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Myself
by Henar Pardo García (2008-09, 5º C)
I do not like people. I hate their shallowness and their futile conversation. I hate their empty smiles and their empty hearts. They believe that they are special, that everyone is special, but the sad simple truth is that they all are the same boring mass, dancing as puppets in the wind of naivety.
Once, a long time ago, I thought I had found the spark among the darkness of mankind. She came without any prior warning, as every important thing in life does. When she was born the world turned into a new space, more brilliant and milder. I realized that my arms had been made to embrace and protect her, my arms and my entire soul made to her measure. Her eyes were the guardians of all the beauty and all the spontaneity which remained over the face of the Earth. But when she died all Good died with her.
Now I do not care for anything. In fact, I am really surprised that anyone cares. We are here, gathered as flakes in an evil snowman who is always laughing at us, and people still believe that they are special. That is why I like the sound of their blood dripping and their necks breaking. It is like exploding the bubbles in the wrapping paper. Only then I feel something similar to relief and peace. They are not worthy of life! At least, not more than her.
I having been asked by my lawyer to write about myself and about my feelings, this solitary sheet is the result. He says it can help me. He assures me people will understand. I reply to him that I am aware of my guilt and I do not expect anyone to understand me. I honestly hope they do not.