This day or tomorrow

This day left me an unmistakably sepia and bitter sweet feel, as if I already lived it; as if I'd see it from the outside, from my death. 

Someone told me once that the only helping hand comes from our inner self when we are really fed up of our worst enemy: our inner self. 

 

Sometimes the life seems to be a really strange theater or theatre which we observe from another plane through a set of ellipsoid mirrors. 
I think that the political solutions never will be there, and the public opinion is devised by the führer-media

then again: take a look at the misery of the heroes of yesterday... defeated by the time, the Time, the only god that Zeus couldn't control, will you cheat on the Time? 

Will I?

So, sliding our calibrated eyes toward the pious and papal side of our mind, we see that, if there's a God above, he many times seems to tell us that we have to be absolutely selfish and modern, to cross those doors, and forget 'em. 

Being men and women of iron, ignoring our own feelings and memories and experiences, like a database from which the information may be indistinctly and coldly removed without consequences or vestiges.

Very convenient. Very horrible.

Sometimes I feel lost and lonely, I'd want to scream for help, to speak, but I can't. I can't.

The life one day lived by the now dead ones looks like a laughable vanity, I see.