Apoyándonos en la idea de que lo transitorio es permanente

Really, right now, the Strangeness doesn't catch me off guard. Even though, now and then, I find myself reading those sentences out loud (( and I swear God, I blush everytime I hear them )) it doesn't affect me THAT much anymore. You know, that now-unfamiliar cocky attitude... tongue in cheek, laid back, screw 'em all way of pretending to be. That ain't me. Or herself, who knows. You get to a point where you can no longer tell if it's you or if it was her all along. It doesn't make much difference, anyway.

Guess you have to be really beaten up, really fucked up and left for dead to realize that we are all the same. We are all lost and scared to death. We've all got burned and we've all lost that bet where we placed all our chips. But then, despite the forecast , there's life, or something that taste like it. And there you are: lost, broke, burnt and Planet Earth never cared about it. It just kept strolling through space like everyday, and everyone on it didn't notice anything at all. They never saw the world crack and fall to pieces.

But your eyes ain't the same. Or that part of your brain that tries to understand what on hell is happening in front of your nose has changed... And it's like shifting realities, as if everyone decided to play another game all of the sudden. The first time you do it, I mean, when you make a stranger of someone you've got to know since forever... That surely brings you down. Sure it got me down, I invented something that is actually below the down area. That down it was.

And when you get to the point you can tell what just happened, when you grow the brains to articulate the idea out to someone, they say that they know. Man, they knew it all along!. "That's how life is". "Dude, it was printed in the instruction manual, right before how to breath". So, you roll back to your bed and wonder if it's the world that has stranged itself or if it was you, not willing to see the change, stuck to the no-longer-ever-lasting reality you've built around your dreams like a retarded ant.

Luckily, some time later you no longer care about it. 'Cause, Who knows? Was it the egg or the chicken? "Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to pop music?"
So, cheer up, it isn't all bad news. You no longer care. Yet you shiver. You fucking shiver every fucking time you no longer give a fuck about it. Just don't make a deal about it.