In this crowded world of humans swarming the feeling I get sometimes is full of strangeness.
not for lack of love or humanity, but something more subtle but persistent, like a smell that haunts me, even if I open the windows.
.
.
detached from the surrounding reality sometimes I look around and suffer an endless solitude.
A dull ache and terrible that rises from the depths of my soul.
. Very often instead
the ferocity of the behavior of my fellow left me dazed, hurt me, even when it hits me directly, just as the insensitivity of all the perception of "quiet desperation" that unites us and that just seems to me ' immense shared insanity.
instead of backing in this short steep path that is live, it is preferred jump into a battle played on a cliff that is crumbling as underfoot.
.
It swims in this becoming like a chaos turbid and we also drown each other, no rules, no respect even for their opponents. Without any noble intentions and feelings that seem now a sunken treasure in the dark depth of unconsciousness.
E 'the darkness of selfishness that moves inexorably, black hands that bring them all and make us comfortable until we reach are reduced to pieces.
.
The phantasmagoria of good feelings then with which underlie our actions cynical, we'd laugh ourselves if we were not unaware of the protagonists of this comedy of errors.
A dull ache and terrible that rises from the depths of my soul.
. Very often instead
the ferocity of the behavior of my fellow left me dazed, hurt me, even when it hits me directly, just as the insensitivity of all the perception of "quiet desperation" that unites us and that just seems to me ' immense shared insanity.
instead of backing in this short steep path that is live, it is preferred jump into a battle played on a cliff that is crumbling as underfoot.
.
It swims in this becoming like a chaos turbid and we also drown each other, no rules, no respect even for their opponents. Without any noble intentions and feelings that seem now a sunken treasure in the dark depth of unconsciousness.
E 'the darkness of selfishness that moves inexorably, black hands that bring them all and make us comfortable until we reach are reduced to pieces.
.
The phantasmagoria of good feelings then with which underlie our actions cynical, we'd laugh ourselves if we were not unaware of the protagonists of this comedy of errors.
.
we love too often like a supermaket: you take what you need and you leave the store without even saying goodbye.
It 's a predatory universe without restraint, without horror of himself.
.
you share moments of life together as if there were no tomorrow which give a value. Our past is often not renewed in the present nor invested in a future which, although uncertain, is supposed to be so much better.
We forget the good things had to live instead in spite of evil or just complain about dashed expectations.
Sometimes you touch the worse with the indifference with which you pay the other as if they were prostitutes.
.
omit the crime which he describes the brutal world in which we live. It 'too easy to point to deviant behavior, ruthless murderers, thieves, greedy up to capacity.
A zoo of beings who have very little human. Biological organisms dominated by the most vile impulses, but also by the stupidity more stupid, which makes him believe that happiness and pleasure taken at the expense of others can never be a good deal.
devil incarnate, and perhaps only, because they were born and lived in a Hell. Sure
stupid beyond all limits, as those enriched in a world of excessively poor.
As if a man could ever try pleasure to eat at a table spread, while below that people are dying of hunger and fade the ankles of those who fill their bellies.
Such people fail to realize that without the sharing is not no sense in having.
.
so I prefer to observe what happens to me, putting on the scales as I can give and how much revenue.
In this way I see it in my complete inability to get out of the Guild of Merchants of this world. This thought comforts me that after all I deserve my punishment, as a self-confessed never really regretted it.
.
The doubt comes over me especially when I think that the feelings experienced are a bargain remains confined in the boundary of my skin.
I never certain that what I feel is really together with the other score.
Not to mention, the value of these emotions and feelings that are at the mercy of market transactions in a delirious, luck, and circumstances of the case more absurd.
.
I am so deaf to the true music of love, even when it sounds very close and I could hear it if I were not distracted by my own thinking, the cacophony of my illusions, the absurd projection of my ego insignificant Insignificant as it consists of the same substance dreams.
.
you share moments of life together as if there were no tomorrow which give a value. Our past is often not renewed in the present nor invested in a future which, although uncertain, is supposed to be so much better.
