A few words about a few things...

Well, I had been wondering these days what I'd choose as a subject for this posting and I realised there wasn't too much I could write about. When that is the case, the only thing you can do is to start writing and see where the words take you.

And it seems like my two other friends have been really inspired these days. I'm not so good at French, but Amanda translated her text for me later and I liked it very much. I mean, maybe no one else would ever know exactly how important our friendship has been through all these years we've been together. There are so many things to tell we could surely write a novel. Maybe Luciano has been writing something lately. He says he's not doing anything, but we can't quite trust him in that matter, given the fact he has taken us by surprise so many times before.

Anyways, I'd like to say that, yes, you're my two best friends, just like a brother and a sister. Thanks for everything!

And Luciano decided to talk about poetry. It's always good to read something about that. I myself used to write some poems when I was younger. They weren't good, of course. You can't expect a 14 year-old boy to write good poetic stuff at such young age unless he was some kind of genius or something. And I'm very far from being considered a genius.

I have stopped writing poems since... February 2008, I guess. I know I shouldn't have given up, but somehow a strange feeling had begun growing stronger inside me and I felt as if I had been wasting my time all along. My verses were useless and you'd just need to read them a couple of time to realise they had no special meaning at all.

It was difficult at the beginning, but now it doesn't bother me anymore. Every now and then I miss them, though. Those poems are the weirdest friends I'll ever have. I hope they forgive me for having taken them in arrest. Hope dies for last, though. And that's why I think they may regain their liberty someday. I am a bad father. At least I am realistic. I know my children are ugly.

Let's forget poems. If someone has been reading all of our posting, he/she must have noticed we love to mention we write/used to write poems, chroniques and other things. Yeah, my mate, the literary spirit has possessed our poor souls. But never think we're great poets or authors. Remember you're reading something written by a 17 year-old teenager!!! I mean, that goes for the three of us, we're only seventeen!

Now... well, I recognise I'm not being very original, but I have another text in Spanish to bring to you. It was actually written by a friend who doesn't show up very often. He's a bit shy, I would say. It is kind of an enigmatic text, but well... let's hope he'll never know I have posted it here. Yeah, I'm doing it without his authorization.

Frecuentemente tengo un problema cuando quiero escribir. Y el problema aquí es empezar. Estoy solo en un shopping center y todo lo que llega a mis oídos es una canción ridícula. Por lo tanto el sonido no me ayuda.

Ya quiero irme. Quedarme aquí me aburre. Quiero descansar y no pensar en nada más... pero las cosas no son más como antes. Hay un olor distinto en el aire. Sí, digo eso todos los días, pero hay una cuestión que no puedo contestar: si hay una diferenza, ¿por qué digo siempre que mi vida es una rutina eterna? Tal vez... la esencia de todo no cambia en absoluto. Lo que cambia es un pequeño detalle que tiene grande importancia para mí. Es difícil explicarlo. Sin embargo, es también inútil intentar entender el mundo raro de los sentimientos. Bien, yo no debería preocuparme por causa de eso. Pero... ¿por qué estoy hablando de eso? La fiesta va a empezar pronto.

Pero... no me gustan las fiestas. "¿Qué te gusta entonces?" me pregunta una voz sin dueño.
¡Ah! Es una buena pregunta. Bueno... podemos decir que me gustan el silencio, el sueño, la charla con los amigos, el estudio de las cosas que me interesan. Con todo, la mejor compañía es la familia. Espero que ellos no lean jamás estas líneas ridículas. Yo podría haber escrito una carta de amor. Seguramente habría sido mejor. Pero lo que he escrito es ridículo y también todas las cartas de amor son ridículas, como lo había dicho Pessoa. El resultado es el mismo. Finalmente solo quería decir que... los amigos. No se puede jamás viver sin ellos.

That's it, my friends. This time I do know the author's name, but I'll never reveal it.

See you all next time!