When I dreamed of being a journalist

The parishioner drinks, accommodated to the bar counter; he, another time, receives a new lesson. He’s looking for a moment to justify his actions but finally he understands his big mistake. People can say stupid and dangerous sentences but we usually repeat words that we don’t live and feel.

Todorov, this weekend, has written about Gitta Sereny, died in June 2012. She was a journalist who attempted to unravel the whys about the crime, the hate and the violence. She needed to approach people who had been involved in acts difficult to understand by humans (The case of Mary Bell, 1972 or “from that darkness: conversations with the executioner Franz Stangl, commander of Treblinka).

Somebody didn’t understand this point of view, but she worked hard to do it as Michel Hanneke “The White Ribbon” or Albert Camus “L’etranger”.

 I’m perhaps too simple: This weekend, I also read a reporter about father and son ten years later of Prestige. The father, after remembering those days and the liars and mistakes, he’d take the money that those days, the government gave them, although the volunteers did a great job, without moneys. The son remembers those young; people came from all parts of Spain.

Another parishioner sees me; later, he told me: “the common things make decisions that we simply just meet.

I’ll flight with the spirit of Manuel and Lorenzo on the beloved Celtic lands and I’ll carry in my heart the care for the brave warriors of the kayaks.


And I’ll try to cure my blindness from the Sereny’s spirit. My "newsroom" should be open when someone arrived showing their point of view; although some texts born from the irrational hatred