Shattered dreams

I have always loved the eulogies. I have no clue why, I suppose it is something in my childhood, when I never felt like getting enough attention and esteem, even though it was a decent time, with its ups and downs, and my parents led a usual life, not poor, nor too rich, just a middle-class family from New York.

In my teenage, I decided to be an actor, and so went through a lot of hardships until finally making it, forcing my way into this cruel industry, starting as an extra on the sets in NYC, realizing soon that it will be a better option to move to L. Angeles and to get near Hollywood, around which my youthful, candid imagination would build fantastic dreams of success and wealth, all being set in the famous Hollywood Hills, where I would happily live a marital life with a charming, tender wife and a couple of lovely children, with whom I would stroll around and maybe show them with infinite pride and admiration the villa of Marlon Brando, the actor whom we used to idealise and ape in the ’90s, even if he was not anymore on the apex of his fame and beauty, yet still terrifically charismatic and not giving a fuck about popularity and acting.