Archivo de la etiqueta: struggling

If you could ask for a wish, which would you ask for?

If you could ask for a wish which would you ask for?
I have it clear, go back and start again,
to get different results.

¿Si tú pudieras pedir un deseo cuál pedirías?
Yo lo tengo claro, volver atrás y empezar de nuevo,
para obtener resultados diferentes

photo by Glenn Carstens-Peters
text by Dreams’Espe


Small steps, large paths.

Someone from the other side of the world,
she rents a part of my house for two days
and she gets that I do things that I haven’t been unable to for more than a year.
Small steps can make you take different paths.
To Agnes, my Filipino friend.

Alguien de la otra parte del mundo,
te alquila por unos dias una parte de tu casa,
y consigue que hagas cosas que en año y medio has sido incapaz.
Pequeños pasos que que te llevan a escoger caminos diferentes.
Para Agnes, mi amiga filipina.

Anxiety against me

Today, when I was wishing to change my day by day, anxiety has appeared with all his power, taking  me to his ground.

Hoy, cuando tenías intenciones de superarme a mí misma, la ansiedad ha aparecido con todo su poder arrastrándome hasta su terreno.

Stages in life that I would  never have imagine

There are stages in life in which one has to do things to survive, which I wouldn’t ever have imagined.

At that point I am now, looking  for ways  save and get money every day, even if the situation is uncomfortable. Like renting where I live and while, going rented rooms in student apartments that are not the most comfortable and hygienic place for someone like me, who already passed by this many years ago, when it was my time.


Seguir leyendo Stages in life that I would  never have imagine



Una calle cualquiera
By Dream’Espe



Where will the future lead us?
Many times all or part depend on
the gap you cross
which leads us to that other unknown side.
Dare you?

Más en español

Seguir leyendo Future?

A call and a hug 

A call to see me,
2 minutes of conversation,
makes me feel that I am someone who matters,
even if it is just to give you a hug.

For the first time in many months, I felt a normal person, not different from the rest


Seguir leyendo A call and a hug 

My walking and Joe Strumer

Yesterday I did it. I spend the morning walking and even had a conversation with a man who was taking photos at some grafiti.

I told him that the house wich he was close ti, began to a famous singer Joe Strumer, of the group the Clash, who lived his last years in Granada (Spain), where he found the peace that he needed.
I told him this story and he taught me how to take better photos even he lent me his camera to take some.
It was a nice moment that only happen if I go out from my flat, in the street, in the world.

Placeta Joe Strumer

Cuesta Escoriaza, 31, 18009 Granada



Time passes, since I do not write, I needed to get away from myself, I needed to forget myself, because seeing myself reflected in words hurts me as much as looking at me in the mirror.

But I will return. I am still alive despite much fighting with my friend ‘death’ and I have given some steps that I will write here bit a bit

My feelings need to leave me, to see me from the distance of a writing.

I will continue to share in this my little world called “living with depression“, the struggling and falling of a person in constant disagreement with his own mind.

By Google images


Seguir leyendo TIME ~ EL TIEMPO

London and the phantom of the opera

The thorn that I carry inside reopens and hurts with every movement, with every effort that my aching body tries to realize.
The wound is already so deep that sometimes it is about to touch that called soul. The soul, so subtle and so powerful which generates such energy that is capable of changing your world oy you can simply stop belonging to it. And your thorn, according to the motion I make, touches my soul, strikes it, its skin is so fine and sensitive, for, with a millimeter more depth of roze, my soul would break into a thousand pieces, Prick with the thorn of a beautiful rose, exploding at the same time that it dazzles by the beauty of the flower, and that makes the damage hurts a little less, although the result is is more.

My thorn is not beautiful, it is not sweet, I can not even smell it, maybe if it smells good and I face it enough so I can smell it, maybe that would numb the pain. But there is no smell, no color, no beauty, no aroma or force. There is nothing, and nothing hurts more than nothing. The absence of a whole or something. That emptiness breaks so sharply that no blessing nor magic potion can heal. The void is that, nothing, and where nothing is installed, nothing can grow there. My thorn is full of nothing, has emptied part of me, that’s why months ago that part of me left not to return.

I write this on a bus, full of people who travel, some with illusions, others, tired. A hostel is a good way to observe people, most of them alone, some not. Many happy, enthusiastic, not least. My foot, the destiny that makes my dreams can not be realized, but to win from me, has made me spend a lot of time in solitude and in the is more place, with a vibrant London around me, with a desire to walk by its gardens as the only objective of my journey, something so simple, that I could hardly realize. The first two days I decided not to think about pain, to pretend I did not exist, but this one has become stronger, to the point that the last three days have been impossible not to return after 10 minutes in the street, despite my effort, despite having tickets to a theater.

The emptiness as a malignant tumor spreads rapidly creating more empty, to the point that you stop being a person, you stop being something, to become nothing. And the little bit that remains of me tried to enjoy the musical the phantom of the opera. Who was going to tell me. I was the ghost, I felt the ghost, looking for love as the only element that could make sense to his life. I am the ghost. A ghost of mine, deformed, neglected, physically abandoned by not feeling “somebody”. Just something in the wrong place.

For two days I saw, I walked aimlessly but slowly, I discovered, I felt myself. Now minute by minute I stop feeling, and the thorn of your emptiness is doing the rest, breaking the little left of my soul. By the time he returns to Spain, all that is left is loose pieces, like the balloon that blows so hard, it exploded.

Less than a month ago, I think I was suffering from overdoses and autolytic ideas. In a month in London. Let them tell me that I am not brave, that I do not fight. But it does not matter, happiness, love, affection, that would fill my voids, flees from me.


Más En español

Seguir leyendo London and the phantom of the opera

I am fragile

While I listen to the music of Sting ” Fragile”, I think how complicated is life.

Some people who want to live, died, and others who just want to die, must fight for keep themselves alive to no cause more pain in their relatives. Life is unfair.


FRAGILE by Sting

If blood will flow when flesh and steel are one
Drying in the color of the evening sun
Tomorrow’s rain will wash the stains away
But something in our minds will always stay
Perhaps this final act was meant
To clinch a lifetime’s argument
That nothing comes from violence and nothing ever could
For all those born beneath an angry star
Lest we forget how fragile we are
On and on the rain will fall
Like tears from a star
Like tears from a star
On and on the rain will say
How fragile we are
How fragile we are
On and on the rain will fall
Like tears from a star
Like tears from a star
On and on the rain will say
How fragile we are
How fragile we are
How fragile we are
How fragile we are.
By Sting.