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Someone asked me why I stopped writing ... I have asked him too. Indeed, it seems stupid to quit something you enjoy doing. Now that I would have plenty of time to do it I do not, when I was in Australia and I did not have time, and often. Almost paradoxical.
Maybe it's because I'm afraid to say what my heart is afraid every day for the past 6 months now. The heart is the center of every thought and pure indefinitely. My heart is happy now. Is facing the most difficult test of his life. Oh, poor heart. And a heart that is hard to hope and would like to respond to this evil that haunts him, a disease that does not persecute him directly but pursued to its father. Yes, it is actually the heart of my father who is suffering and my suffering with him.
A smile, a kiss goodnight, are extremely happy to use my heart, but as can be happy all the way even if he so afraid? He's afraid, I'm afraid. And I can not write here. It 's like my heart is living two lives, the mine and that of my father, I can not decide anything, I can not live as I have always been able to do. It 'difficult, it is fucking difficult. Perhaps that's why I stopped writing.
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