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as usual I was correcting a stack of tasks ungrammatical, while my father and mother were in the room. I heard him speak thick, clear voice, as the reader something. I get up, I approach port and extend the ear.
dad is reading an article about my mother. she is lying in bed, turns a little 'head and is wrapped in a blanket.
observe it: he is not following the thread, I do not think even the interest. be lulled by the sound of words.
believe that if it were a shopping list absorbed nothing would change in the expression of her face.
it's easy to say as a child. I do not know, I'm not sure.
there is no flying zones within us that often unconsciously use when we listen to music or U.S. models uk. we do not understand the words, at least not all epppure we fall in love that piece. Sometimes years pass before we give you the time to look for a translation network.
this kind of emotion is like a primary color, one of those - blue, yellow or red - which was specially mixed to create other colors, all other colors.
much of what we do, we think of that takes on a comforting, is a sort of inseparable pacifier, or, to Winnicott, a transitional object.
dispels the shadows, frustrates the dark, gives us a fleeting feeling of not being alone, that someone will give us a hand, we hold the hand, we watched as we crossed the ford.
the magic of everyday life floats and does not disperse, the sound console, the gloom surrounding the meaning of the words vanishes in front of euphony. nothing more, nothing less.
the bottom rests a weary melancholy, due to the time that flies in slow motion.

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I designed my life in the yard


I designed my life, but there was
the sheet.
a piece I have drawn on the bench for
never stop to ask,
on a cobalt blue sky,
to endless wonder.

in a piece I put my name secret,
another
the rustle of the petals that are closed to accommodate the night.

in the smaller one I put all the happiness and
the biggest pain in metronome.

I put the pencil,
but lacked the design of my heart.
then
I asked you to draw on your paper.

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in the courtyard during the intermission of the four assigned to my students, I thought about what he had just finished saying and reflect on the effort that you learn. Fatigue is a beautiful, fruitful, one of the few worth living. understand is to open a breach in the wall, open a window, peering over.
think they will do well at the end of the words spoken and written. many, many will be forgotten, others will be held in the form of notes, notes that Ingall will end up in some attic. other, even worse, become our crumpled leit-motiv, our (and increasingly obsolete inadequate) polar stars
books will be sold to buy new ones, only a few will be preserved. the faces of the prof, mentors, or a little more will end up caught in the memory.
and big ideas will be bartered for a mediocre job, a paycheck that will shake their wings and never allow you to fly above the filth of the world. Why this need the money: to escape the vulgarity, embrace oblivion, forget the fatigue.
what I say is right? has a value of what I send? is right or wrong? who knows ..
not even know me, I think is right.
values \u200b\u200bthat are rooted in my feeling of freedom, the idea of \u200b\u200bfreedom. that which compares with the limit, which moves an inch a day in the line of our horizons.
not know if it's just because they do not even know if it makes sense.
more I get, the more I think it makes sense to have those few actions and thoughts that are scrambling to find a way, that have encysted, that just claim.
'll never have the courage to say. "Look, I do not know whether it is right, because maybe what I am saying does not make sense. We who attribute it, and never vice versa."
make love makes sense, yes. but not for the act itself, but for the small and unexpected good fortune that brings Supplementary. the pleasure is short, just enough not to think about life but to live it.
also drink, eat, wash, sit in the sun, read a good book are "good thing", except that while you think.
always even when you think it would be better to suspend the thought, you think about thinking, it is thought in mind and not outside. is thought to exhaustion, you think how to say, when to say it, say why.
is like the hum of our refrigerator never ends. perhaps best serve to keep the mud and diamonds placed in our souls?
do not know, just do not know. I would gloss
from Socrates: I know not only do not know, but I also know that all the knowledge that I do not ever turn off a star, nor move a grain of sand.

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is essential is invisible to the eye


a good word. here's what we expect. a word that pierces the cloud cover, which dispel the rain.
maybe a lie, because the good words often lie to themselves.
a word you already know Christmas, thrown there by chance, for free. because what is free is what matters.
to school I have two friends, one is called Rashidul and the other Paul.
paul is a guy down for fifteen years, slightly older and rash that when he learned that I had passed the contest was like a light bulb lit up with happiness. felt that I would be for the entire school year in its class.
Paul I and now I wanted to know when we meet in the corridors "five" never fails.
they know what is free and do not need to read the chapter XXI of the Little Prince to know that "the essential is invisible to the eye."
hours it rains, I enjoy this time of freedom and then I start to correct a quintal of tasks. I would be lying to say that it's okay, the same if I told you is wrong.
goes ... evergreen in an attempt to put order in my closet existence.
when I was younger I did not love the rain, but today, yes. The same applies to the haze hovering low over the city when you wake up. I like over the years more and more things and moments I remember when my cat by analogy made pasta on my legs, purring curled before.
there is also a wonderful poem by Ungaretti: Christmas. good in these days the month of November, where the gray color has the upper hand on the rusty early autumn.
now looked everywhere and I copy and paste.
hello hello ...



I do not want to dive into a ball

road

I'm so tired

shoulders

Let
well as a resting
what


in a corner and forgotten


Here
not
feels the heat more


I'm good with
The four somersaults

smoke of the hearth


Naples, December 26, 1916

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academic


well and unfortunately share the same fate: no one knows where to put the ACCA.
the ACCA, we were told is not a letter, a bit 'like the white color is not as contains them all.
alas, have my elderly parents at home is not a life experience, but it is a test initiation.
dragged the steps, slow movements, the incipient deafness, the memory fades facts, events, emotions. illness, disease, pills, frugal meals, the idiosyncrasies, the existential posture incorrect, the correct ones. flows emotional color, the fullness of being, the soul that overflows memories.
the starry sky of youth, the misty sky of old age. hear sneezing, coughing because of the jump, urine, feces, diapers, diapers, snacks, high cholesterol, the mitral valve, the defibrillator, ham and mozzarella.
short, old age, death of the hall, waiting room crowded with memories of recent games room.
the world of children and the old join hands, in both cases looking for something. The first look for something that does not yet have a name, the latter something which no longer recall the name.
in half there is life, and all open bets, primarily those on ourselves.
you can get away from everything: from a love gone by sailors have one, from a deal wrong, from a friendship misplaced, stolen from a home-made from a robbery in a house.
you can also choose not to be happy, or they no longer want to work hard to be. may be inauthentic and / or earn our trembling palm after palm authenticity.
can even reach the consciousness trying not to resolve the contradictions more, but fuck them one by one, without exception.
as usual, was right in Woody Allen's Deconstructing Harry when he put into the mouth of a dead man restored to life than being alive is to be happy.