We forget the good things had to live instead in spite of evil or just complain about dashed expectations.
Sometimes you touch the worse with the indifference with which you pay the other as if they were prostitutes.
.
omit the crime which he describes the brutal world in which we live. It 'too easy to point to deviant behavior, ruthless murderers, thieves, greedy up to capacity.
A zoo of beings who have very little human. Biological organisms dominated by the most vile impulses, but also by the stupidity more stupid, which makes him believe that happiness and pleasure taken at the expense of others can never be a good deal.
devil incarnate, and perhaps only, because they were born and lived in a Hell. Sure
stupid beyond all limits, as those enriched in a world of excessively poor.
As if a man could ever try pleasure to eat at a table spread, while below that people are dying of hunger and fade the ankles of those who fill their bellies.
Such people fail to realize that without the sharing is not no sense in having.
.
so I prefer to observe what happens to me, putting on the scales as I can give and how much revenue.
In this way I see it in my complete inability to get out of the Guild of Merchants of this world. This thought comforts me that after all I deserve my punishment, as a self-confessed never really regretted it.
.
The doubt comes over me especially when I think that the feelings experienced are a bargain remains confined in the boundary of my skin.
I never certain that what I feel is really together with the other score.
Not to mention, the value of these emotions and feelings that are at the mercy of market transactions in a delirious, luck, and circumstances of the case more absurd.
.
I am so deaf to the true music of love, even when it sounds very close and I could hear it if I were not distracted by my own thinking, the cacophony of my illusions, the absurd projection of my ego insignificant Insignificant as it consists of the same substance dreams.
There is generally considered the only owner of our subjectivity, and ultimately it is noted that we have a building of different personalities (often contradictory) that live in us.
shudder in the fact that only listen to myself, only to obey my wishes and capricious so I inflict punishment with my own hands.
I am the victim, the executioner and implacable judge of my life.
.
I think back to moments of love, with ardent kisses, the intense moments, the caresses of an infinite sweetness; The words whispered in the night and put the feet of his beloved as gems lying on a blue velvet and illuminated by the reflection of the moon , and I wonder how is it possible that all these events have had a value only for a few moments?
Everything is devoured by time. The memory has faded from this greedy mechanism that feeds every moment of existence. So every emotion evaporates like a drop of water rained in the desert. In this arid place, the drought is determined by the smallness of spirit without a bloom.
.
seems that men and women of this planet do not have the power to remember, and I myself do not have, not only you forget mistakes, but also good things. We live
mirages that disappear as soon reached. In a constant repetition of stereotyped and compulsive thoughts, behaviors and patterns.
Flashes of authenticity color sometimes monochromatic canvas of everyday life, but events are so far from normality that is often classified simply as the moments of madness.
do not need to travel then, have fun, enjoy every luxury or defect in our minds when there is never a true celebration of renewal.
.
What good horizon and climate change by looking into the sun if our conscience does it always rain?
.
I think its a global fight where everyone wields a sword, sharpened by a good occasion to throw blows in the dark to their similar shots that wound, injure, cripple, maim with a rage that knows no measure, nor mercy, nor especially real reason.
In this melee of madness seems to be the only imperative to stand, last as long as possible without considering the cost of the perpetuation and especially about how it will reduce when you arrive at the end.
.
often live a handful of years to the beautiful and pursuing only the best hope of finding a door that leads out of this infamous Bar.
This port is not, however, we have not built, perhaps there never was. To believe otherwise makes us immediately adhere to the most bizarre superstitions.
shudder in the fact that only listen to myself, only to obey my wishes and capricious so I inflict punishment with my own hands.
I am the victim, the executioner and implacable judge of my life.
.
I think back to moments of love, with ardent kisses, the intense moments, the caresses of an infinite sweetness; The words whispered in the night and put the feet of his beloved as gems lying on a blue velvet and illuminated by the reflection of the moon , and I wonder how is it possible that all these events have had a value only for a few moments?
