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Everything started with the search
of a more optimistic vision
of the current situation
This way, we come up with the project of a shortfilm
with all of the citizens of Madrid as screenwriters
To do so, we interviewed people on the streets,
so we could create together the plot of the story
And that is how we all created
Utopians
A young man, foreign
Gets frustrated with the book of physics
and the meaningless formulas
that fill his notebooks
He gives up, and decides to leave
¿What is he thinking about?
In anything but that formula
And those studies that promise him something better
In the street, he steals the wallet of an executive
That walked distracted with his cellphone
Since he inherited his position at his job
He works in order to gain the respect of his distant father
Without time to think about his family or friends
Not even in the feelings of his secretary
One of the many employees in his business
Who he would have to go without
But she...She stops listening to his excuses
In all she can think about is in her broken down car
Her son's tuition and mortgaged house
She had been months without smoking
But at that time, she couldn't resist
It's because of that cigarette why she forgets to pick up her son from school
The teacher that stayed to take an eye on him
Missed the last bus
And had no other choice but to take the subway home
He had always dreamed of writing a novel
But he now felt too old
Fragile
And lacking of things to say
In the platform
A girl reads while she waits for the subway train
Don't blink so much pretty girl
Or else your life will slip away
She remains so shocked by those words
That she accidentally forgets her sketchbook in the bench
Hello, if I dont answer is either because I'm working, sleeping...
Or I simply don't want to talk to you
Please leave a message and I'll call you back
You know what? You were right about the views
They're breathtaking
Sorry
Your sketchbook found me in the subway
And I couldn't resist to not get carried away by it
You're right
From here you can see the city's insides
Everyone runs without looking up
It's a little bit sad to see how time contaminates people
They run against time
Like horses blinded by their sides
But occasionally
You see how that clock stops
And you see yourself from the outside
You feel the air
The noise
And you realize that this goal to which you are going
Is nothing but a way through a *** forest
that no one has ever walked
And it is at that time
When your priorities change completely
Well, I have to go
It is time to wind the clock
Hello, sorry for not answering
Leave a message after the ...
Leave it on a shelf
Take it to lost objects...
Among the thieves of notebooks, mine is the only one
who bothers to visit it's pages
I do not know if it's worse to think
That I would have done the same
I have a weakness for rare days
I'd never felt so observed
They seem to beg me with their eyes
To free them from this life hung on a wall
Who knows?
Maybe they have their own exhibition
Of people looking at paintings
I wonder if we've ever met by chance
I don't know, somewhere
We may have shared the same wagon
Can you imagine?
We may have even crossed glances
Even if it were only for an instant
It's amazing what chance sometimes can offer
Sometimes it's only necessary a small factor to synchronize that chaos
As precise as that pressure with which an orchestra conductor
holds the edge of his baton
In order to cause that thought that turns life upside down
It's difficult to choose among so many impossible futures
Me, for now, I think I'll choose to go to sleep
You know what?
While you were laying unconscious, you missed the best part
The city woke up smelling of coffee
And an excessive variety of perfumes
We have distant stares
Pillow marks
Contagious yawns
That lead to other yawns
That spread to other yawns
That get to you
Today I visited one of those unthinkable futures from one of your pages
It reminded me of unlived moments
And that gave me hope
Hope because for the first time in a long time
I feel more like a writer than ever
Although unlike you and your handwriting
My words are impalpable
And suspend in the air of my conscious,
Invisible
The best of all is that in the end they do not catch form
And that, ironically, terrifies me
I'm scared of those infinite possibilities that provides a blank paper
Call me a coward, fearful, chicken
I'll admit it all
But remember, it is always worth it to feel nervous for the risk
Than to feel the calmness of a secured life
And my biggest fear is that someday those pages will end
And I won't have no other choice but to
exhibit me to complete nothingness