Real, quite too real and, especially, too coarse. From there, beyond the anger, a long and overwhelming shame covering a marathon that was ending in a goal where the tiredness was waiting. A shame that consisted in having believed during decades that it was training in the only thing, when everything it did was a vulgar plagiarism; and not even of an exquisite, high and talented work, but of an ordinary work, full of errors, with a saturated mediocre argument of common places and with unimportant accommodated personages by means of a vocabulary composed by gray words, without knife-edge.
Overdraft this plagiarism, this one “copies to stick” that has happening for countless generations, how then not to distinguish, at least in the first moment, between the dirty and the clean thing? How is not going to be natural to separate, and with something of disgust, from all this group of bipeds that we believed so related, so joined to the same species, to our feeling, inside of what we believed heartily a brotherhood? Yes, the natural thing then should be an emotional bang to take distance, and, from a lookout luck, perhaps, to begin to stretch bridges, with the respective conditions of the case.
At the end of the beginning of the process it is possible to be forgiven. Yes, to find not only the necessary indulgence as for to see that one has not been the only responsible of so many falls, of so many repetitions of errors, but, on the contrary, I has been one, especially, the one that has had to do with the rupture of all this chain of unhappiness with which the ones from here and there have held him, all of them that decided to remain in the stinking and familiar scent of the pain. In this end, reconciliatory and lonely, one begins to find the company that inexorably was constructing.