Encontre estos párrafos en una vieja libreta, lo escribí el 20 de Mayo del 2008, cuando estaba en un aeropuerto de Estados Unidos...

Every person is a story…
Everything seems to function, something in this room, connected us, maybe obligation, work, problems, desires, so many reasons to go there.. Always casualty… An old man reading Danielle Steel, he gives me a curious almost inquisitor look. I have no fright... Im just observing everything and writing it down, is that a crime, sir?
This airport where faces describe serious actors of business life, fathers stubborn to make their kids they way they want, women’s whose life is a storm of emotions and desires, and we are all going to same flight.
I have this feeling of being in a theater, where everyone is a character, has a dialogue line, everything seems to be determined, in an order and a place,
Soon we will stand up to enter a plane and separate, maybe I will get a full row. I have no idea why I sense this world is not so different from a determined machine, but life is lived in every way, as a person’s life… Every person is a writer; they are composing someone when they are being themselves, an identity, a character to live in this scenario of casualty and circumstances… Any possible road is taken, creativity is not set apart, it’s a sense we carry everywhere, unconsciously, but we have to convey in something, even though every single one of us lives their story: the way we do it, depends on how we think of ourselves and what is important to us. … Others thoughts are just appreciations, perceptions, How can you make some one else live what you lived, and make them feel like you did?
English is a pretty language, you can get with things, it’s convenient…


Me gusto que en ese momento no tenía expectativas, vivía el momento presente a tal intensidad, que podía percibir muchas cosas y recuerdo bien, los rostros, los gestos, las palabras, los olores. Que daría por vivir un solo día con esa riqueza.