F*ck! Red light.

I hate red lights. It's not only that they stop the circulation of the city's bloodstream, but couldn't they choose another color? I feel like we're all bulls, bulls being taunted into stepping the gas and raging away, as if there was a bureaucrat in front of us waving a red flag, knowing nobody will charge him.

It's like they're provoking us all the time, their red lights, their tax raises, their airport random searches; it really seems they all want to do is to make us rage against them. That is the master plan, no New World Order, no lizard people, the great conspiracy is that they want us to finally grow a pair and and start tackling. And then it will be all Pamplona all over the world.And there will be nobody else to blame but us, the people. That's the master plan, taunt us to destroy it all so they won't have to face the consequences of their poor leadership. We've been too nice so far, they're not happy.

Lately, during red lights, I have been thinking about being a different person, in a different place with a different personality. It would be nice to see things with an entirely new perspective, new worlds, new thoughts, new all. But I guess that changing everything about me would destroy the essence of me wouldn't it? I, the person I am, would vanish and not exist. I would disappear and this new person would never know he was nothing but a wish made in a traffic light.

Maybe I'd keep a thing or two. I think I would keep my eyes, even if they're a very common color, even if they don't see correctly without pieces of metal and glass in front of them. I would keep them only for the cheesy feeling that they'd be the window to my soul, my new soul. An old window for a new house, that should be put into a poem, or a movie, or something. My grandmother used to tell me my eyes reminded her of by then dead grandfather. She cried when she said that and I could not help but to look down in hope my eyes could change so granny wouldn't cry. They're now both dead, and my eyes never changed. People die, that's what they do.

I sometimes wonder if I'll ever have grandkids, will they remember me? Will they tell stories of me? I'd love to be the crazy grandpa who does fun things, but I'm not even the wacky youth who does fun things. How does it work? Do grandparents plan the events so there will be stories to tell, or do those happen on their own? I often feel that unless stories are planned out they just don't happen, but maybe that's just my life we're talking about; things do happen spontaneously, for some.

If most things in the universe that ever came to be are all spontaneous, how would they be like if they had been planned out. Pretty shitty I guess, just look at the economy, the society and the red flag flaunting bureaucrats; those were somehow planned and they don't form planets, or plants, or life, or old windows to new houses. Maybe things were not made to be planned, maybe instead of chaos and order being a balance it seems order is only trying to slow down the natural flow of chaos. One of these days order will get tired, one of these days there will be no red lights, one of these days...

Oh! Green light! Let's go