sexta-feira, 15 de maio de 2015

Piano For Little Clara - Day 169

(Traduzido e enviado parágrafo Albert Bandura em Stanford .. :)


Friday, May 8, 2015 00:37 Maria back to the room. To this horrible story. The cold weather returned. I spoke today with Sarah and sometimes she has the rare gift of letting me worse than I am. Bitch. The bloody hell psychoanalysts. I swear I thought I was going to kill her and stop this pain. But maybe it does not end anything and maybe - and I hate her a little for him - all this mud where I get sometimes after we speak is part of a larger plan. As the end of the pain. If there is an end. The end that I seek and from which I escape: the mystery of little Clara The end of all this story, which revolves around itself a terribly misspelled history that never comes to anything. But for some reason I keep writing this shit. I read some excerpts from a guy named Bandura, speaking of motivation and daily use to monitor yourself. I do not know, I thought my motivation to write, the first motivation is to get rid of the pain. Pain that gets stuck inside me, Mary Stuck itself. But I also write to remember. This is the second motivation, I think. Then we have the diary, which is more or less what I do here. I do not feed me secret that someday someone will read it here. Perhaps an unconscious level, whatever.

God, Sarah, fuck off. I'm going crazy, bitch.

Maybe I should tell her, but I think we're saying here is how to tell her. So maybe because of it, deep down, I write.

So maybe this dream-nightmare is not just a dream, and one day I explain to the world what is the story of Clara. This little story I try to write here every night, or dawn, when bursts of pain.

Maria overflowing.

Maria looking out the window in the dark.

Where I think I saw Clara playing in the square for the first time. The slide. And Mary, the mother, the beautiful Mama, Mama the best in the world, she waited on arrival, then packed on the swings, as once in a padded bed Clara. Mary, the mother, who told stories to his daughter Clara. One of the two, who knows both authors could have made. It would be an interesting ending to this story.
I tremble as I write this.
Perhaps there is hope after all.
I take a deep breath.
I want to cry.
After all.
Maria Who looks out the window.
Looking for the most beautiful princess in the world.
The princess was lost at the top of the castle.
But we can still get up there, little Clara.
And let's go down together.
As a mother and daughter.
And that's when I start to cry.

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