are hard times for dreamers. ( Le fabuleux destin d'Amélie Poulain ).
Restart. Resume the path already traveled. More than once I have come to believe that it is more difficult to remake something (joining the salvageable pieces of broken dreams, the good times fateful years, fragments of a lost love ... the pieces of a shattered heart) to start from zero. Perhaps it is a thought generated in one of my stages in mood confused, but the truth is that they are firmly attached fragments of a broken mirror, nothing will ever be what it was, nothing will ever be as it was then . Nothing. And yet, nothing prevents sometimes the rubble of a ruined past, the remains of a broken book, a letter made a thousand pieces, a shattered life, making rescue times, entire segments, valuable. I do not know if I sin optimistic, but as I said a philosopher * then walks around here: a man without memories, and are the most painful, I add, is a lost man. And reboot or restart is a bit of that: try, from the memories of the past, new horizons, different paths.
Having said the above and the understanding that restart, or start from scratch as he sang the great Edith Piaf, is not subject to pre-established dates, ie need not necessarily be linked to the onset of a new year, I'll make a confession: I have come to believe that the time of this blog has come to an end. I do not I have a lot to offer and that my regular readers will already be a little tired of it (the marked decrease of comments have a message, but is contradictory and curious that now that there are fewer comments, have many more fans than when had over a hundred comments on a post). I've come to think, which means no it is satisfied. I sure mulling one of those moments when I am in mood weirdo . But no, I think it is not time. Maybe it's just time to endorse taste for the blog. Another confession (he had already said something here): steal my work time and twitter distracts me against my will. Demand more time blogging twitter. The egotism is the same in 1400 characters in one hundred forty. But the time required to express themselves in 140 characters is nothing compared to that necessary to baste a halfway decent writing. Who we are egocentric virtual life (and who says no ... or is it a saint or a liar ... and the world is full of liars not Santos). The other day I saw a tweet was pure truth: in the land of the ego is king twitter . And I completely, and ground-based blogger ... too. Just like that. And yet, all in all, amid chauvinisms supine, there are good things (and better people, virtual friends incredibly interesting and even lovable.) Just for that I'm there, because I always find interesting information, letters that touched me very closely. And the only reason I will continue here. Because I like palaver as Fernando Pessoa said. Because I like to bang on the keyboard, says Marichuy. Because writing, Gustave Flaubert said, is a way of life. And while a writer is not like writing.
"Why write? What name? Why count? To understand. To love and be loved. To know, to know. For fear, by necessity, for money. To survive, because not everyone can dance the tango, play good football. By custom, the custom to kill, to live other lives and revive their own. " ( Why write ? http://bit.ly/hYNfOM ) .
And I would add. For as you do not choose love or to love, write-bang on the keyboard-is a necessity and more than that, it is a relief but serves as a relief, does not remove the penalty but provides better restlessness, does not give us answers but helps us to become new questions, it does not look ... it is. Because writing, as I said Marguerite Duras, is howling noiselessly, is screaming in pain, joy, desire, passion ... without deafening screams. Write-try, just for no reason.
Welcome we are, for better or for worse, the first year of the second decade of the twenty or sings Etienne Daho: welcome the first day of the rest of our lives .
* Armand Salacrou.
***** "I do not care what the faux pas that makes you fall on my body" Marguerite Yourcenar 
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