Psychology the millennial rebel gas oil ratio

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I woke up at noon still a bit dazed. I tried three times to re-enter the dream that lingered there at the periphery of my crumbled sheets. On the third attempt I was successful. I slipped back into it as if through flowing curtains of a window blown open by a breeze. It was almost too easy and thus unnatural. The dream I reentered was a fake, a second off imprint made with what little ink remained on the slate, a pale copy of the one now buried in the depth of the night.

This dream was much lighter, diffused by the stream of light pouring in through the hallway window into my room. I felt light as well, hovering ever so slightly through the barrio , no longer aware of the depth of the prior dream that still dwelled down below. The original dream was now forgotten and taken for granted as the very ground under our feet with all of its unbearable weight and pull.

At first, the neighborhood seemed familiar, as if I simply stroll-floated out of our flat on Colonia, turned on Vazquez and headed towards Palermo and Barrio Sur. Still, I could sense my son’s presence filling the air as if his laughter silently echoed through the sky. gas x strips directions Thus the dream became even lighter with my awareness of it being a dream. I felt like a ghost, a temporary visitor in this vision.

My son, in fact, lives hours away, across the River Plate in another Palermo, yet I could sense he was nearby, perhaps just around the corner. With this clear contradiction and my awareness of it obviously being a dream, my surroundings turned strange. 1 electricity unit is equal to how many kwh The streets were no longer familiar. They were dust blown and filled with light air, broad and without sidewalks. Still, on another level, I was certain I was back in Buenos Aires… as if the City was there, yet somehow hidden from my view. I could not hear its hum but I felt its presence behind me.

These contradictions did not bother me at all. After all, it was a light dream and I was well aware of it being one. Above all, I knew my son was nearby and happy and safe. With this kind of certainty, I went down the road, discovering. As I studied the surroundings and especially the houses, they transformed into their counterparts one can find on the outskirts of Montevideo. They were much smaller and mostly unpainted, many of them never finished, as if permanently provisional, temporary and haphazard.

There were also many more open spaces in-between – empty disordered lots. The spaces grew and the children multiplied with those happy smudged faces. They were playing in the yards and out on the road among ancient car skeletons, half taken apart washing machines and the laundry strung across the improvised vegetable gardens. 3 generations of men sitting on wooden boxes at the front door sharing their Sunday mate and whiskey. Meanwhile, two generations of woman do the wash by hand as the children run careless playing their games with sticks and pebbles and pieces of string.

I stop and stare inhaling the view, the sense and the meaning. I study the scene, well aware that I am unseen. The longer I look, the further do the fields extend behind the houses. The shadows of the buildings slowly dissipated and vanish. Now over the back fence, I see immense plains of flowing grasses as far as the eye could see. Running across it is a brilliant stream of light winding from the horizon. Here and there Butía palms stand alone or in couples, swaying gently to and fro. z gas cd juarez telefono Their bowing solitude and silence reaffirmed this country’s nostalgia to me.

I looked deeper and deeper into the abyss of the expanding dream and sighed the lightest sigh of joy and the children’s laughter reached me as they ran about me. They saw me, the whole multitude of them beckoned to me to come with them. They scattered, running bare-chested with their smudged faces, climbing over the fences and dashing off into the plains toward the arroyo to go for a swim. This is how the dream ended. The children and the dirt road disappeared in the fall sunlight, coming into my bedroom from the hallway window, as the church bells announced it was time to go to the fair.

Do you remember that day? It was years ago now… on a stormy evening just like today. I waited for you, watching the curtains of rain angling across the view out of the windows of the old café de L os Andes on Scalabrini Ortiz and Cabrera. It rained so hard, I was certain that the rain would cut through the walls and windows of my illusions – through my eyes and skin.

This place is suspended in time; it is a tomb for old men and their stale memories. gas 87 I was trembling back then… mad and possessed by the storm raging above, on the same patio where the three of us met all of these years ago. Everything was so different now, so out of control. I was so desperate to grasp what was so incomprehensible. There was a tiny life on the line… and I know it now years later, but I sensed it then in the electric eve over Scalabrini Ortiz.

I saw you crossing the street like a vision or a spirit. Young, beautiful and certain. W illfully tilted against the mighty gust s of Buenos Aires that tattered your umbrella and flared up your long black coat, and your long black curls. gas vs diesel cars R evealing – as the whole world swirled about you in madness – your face, divinely pale as if sculpted out of Egyptian white marble. Your slanted figure in the slanted picture of the window gave it all balance. In that instant, as I saw you – as I remember seeing you then – flowing against the wind and just as much flowing with it, a part of it – you gave the picture its sense.

I remember writing about the windows across the street, with its tall French shades on the second floor of the apparently abandoned house. I sensed stories hidden inside. I imagined conspiracies of love and murder hidden beyond the shutters for ages. Now, lifetimes later, it seems that the story was mine all along and in a way, what I imagined to have passed was actually yet to come for me, back then. N ow, here I am again, waiting for you to come to the same table, by the same window of the same café suspended in time. Waiting for you to come, to ask you if you remember that day, that day that everything changed?

In an orchard that had no end, a young girl played a game of hide and seek with her friend. They spent entire days among the fruit trees looking for each other, always getting lost, deeper and deeper, into the enchanted unknown. There were many seemingly similar paths in the orchard, all crafted by the same gardener whom the friends called the Prince. In truth, all the paths were different – infinitely elaborate and confusing. There still remained many places that have not been cultivated and there nature was at work entangling everything into thorny labyrinths.

Over time their game has changed so much that the exact rules would be impossible to explain. The most important thing to remember was that finding the other was not the object of the game. Indeed, the goal was to remain true to the game: to hide and to seek. To do so, the young girl learned to believe that time did not exist, nor did anything besides the orchard. In this way, the game went on forever, forever was the Orchard, forever were the fruit trees and forever it was now.

There was never any sense of completion to the game when the two friends met. Instead, there was sadness, unspeakable and real sadness. Whenever one of them was found, it was always too soon. They actually believed, although never admitted to each other, that if the game were to end they would cease to exist, as well. They never mentioned this – it was always easier to believe that the game would go on forever. bad gas 6 weeks pregnant After a short and awkward encounter, the two friends would embrace and almost apologetically part again.

Thus most of the game was spent in eternal solitude. One could never be sure if one was hiding or seeking; over time the two occupations merged and everything in the orchard became just play. When the friends occasionally met, it was impossible to determine who found whom. Actually, in these rare moments, neither one remembered the significance of the game, it simply filled the orchard and there was nothing besides it.