As certian dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
- Pablo Neruda
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
I thought the earth remembered me
she took me back so tenderly,
arranging her dark skirts,
her pockets full of lichens and seeds.
I slept as never before,
a stone on the riverbed,
nothing between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated
light as moths among the branches
of the perfect trees.
All night I heard the small kingdoms breathing
around me, the insects, and the birds
who do their work in the darkness.
All night I rose and fell, as if in water, grappling
with a luminous doom.
By morning I had vanished at least a dozen times
into something better.
- Mary Oliver
arranging her dark skirts,
her pockets full of lichens and seeds.
I slept as never before,
a stone on the riverbed,
nothing between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated
light as moths among the branches
of the perfect trees.
All night I heard the small kingdoms breathing
around me, the insects, and the birds
who do their work in the darkness.
All night I rose and fell, as if in water, grappling
with a luminous doom.
By morning I had vanished at least a dozen times
into something better.
- Mary Oliver
Admit it
You aren’t like them. You’re not even close.
You may occasionally dress yourself up as one of them, watch the same mindless television shows as they do, maybe even eat the same fast food sometimes. But it seems that the more you try to fit in, the more you feel like an outsider, watching the “normal people” as they go about their automatic existences.
For every time you say club passwords like “Have a nice day” and “Weather’s awful today, eh?”, you yearn inside to say forbidden things like “Tell me something that makes you cry” or “What do you think deja vu is for?”.
Face it, you even want to talk to that girl in the elevator. But what if that girl in the elevator (and the balding man who walks past your cubicle at work) are thinking the same thing?
Who knows what you might learn from taking a chance on conversation with a stranger? Everyone carries a piece of the puzzle. Nobody comes into your life by mere coincidence.
Trust your instincts.
Do the unexpected.
Find the others…
- Timothy Leary
You may occasionally dress yourself up as one of them, watch the same mindless television shows as they do, maybe even eat the same fast food sometimes. But it seems that the more you try to fit in, the more you feel like an outsider, watching the “normal people” as they go about their automatic existences.
For every time you say club passwords like “Have a nice day” and “Weather’s awful today, eh?”, you yearn inside to say forbidden things like “Tell me something that makes you cry” or “What do you think deja vu is for?”.
Face it, you even want to talk to that girl in the elevator. But what if that girl in the elevator (and the balding man who walks past your cubicle at work) are thinking the same thing?
Who knows what you might learn from taking a chance on conversation with a stranger? Everyone carries a piece of the puzzle. Nobody comes into your life by mere coincidence.
Trust your instincts.
Do the unexpected.
Find the others…
- Timothy Leary
Monday, January 21, 2013
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Saturday, January 5, 2013
Nu exista oameni rai, ci doar nefericiti...
— Dar tu îi cunoşti cumva, urmă Pilat, cu ochii ţintă la Yeshua, pe Dismas, Hestas şi pe Baraba?
— Nu-i cunosc pe aceşti oameni buni, răspunse arestatul.
— Spui adevărul?
— Adevărul.
— Şi acum, răspunde, pentru ce tot zici „oameni buni"? Le spui tuturor aşa?
— Tuturor, încuviinţă arestatul, oameni răi nu sînt pe lume.
— Pentru prima oară aud una ca asta, zîmbi ironic Pilat. Dar poate că nu cunosc destul viaţa!... Nu e nevoie să notezi mai departe, se întoarse el spre secretar, deşi acesta nu mai nota nimic, şi urmă, adresîndu-se din nou arestatului: Ai citit despre asta în vreo carte elinească?
— Nu, cu mintea mea am ajuns să cuget astfel.
— Şi propovăduieşti lucrul ăsta?
— Da.
— Şi centurionul Marcus, de pildă, poreclit Moartea-Şobolanilor, cum e după părerea ta, bun?
— Da, răspunse arestatul, e bun; însă, ce-i drept, e un nefericit.
("Maestrul si Margareta" - Mihail Bulgakov)
— Nu-i cunosc pe aceşti oameni buni, răspunse arestatul.
— Spui adevărul?
— Adevărul.
— Şi acum, răspunde, pentru ce tot zici „oameni buni"? Le spui tuturor aşa?
— Tuturor, încuviinţă arestatul, oameni răi nu sînt pe lume.
— Pentru prima oară aud una ca asta, zîmbi ironic Pilat. Dar poate că nu cunosc destul viaţa!... Nu e nevoie să notezi mai departe, se întoarse el spre secretar, deşi acesta nu mai nota nimic, şi urmă, adresîndu-se din nou arestatului: Ai citit despre asta în vreo carte elinească?
— Nu, cu mintea mea am ajuns să cuget astfel.
— Şi propovăduieşti lucrul ăsta?
— Da.
— Şi centurionul Marcus, de pildă, poreclit Moartea-Şobolanilor, cum e după părerea ta, bun?
— Da, răspunse arestatul, e bun; însă, ce-i drept, e un nefericit.
("Maestrul si Margareta" - Mihail Bulgakov)
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