Piles More Condition_treatment

The paper inside and outside the home and workshop

Introspection. I speak in Italian to relax. When I feel lonely, I do dream of my mom company. Since I'm here do incredible dreams. It will be for the pure air, the silence of the night or because I go to bed with the chickens (given the circumstances, quite literally, ha ha!), But I'm reliving my whole life in slow motion: in a dream I meet people who I did not think for years, I makes peace with the friends with whom I argued, I find myself in my teenage Guard smiling and sleepy.
the day however, I happen to feel a strange sensation, like splitting. As if all this was happening to me. I do things and making them look at me. There are moments that seem so unreal to me that, perhaps to keep from being overwhelmed, my brain makes distances, as in a continuous deja vu. So I'm watching with, precisely, serenity, this other myself struggling with a newspaper that has nothing to do with his life but in which everything, however, is perfectly normal for her, prayer before eating the mouse under the bed. It's like a long dream, in which successive sunrises and sunsets, with some events so strong, for beauty or difference, or so simple that I can hardly believe it.
Three weeks is not a flush shot. There are three weeks that I do not see a tap. They are just so many days that I do not look in a mirror. A week ago I looked into your eyes a huge cow that died of sticking and I have not tried nothing, neither fear nor disgust.
's me. Is it me? They are just small little things to change into the most incredible figures of immersion in a world where everything is a pure sensation. At the bottom of the zebu has nothing to do. Is the toilet, the key!
the morning I wake up full of a sense of gratitude, a gratitude that if I define atheist religion, gratitude to these people that allow me to stay here, stay in that for them who knows what it is, perhaps simple laziness, but for thrills me so many thoughts, ideas, questions, and I end up sharing their lives and I'm always getting more than they ever can give. Them of my world know nothing. I do not say so to say. If not even imagine, because there are times when I do not suppose I even more, how do we have so many washing machines, books, and subways and neon signs and supermarket shelves, but tales! The experiences remain elusive for those who have not experienced the hard way. No matter the flood of adjectives, rivers of words, hundreds of photographs. I will never imprison the proper sense of what I'm experiencing here, nor will I ever explain to them who I am and where I come from. Europe is just a place beyond the sea. Without a past, with imprecise identity, I'm not. I am, though full of life. Sometimes I forget why. Remember me on this computer.
And then something else happens too. That in all this, I am doubly different, inside and out. Why are alien to their culture, because they are foreign and even out of place, but basically I was a foreigner in Paris, where he stuffs himself with anti me of pain au chocolat, and I was amazed that there were tables in a bistro, or Belfast, where I ate potatoes and I raised my hands to make me search by entering in any supermarket. But the different here is that I am of a different color, that just can not do it to camouflage itself in the midst of many colors all the same. Because here are not blond, red or brown. I'm just all Malagasy, and I, at least Ambohimahamasina, are almost the only one who is not. So, when I start to feel the same inside, and for that reason, including because I almost do a nice platter of rice, that's who we think those shrill little voice, and sassy to remember the difference. Vazahaaaaa! - I scream. Shit, I'd forgotten! I'm white! And that other, even when I am inside I begin to feel at home, never stop it.