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I have realized that in life everything can be analyzed, from why we feel melancholic when it rains, to the fact of having a monothematic way of writing like the one I usually use. Does the laughter of children cause a rejoicing to the soul like a sip of coffee? I do not know in other bodies and other worlds, in mine there are different tones to the same sensation and various ways of feeling even with the most common. What are we made of? No, I do not speak of coal, I do not speak of molecules, bones, skin, I speak of essence, we are a world of beings with a tendency to chaos and altruistic pretensions that does not fit the naked eye, we are optimists that are closed by fears, and pessimists like me, to those who miss a ray of hope with an external smile; I have read interesting things lately, always on the line that catches my attention, which is the darkest, and I suddenly remember that the best judge is always the one with the most points of view, I have tried to see things with pink lenses. And Surprise! If there are good things when viewed from other perspectives. I only have my theories contrasting my experiences with those of the few people of whom I presume to know better than anyone, and even so, I know that I do not know myself enough nor much less have I gone from the first layers of the onion conglomerate, which make up the worlds behind each look, each blink, each soul.


It may seem like a somewhat scattered essay, but just like a Pollok painting there is a hidden order in my ideas, which I let out with few filters, and boasting little self-censorship, but today that's excellent, since I only suppress the immense need of writing on gray pages about black feelings, today I want to show how the simplest things look under the magnifying glass of my brown eyes that still and with all the mistreatment do not need glasses.

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Black F. & White F.

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