[Thoughts on a shattered paper]
Dreams of fame are all I have kept from my childhood. Dreams
risen from illusions and expectations. I always stared at the television,
watching those queens of glamour of the celluloid; went to the poor
neighbourhoods, listening to those masters of the saxophone playing the most
delightful blue notes; snuck in the theatres, looking for those actors and
actresses of the Broadway scene, conquerors of the stage. That way I realised
that was the life I wanted for me, although I had seen the ugly truth behind
that glitter of glam. Shadows would cover this golden paradise with hands of
gossip and sensationalism; what is more, private lives stolen by flashes. I
always had the dream of becoming a good singer, yet would I be able to face the
killers of the spotlight? I wouldn’t. I have never been strong. I have always
wanted that thing I could not handle; being in the centre of the ring; all eyes
on me. Doubting and doubting again, my time has passed; the Mercury has left Grand Central. And
finally I put down in words the dream that will never come true.
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