Like everyone else, including poets, good and bad, hard and cheesy, "I also asked myself, I wonder every day, where do will give the unfulfilled dreams? Who is responsible for lifting and give the holy oils, before they end up lost in the confines of nothing?
Our dreams happy. The reacquainted in a park lot years later. It was seeing her and return to the days of school. We were so friendly, so close, until a bad day life (we) went and we stopped ourselves. Without reason, without litigation or through bitter disagreements. We just broke up. Life is a novel . Say. And as in the literature, the variety abound in quality and style. Some are better than others, some more complex, sometimes fun and light. Some extremely well written, some just written. A pure cliché, sometimes with different breath. There are whose prose shines on frills. While others run free of excess, almost flat. So many styles and shades. Y rather she read little, he wanted his life was like a novel. A clear of crooked and shocks. And, of course, with a happy ending. I met her when I was fifteen and she almost turned 18, new entrances to the school. Ariadne. He had reached the high school the age at which graduates normally since leaving high school instead of following the normal course of their studies had taken almost three-year sabbatical, during which he traveled , spent a year in Washington and pulled the slack. We became friends against all odds. She, outgoing, unrepentant smoker and only attending school because he had no other. I, shy, strawberry no choice but to not smoke cigarettes or chocolate-loving school and reading in their free time that she preferred going to do nothing basketball courts. And yet, even against all odds, it was she who exemplified the somewhat pejorative term 'case study as me. " He dreamed of a beautiful church wedding and wedding dress made in Italy, cottage with gabled roof and gardens full of geraniums, two kids and a dog. As idyllic as a romance novel. I can still go with it's cobbled streets of Tlacopac, south of Mexico City, where the house was located of your dreams. To hear and see the sparkle in his eyes as he spoke of the children that would be, how happy life would be with this novel, I felt a little sorry. Not for her, but by me. I never had dreams like that. Neither house with gabled roof, and two little children and less puppy. I liked (like) cats [sullen, independent, lonely and somewhat selfish, cats, and said a French poet, are so similar that is why man can only be loved or hated it. No half measures]. Much time has passed since those dreams. Much from the evening of those walks. I thought for centuries, but the day I found him, As we talked, for a moment it was like just yesterday we were walking by Tlacopac. But no. It was long ago. In another life. At least that seemed to say their naked eyes that gleam teenager. The is so changed. The least was no longer handle sports car of the year or did not live his dream house with a gabled roof. Does not have that, but a child. A beautiful child. It reminded me so much to his father (Ariadne) and told him so, to which she replied: yes, thank God my son went to my dad and not his . That's romantic, I said love me to the funny. And then, as a reply summed up what had been his life in the years since we met. So, down to the details of her pregnancy and maternity. As I was reeling off the harmful effects of economic crises in his once wealthy family, the troubles of his womanizing brother, the irregularity of death and others, I looked at remembering the past, could not help thinking that in the end, his life you, your family, it had been like a novel. Not so idyllic, only real. And the cherry on the cake in their search for dream life, full of unexpected breaks, was a man who, to put it in civilized terms, represented the antithesis of the ideal of cohabiting house with gabled roof, garden, two kids and dog. Fair who was to become pregnant. And he, as stipulated in charges of irresponsibility, he ran as he knew. But contrary to what she would have professed a few years ago, decided to become a single mother and live a life less idyllic, dreamy novel, only real and normal their own way. As for the sentence of Tolstoy's Anna Karenina in - that I like:
Families - and novels - are all equally happy. The unhappy , they are each in their own way.
**** "I do not care what the faux pas that makes you fall on my body" Marguerite Yourcenar 
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