I feel like the lie of life, as if everything that makes me I don't know it, but I can taste it and when they ask me who I am I don't know what fable to give. 

Because everyone tells me I have the Alzheimer’s of dementia with the way I tell my hours and that’s why I always doubt if I really am as I say.

Since these feelings have the echo of a question that I never answer, because how to know if what torments me is really me or the illusion of the torture that I need to be.

And I know it's madness, its philosophy and a waste of time, but I didn't grow up honest, always thinking that all that I remember of myself it's made up in a past of which I don't have any recollection of and in another lifetime I would have asked.

But everyone seems to know me and I don't want to disappoint, so I bite my lips and go make up another story. And this is how I always end up feeling as an Oscar winner, remembering names that are salt in the tongue and blind eyes. Because I’m saying that I feel like a vampire with reflection but without knowledge.

TA.