You have to find a reason.
One that will make your boat float.
And this is mine:
Each hour, each minute, second;
Each very second,
This world is a little bit more interconnected:
Someone just learnt a word in another language.
Everybody. Everybody keeps on reading faster.
Written languege. It isn’t natural.
Written languege isn’t natural.
We are internalizing it.
Each of us. At each second.
You have to find a reason.
A reason to find hope.
And this is mine.
A question.
A cosmovision.
Someone may offer you hints.
Or something similar.
Will ask for much in return.
But there are abour seven Billion of cosmovisions.
Ways to understand the world.
Each of them defined. Personal. Unique.
Valid.
Lie. Sex. Murder.
Murder is wrong, lies are so-so.
The same umbrella? “Evil.”
Sex… A bigger umbrella? What could possibly go wrong?
Sin!
Murder is still wrong, yes?
The proposal is really simple: To compensate offenses, proportionally, and to publish blood crimes.
Vanitas vanitatum (emptiness of emptiness)
And you are just fulfilled. Lying on the bed or on tve cauch.
Sitting. Walking. On your own or with others. Fulfilness.
Something that dies,
To be filled one day. Be it with cigarretes, and another one, an another one… Alcohol. Cannabis or pills.
To buy clothes or technology. To buy. To buy.
If you have bad luck, you may end up using cocaine or heroin.
A gap. A hole. Nothingness.
It doesn’t fill, it doesn’t fill…
Because you understand life as a flame, something that burns you.
A disgusting burnout from cradle to grave…
Sure they say if you have money this just rocks.
A pessimistic
Is someone realistic who happens to be well informed. To feel anything but protected.
Anything but loved.
A flower of Datura, you grew in a wasteland.
A flower of Datura. You’ll endure any draught. Nothing for beginners.
How easy is self-deceit. To negate the deepest of yourself: Any of the sweetest fruits.
Honey of orange blossom itself. For life is a garden.
You grow the good things, toss the bad ones.
And if you can’t harvest from nothingness:
You plant hope in a fallow that now you know transitory.
Cowardy is contunuity.
You lived what you’ve learn.
Transgression or courage: All inspiration is divine.
Delusion of sadness.
They are dreams, that one day collide with reality, into collapse.
From ilusion to delusion.
It won’t matter how much the Sun shines. For you the sky will be darkish… Black.
Food tastes like ashes. Tobacco tastes like death. You light another.
You feel contradicted. Emotions fight.
It is not your mind against your feeling. It is another thing: You and your circumstances.
Everything reminds you of her.
Disillusion. Truth. Today harsh as ever. And nothing, “Nothing, will collapse in vain.”
We all have principles.
From altruism to egoism. Generosity or greed.
Disposition to learn, or envy. All of them eligible.
A consequence to each action. Which may be temporary.
It is their shadows.
I can listen to him.
I can go on YouTube and type one of his songs.
Tyrone El canserbero.
That’s his shadow. Indelible, as I hold.
Even if censorship tried to silence him part of his work already lives in me.
And of mine?
I do not defend this. It cannot be argued.
I think it is beautiful, to think, that they do, know when we are appreciating their work.
We think in language.
To remember is to read.
It can be worded,
Anything.
