Today I received the most depressive answer of the last times: “I’m not unhappy”.
The last time I had that feeling I was driving home from the hospital, still hoping to see my father alive, and even with this hope, my first impulse was to take advantage I was driving at late night to commit an idiocy and become free of that painful feeling. I did not, and I will never do it.

With the years, I’ve become used from be “happy with few unhappy times” to be “not happy with (each time more frequently) some happy times”.

But “I’m not unhappy” sounds to “I’m not happy, but I’ve become used to not to be it”.

This writing is not dedicated to who gave me that answer, it’s dedicated to Ares, for when she’ll be older. And if who gave me that answer can learn from it, better for all.

COLLONS!!
Beu, viu, seu, riu,
fés sorgir un sentir joliu,
canta i balla, surt del niu
abans que torni l’estiu.

/BOLLOCKS!!
Drink, live, sit, laugh,
grow in you a happy feeling,
sing, dance, be out of,
because the summer is coming./

Anything, but don’t sit down seeing how the happiness leaves, fearing to try to cath it, and change the “not unhappy” for “unhappy”.
The risk worth it.

Hey, and if you need help, you have a lot of friends around you. And a big family who will hug you everytime you’ll need it.

I wish you will not be “not unhappy”, but if you feel it someday and I’m still around, just call me and I’ll leave anything to come here and give you one of those big hugs you hate, my little stubborn.

Cuando abrazado a la parca (por amor herida)
en ataúd tu cuerpo yazca de tal suerte,
que nadie diga que tuviste buena muerte,
que sepamos todos que tuviste buena vida.

Cuando la carne de tus huesos sea despedida,
y cuando no vayamos ya a volver a verte,
que sepamos que en tu madurez seguiste fuerte;
madurez, que no vejez ni juventud perdida.

Sea este mal verso de esperanza un canto,
sea un buen abrazo, una fuerte risa,
un ligero beso, una sonrisa,

Sea lo que sea, que no sea un llanto,
sea una canción: ligera, sin prisa,
cantada en el campo, pero nunca en misa.

(I cannot make a proper rhyme)
/ When bracind the Death (by Love wounded)
in a coffin your body will lie,
that you had a good dead they will not say,
make us know a good live you lived.

When the meat from your bones will be ripped,
and we will not see you again
let us know you get the strength
in your old age, not in your young age wasted.

Let make this bad verse a chant of hope,
make it a good hug, a loudy laugh,
a light kiss, a big smile.

Make this anything but a cry,
make it a quiet song: taught,
sung at the field, and not in mass./

There is nothing like that. Friendship is not cooked, it’s cultivated. You plant it when you know the person, and you must take care of it, feeding it with smiles, watering with patience, and letting it growth without restrictions nor reproaches.

Today I knew you left us. I’ll miss my feet been heated at night, now I know you’ll never do it again.