Fortunately. Happily.

"The year will be over and the promises remain there, forgotten without even being written. This year is not the best (without being the most bad) and the next year will be worst, however the faith and the false optimisme in the decisions of the others. So, what about ourselves and the personal dream, the own promises and feelings?. A point in a lost chat attending almost an answer. Too late. The time is over and the optimisme and hopes are for other stories. The adventures across other world, where my name is said with difficulty because I'm a stranger.  A man in a voyage from other little (in mind) country that catches dreamers and eject (fortunately) humans. I'm sad for the children but I think that some of them will not notice anything and the rest can escape to other worlds. It is not possible any transformation. More of three hundred years have passed. 

The revolutions finish with the blood of the best people in the streets or prisons. Their history has been forgotten or the memories incredibly changed by the current convenience, and same, the words are no longer for us, they have changed its meaning and the humans just keep sobs and sighs as true. Nothing new to say. A set of letters to write a phrase searching any action, at the end, the disappointment or the like are the same: a reaction to underwrite and existence, nevertheless the meaning, the possibility to affect at least one person. There are not any second more to write more than the lines in the screen of the phone: and it's necessary emoticons or acronyms. However, the song remains just when the moon appears in the horizon. Yes, I can talk about all the battles, but I don't know in my skin the cold of the fear attenuated only by the warm blood of my wounds or my dying friend. What revolution here, if all of them, the best men and women of the age died tragically. Every year, from four hundred (or more years) in these lands and mountains. The last week, another one died and I'm sure that was not worth it. But, not doing anything either. So, Tomorrow my death begins (and death laughs because he will die tonight).

Silence. The children can not know how miserable their parents are every day. It is not possible to write. It's time to the dinner and the news discloses that you have to be afraid, in desperation and the moment of laughing. The easy way to be... for thirty minutes of something and seventeen of commercials, but really all time is a business hour. Yes, I need to speak, but I know that I can not speak with you. and I cry inside me, an ungrateful man, but not a miserable. All signals are there, the elements in the soup of the worldwide-reality, just it's necessary to attends the passion (more easy in the latino-planet), the emotion and the aggressiveness. The dreamed bloody night arrives and the human story in the future will tell another thing, the convenient story. However, they are the minority in a bar knowing the true, and, using the correct words, they will tell the story almost like a beautiful reality. They are owners of the word (Fortunately).

Another thing should be invented. Nothing in the past is sufficient to survive, same if there are a few of humans that remember the real stories, the names and the consequences. I want to cry, but the moment of the dinner arrives. The new days are not for heroes and the feats will not be remembered by anyone, but the world will be better, without names in memories and just the life (the word recovered) as the most sacred opportunity. Be. Feel it. The air drown us and the fear face to the freedom can't stop us. May be is not a question to create but yes a thing to recognize: life. And after life, the feelings to be happy without the misfortune of others (happily). 

The days will be worse but the strength of those few will be extraordinary. As a magic tale, the minority could save a world, but not this world. It is not necessary to await the end of the year and same, the end of this night. Happily, the moon over the city remember the poems of the humans and other hopes. Fantastic journeys searching the essential of the life, however is a question that the life is the essential. Fortunately, more of five hundred years passed and a new story is possible to write, when the word is recovered. "