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I have wondered, my whole life, where souls go to. Where's the destination? How do you determine that's where they are meant to be?
How do you determine right from wrong, when there's a chromatical scale of possibilities, laying right there, filling every situation, every second that goes by.
Why do people have this strange need of walking together?
Why must they be simmilar? Why must some stereotypical, kind of moral basis, be established between each other one of us?
I wonder how people feel intimidated or harmed by things that don't affect them at all.
It makes me a little curious to think how many people judge in terms of a misconception they took early, like an instant photography, and think they can define you in one word.
I'm not a word, I'm the writer of a story. In other words, a life, a whole system of casualities and causalities cannot be minimized or shrinked into one word.
Whenever I come out of my house, and decide to walk the streets, all I see is bullets.
Bullets being shot together, bullets aiming something they fail on piercing.
Bullets that accomplish their goles, therefore producing a fulfilling feeling, or some others which generate a fountain of regret, and sense of lost ground.
Then, those bullets forget what they were created in the first place for. Some bullets try to smash theirselves into the walls, some others look for a way to be pulverized and get lost in the nothingness that flows in the unperceptible side of the wind.
Sometimes I try to be like water. Some other times I try to be like creme.
But then I realise... I don't wanna be either.
I wanna be me.
And  want people to be theirselves, without fearing that will catch up with them, and somehow place them in a lower side or place in some kind of social structure that is nothing but an ilussion. A way for people to think there's some kind of standard which they can leave their lives be ruled by and reduce the possibility of commiting mistakes.
And I want to be free. Free from myself, carelessly free. Break with the shackles of my past, and the coil by which society face a fate they don't try denying. They don't even insist of facing.