Recreating

What am I doing?
I look and see, and I re-invente me: with other attitudes, personality, decisions. As if every moment I could be new, not something that I can be. But that I can plane.
I see the paths in front of me, I see the traces left by the time that I'll make. And these traces go behind the paths and cross thenselves randomly, like ribboms of a gymnast.
Colored in time. In space.
This seems very real to me although I know that is not a little. Why?
It sounds so simple. "Go there and live." So simple that no one in the world understands the meaning of the facts, why living, living, and then, dust. Obviously there is something beyond, or not?
The murmur of the gods. Something that makes us open our eyes for intantes, and makes us alive. However, the time, the boredom of humans, makes us used with the fact of living, simply because everyone in the corner cans. Capitalism doesn't value.
So I stop and ask myself, what I'm doing. And I realize that I have felt into the trap of time, life was already so common that it lost its way.
I continue to rebuild, so I will find something that remakes me and get me out of this trap. Exist. Not in the dry sense of the word. Be completed at everytime. Only this works.