Peeing Often And Headache

Happy 2011 ... and 100

At the end of 2010 and before 2011 in his first year allegedly wailing weeping and damn, I want to thank our readers, regular or occasional visitors followers of this blog, the attention I have been dispensed and particular, comments, questions and comments you've had to send me the detail and have attempted to answer, if possible.

Blogs are now a fruitful reality, through which people we do not know, sometimes far apart geographically, we formed a kind of spiritual and cultural community, where we present experiences, feelings and knowledge, to arouse confidence interest, complicity, or at least mutual curiosity.

For me, as for many others, blogging is a way of life, to express, to entertain myself and say what I think. Baltasar Gracian said that the journey of life there are three seasons: the first is to talk with the dead (the books), the second, with the living, the third himself. Apart from that there are many books very much alive, more than most mortals, I think, daring to clarify the thinking of the learned Jesuit of Aragon, which is good not to lock itself and maintain with others, even if distant, a relationship that, at least for me, today, is very rewarding.

So the prospect of starting with a new season renewed vigor blogger, I wish everyone, dear readers, health and happiness for 2011 (I also wish you prosperity seems naive.) And I hope, thought added to the traditional formula, not cejéis in your quest or need to know more things, whether through lectures, discussions or travel. Curiosity is certainly not equivalent to happiness, but mitigates the loneliness and smooth, as Montaigne would say "the wrinkles of the spirit" and that, when they have crossed the ports of maturity, as in my case, it is enough.

to everyone, at heart, Happy 2011.

If you want to send a reply message can leave a comment or write to my email manuelblas222@gmail.com

Thanks. Manuelblas

Peeing Often And Headache

Happy 2011 ... and 100

At the end of 2010 and before 2011 in his first year allegedly wailing weeping and damn, I want to thank our readers, regular or occasional visitors followers of this blog, the attention I have been dispensed and particular, comments, questions and comments you've had to send me the detail and have attempted to answer, if possible.

Blogs are now a fruitful reality, through which people we do not know, sometimes far apart geographically, we formed a kind of spiritual and cultural community, where we present experiences, feelings and knowledge, to arouse confidence interest, complicity, or at least mutual curiosity.

For me, as for many others, blogging is a way of life, to express, to entertain myself and say what I think. Baltasar Gracian said that the journey of life there are three seasons: the first is to talk with the dead (the books), the second, with the living, the third himself. Apart from that there are many books very much alive, more than most mortals, I think, daring to clarify the thinking of the learned Jesuit of Aragon, which is good not to lock itself and maintain with others, even if distant, a relationship that, at least for me, today, is very rewarding.

So the prospect of starting with a new season renewed vigor blogger, I wish everyone, dear readers, health and happiness for 2011 (I also wish you prosperity seems naive.) And I hope, thought added to the traditional formula, not cejéis in your quest or need to know more things, whether through lectures, discussions or travel. Curiosity is certainly not equivalent to happiness, but mitigates the loneliness and smooth, as Montaigne would say "the wrinkles of the spirit" and that, when they have crossed the ports of maturity, as in my case, it is enough.

to everyone, at heart, Happy 2011.

If you want to send a reply message can leave a comment or write to my email manuelblas222@gmail.com

Thanks. Manuelblas

Anniversary Of Someone's Death Get Together

Afterlife (my own river, my own life)

It was time for me to sit down and write.
That vague, remember, trace words
for warmth in my dirty blood. Months
I look
decline gradually as the fool who did not prevent anything
as doctors, bad coxcombs
am that man carries suitcases look ahead with optimism

was time for me to sit and put your head in White
I hold in my own imagination
live because, live,
desire to see where I'm going and I am able.
not going to tell me how I should live
a late formal than that I see,
enduring long and hard, the pain of water around my head
angry, between if you wish, but between and,
when I sit and write
have to get up and cut the world into two bright as the stock
eternal
me or her or say that God exists,
who try to talk your ear ill. She

if
Daniel did not belong to the realm of this world
that afternoon that the distinguished walking on the boulevard.
claims to have recognized in their cheeks tension d ela death.
His eyes, no doubt escaped flown. Something
absence, distance could be detached.
He walks behind the right word.
He is excited with the validity of his story that finds a gap
light in the darkness that dwells in our brain and that strongly that
undulating the body from the sea.
was a blast, to plead.
The story takes its time,
but refuses to be part of the past.
He refuses to disappear in the final death. Roots that still survives

evident when her lips I get a twist.
I noticed also some recent cuts.
Boulevard
no name and clear, in broad strokes, the details
Try the synthesis of brevity, the vain
embodiment of a heart murmur
Daniel smiles and shouts from inside

The story also becomes exhausted and elusive gestures.
She belonged to me while the distinguished
sitting in this coffee from this angle.
That God used to return it in full, including air
tired of his face.
O my eye hit a
image that did not correspond to that moment
so elusive, so feeble, so gray
or was able to put it another way, to perceive an image
suddenly moved forward. Daniel
strives to find the words.
In that effort wasted his time living between
gone and future

This morning is gray, opaque, with music of silence
I assume that calm has come to my
or a breeze
The river is stagnant, is sinking, going the distance is
carving the way I look.
is the river that remains. Instant Air
invisible


happened I suppose that the fact
returned to my acceptance.
The mirror allows you to put your hand
and find what gleaning:
a pale face, some gorse, ash
a tense battle in the rain irrelevant.

As if the next morning or the day
continues
or
night stands and reaches to just a star with his snout, so
supposed to leave my feeling, lightened by the sight
Dew ,
range of mid-afternoon.

that I carry in my charge and my body assimilates
rigor. Although I am
other I am not who I was.
dilutes the shuffle memory.
The time goes on and let time could you be,
back, not stroke

supposed to emerge with a light in his eyes.
I live as if nothing had really happened.
The pain is exhausted and sleeps in a tuft of grass.
One is close to fact, sculpts, stops, disappears
me I become this ridiculous statement:
that while I am here I will give life to this death happened
sooner than you imagine ...