Do you Know those days where you seem to be flying. Thousand of thoughts, but all ignored by its concentration. You are there only. Looking at. Stopped. The time stubbornness in collaborating with its situation and delays as never. The greyish sky reflects its soul, that at this moment of the one sultry shout. The throat, with one in, dries suddenly and the tears roll wetting its face. Of the will not to be there. Of not being seen. To raise flight for place none. The castles of its history fall in ruins and nothing more it matters. Nor the food has taste the same. The jokes already do not steal laughs of its face. To live passes not to have sensible more. All had been and there alone you. Trying to breathe. Without the the least to cogitate answers for the reasons that bothers you. To the times until the reasons they are unknown for its momentary fragility. Funniest it is the cold that conquest its stomach as hero in battle. Attacking without giving the chance to react.\r\nThe day goes passing and its sight is compromised. The colors start to have a stonewashed tonality that, of so clear, nor arrive to be perceived by its ocular globe. This sends the message of a flash for its brain. This is everything that you see, but also does not matter.\r\nYou uncontroling start to look a culprit for its deplorable situation and the world receives the load from its mental leprosy. The day passes. The night is the worse moment of its illness. This is the hour where the thoughts cry out so high that they almost wake up the neighborhood. A long night. One pressed room. Nothing to make, since sleep does not come. Some hours are transferred and you finally it obtains to sleep.\r\nThe clock touches. Hour to wake up again. You unconsciously disconnect it. It breathes deep. It raises with a air of “ I want to sleep ” more. It enters in the bathroom. It looks at for the mirror. Then, you have two you will choose. You can choose to be of the same skill, not to make nothing to improve. Being equal or worse to the previous day. Waiting the concretion of its death. Continuing with the countdown for the nothing that waits you. Or to choose to move. To have optimum day that you already had. Exactly that in the end of the day it really is not of the skill that you imagined that one better day would be. But to sing in the shower. To be better dressed with its clothes. To talk alone. To laugh at this. To leave running and nor to complain for being been slow. To perceive the new flower that if opened in its garden and, exactly been slow, to stop to look at more than close. Cachinnate of jokes without grace. To live without limits. Without imposing barriers. To close the eyes and if only to play in the ocean of its life. To drown itself in waters of its gift without thinking if in the future you go to be able to buy a boat.\r\nTo break here history is its. It is decided. Its life depends on a decision its.\r\nAlways optimum choice. This is the secret.