The theatre is open
when I remember who I am,
where I was,
what I did to become me.

I could end in a treetop land,
and never return to my hand,
that place that melts
with my chocolate dreams,
sweet… sweet… at last.

Nobody saw me,
somehow they were sorry.

They wanted to be noticed,
and they had never loved me.

How can I find you
if I can:´t find me in this fog?

How can I touch you
if I can:´t love me?

…. Time
Crossed…
My fate:

The theatre is broken
when I forget who I am,
where I was,
what I did to become me
’cause “me” is

…Love.

…You.

…Free.

The theatre of life is what we remember who I am, where I was, and what I did to become me. All those memories will endure probably through this life, and then I will be free of them after I die.

Will I? Will I not?
Matter it does not…

If in love I live.
If love I am.