo will travel around the world. I despise. Do not pick my beauty. No, I do not speak of the interior. That I do not know. Escapes me. I can not hold it in your hands in the morning even when I lean out the window to be able to see the sea down the hill, hidden by the dense web of dirty buildings, and while I savor the first cigarette of the day, try not to think but to my life, my dreams, and deep down inside me. I read in a magazine: drop down into the cave of your soul, dig out the hidden dragon roar to life. I'll try, but when I'm bent in only pain, disappointment, dirt: in short, my life. And I can not find the thread that leads to myself. When the excitement over the limit that can tolerate, and that I can every day to move away, when the cigarette is ending, when I hear the whistle of coffee when I can back from this mess in which I'm afraid to come forward, vulgar gaze to my house and cry. Not every morning. Often. Because in this tiny apartment, carved into the presumption of calling it home, put together with pieces crooked, uneven, besieged by an order to give dignity to the four manic trinkets that speak to me, this junk is my story. And most of all my future.
E 'of my outer beauty that I am proud. What I launch into a future from which there mocking smile and you will feel envy and shame. Look at me. I'm not afraid to smile goal. In a moment I will. And I will lift up his eyes and realized that now I want thoughtful. It scares me. But I can make it. Authorize the head in a gesture of defiance to the world, in San Francisco that is behind me beyond the sea, and smile in this life that hides all the time. No. I have not been unlucky. It 'an excuse that I leave that to chanteuse intersection when I go to work. Whine bragging failures caused by circumstances. But I no, I proudly boast of being wrong all I could and that this insipid life, unnoticed, trivial, that slips through the shadows of the city, is the fruit of my freedom. And love. I never found always chasing the wrong people. So much so that now I wonder, in the fleeting moment in me an awareness beats soft and warm, if not I the one who failed to understand what love really is. Yet it is so clear when you see it on television. Go into one of those bars and you come out with happiness. I did. It seemed so simple. I have chosen. I do not have never made use. Everything I found was a bed to be remade. Bed linen to be washed. It was up to me. And every time a bitter taste that was born up, submerging the sense of burning flesh and complacent, and then rose like a wave gagliarda not drown, but cherish everything and wrap it and leave him with a bright patina first then gradually more and more opaque to become gray as fog. Here this is the color of my life: sepia. Like the photos fading artificially old to pretend. I am old. But inside, not outside, that men still chasing me. And your eyes. Turned off and the judges. You shall see. I decided today, when I picked up this insipid little man to convince him to come here me these photos, thanks to those whom my life will change. 'll Skip the next. Returning to town, I'll leave empty-handed. After I have returned to the royal dignity these shots. prints them with care. In the corner of the store where I work. Ask a favor. Release it. Then I'll put it in the best frame. And hang on the wall. And watching it every night and every morning, I will realize what I could become. And find that thread that maybe will take me away from here.
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