Everything is devoured by time. The memory has faded from this greedy mechanism that feeds every moment of existence. So every emotion evaporates like a drop of water rained in the desert. In this arid place, the drought is determined by the smallness of spirit without a bloom.
.
seems that men and women of this planet do not have the power to remember, and I myself do not have, not only you forget mistakes, but also good things. We live
mirages that disappear as soon reached. In a constant repetition of stereotyped and compulsive thoughts, behaviors and patterns.
Flashes of authenticity color sometimes monochromatic canvas of everyday life, but events are so far from normality that is often classified simply as the moments of madness.
do not need to travel then, have fun, enjoy every luxury or defect in our minds when there is never a true celebration of renewal.
.
What good horizon and climate change by looking into the sun if our conscience does it always rain?
.
I think its a global fight where everyone wields a sword, sharpened by a good occasion to throw blows in the dark to their similar shots that wound, injure, cripple, maim with a rage that knows no measure, nor mercy, nor especially real reason.
In this melee of madness seems to be the only imperative to stand, last as long as possible without considering the cost of the perpetuation and especially about how it will reduce when you arrive at the end.
.
often live a handful of years to the beautiful and pursuing only the best hope of finding a door that leads out of this infamous Bar.
This port is not, however, we have not built, perhaps there never was. To believe otherwise makes us immediately adhere to the most bizarre superstitions.
may happen that we draw on the wall of this room a dark rectangle, perhaps with a piece of chalk colored, and we convince ourselves that it is a gate. Presumptuously we indicate to the other as an exit, but only because it would be too difficult to accept that we lost in this labyrinth.
.
So what is the point of all this trouble? This eternal feud? If you do not stain with mud and blood, our soul even more far candida.
.
Men and women used and then thrown into a corner as tight clothing or simply went out of fashion.
It makes room for the hosts of a new generation who will repeat the exact same errors.
.
The sense of these human vicissitudes?
The prize for winning this fight without neighborhood?
.
So what is the point of all this trouble? This eternal feud? If you do not stain with mud and blood, our soul even more far candida.
.
Men and women used and then thrown into a corner as tight clothing or simply went out of fashion.
It makes room for the hosts of a new generation who will repeat the exact same errors.
.
The sense of these human vicissitudes?
The prize for winning this fight without neighborhood?
do not understand what all mankind and me looks like this: a pile of battered and mismatched shoes that stand out in an indifferent sky.
image that reminds me of the collection of personal effects of those ended up in the camps.
These poor people were singing in the shower that was supposed to wash them, but in reality they asphyxiated. The comparison with our present seems to me evident in the misunderstanding that guide the actions and even more results.
.
images of a cruel murder came only a little over sixty years ago shock us if we stop to imagine, similarly to the disorientation you feel unable to express life, hope and beauty inherent in every person.
Who can open my mouth to these deportees?. Who will speak for us?
image that reminds me of the collection of personal effects of those ended up in the camps.
These poor people were singing in the shower that was supposed to wash them, but in reality they asphyxiated. The comparison with our present seems to me evident in the misunderstanding that guide the actions and even more results.
.
images of a cruel murder came only a little over sixty years ago shock us if we stop to imagine, similarly to the disorientation you feel unable to express life, hope and beauty inherent in every person.
Who can open my mouth to these deportees?. Who will speak for us?
Maybe our goods? I do not think the objects are often the desire of our lives and, paradoxically, we often survive, but I can not tell, just as the mountains of requirements objects in concentration camps can not describe the Holocaust.
.
Only people can. Men and women who have shared with us some time. Provided that these memories are not cleared of superficiality, the more terrible because of forgetfulness forgets, first, the heart.
.
Only people can. Men and women who have shared with us some time. Provided that these memories are not cleared of superficiality, the more terrible because of forgetfulness forgets, first, the heart.
. In fact
when we forget the others we forget about ourselves and then, all experienced moments ... will be destined to be lost prematurely as fallen leaves from the branches, before the coming of autumn.
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