¿What happened to my friend the bronco?

One day, here, on the edge of the abyss—steep, carved into unfathomable ground—I pause to wonder what became of me. What happened to that fragment of a being so sensitive, who, amazed by the subtlest act the universe could offer, stood content and grateful before it?

I look toward that place and find only traces of what once was. Life, being, upbringing, or perhaps the mere contact with others has shaped my spirit. In it, only the hope remains—to understand something new, to grasp the reason behind the event my eyes now witness.

I believe my mind and soul are programmed in the language of words, ideas, and ideals; and that the one subject my spoiled adolescent self never learned was how to love and allow oneself to be loved.

I do not envy those who have made these teachings the center of their lives and now, in harmony with them, feel calm and happy. No, I do not envy them. But I confess, as any true human would, that I have sinned by dreaming—through borrowed desire—of being in their place, living that longed-for event... which, in my case, often ends in the most terrible of awakenings.

My ideals, my beliefs, my life concepts are nothing compared to that sublime dream that is love, or the peace some men find in their daily lives. And what am I, if not a mere bundle of actions without explanation? Life—subtle and sarcastic—has poured into me the ironic grace of never feeling at peace, and yet somehow, finding pleasure in that very state.