aristidetraian
Just a blog
Monday, November 14, 2016
The only thing we can do perfect
Hate can only be inside but love can be outside. The body is only limited, so all the hate that we can have inside yourself is bound by our finite size. Only the love that we can give outside yourself that is not limited to a certain person or finite object could be infinite. What it means to be boundless not like the see but like the universe? Love is the only God like power we are allowed to have.
Perfect job
Confucious said:
"Chose a job you like and you never have work one day in your life."
What kind of job will be that? We are talking about hanging around and doing what we like more like be the boss thing. But without the responsibility, as usually is to much and inevitable without the power.
More than anything to even exist it depends of what you define work. For each definition there may, or may not be a job that may be consider not work. For me, when time stops is the only moment at my job when I am working, I just feel the joy of doing something amazing.And after the day's work you feel like coming back tomorrow.
Maybe next time I get lucky enough.
"Chose a job you like and you never have work one day in your life."
What kind of job will be that? We are talking about hanging around and doing what we like more like be the boss thing. But without the responsibility, as usually is to much and inevitable without the power.
More than anything to even exist it depends of what you define work. For each definition there may, or may not be a job that may be consider not work. For me, when time stops is the only moment at my job when I am working, I just feel the joy of doing something amazing.And after the day's work you feel like coming back tomorrow.
Maybe next time I get lucky enough.
Thursday, December 10, 2015
Dreams are part of our life.
They do not know that dreaming
is a constant in life
as concrete and outlined
as any other thing,
like this grayish stone
where I sit to rest,
like this calm creek
in its easy startles,
like these high pine trees
that in green and gold sway,
like these birds that crow
in drunkenness of blue.
They do not know that dreaming
is wine, is foam, is yeast,
a joyous thirsty little animal
whose sharp snout
pokes through everywhere
in endless restlessness.
They do not know that dreaming
is canvas, is colour, is paintbrush,
base, pole, shaft,
ogive arc, stained glass window,
a cathedral vault,
counterpoint, symphony,
Greek mask, magic,
that it is the alchemist's retort,
distant lands chart,
wind rose, infant,
sixteenth century vessel,
that it is Cape of Good Hope,
gold, cinnamon, ivory,
a swordsman’s foil,
it is backstage, is dance step,
Colombina and Arlequim,
huge flappy flying bird,
lightning-rod, locomotive,
a glorious prow boat,
furnace, energy generator,
split of the atom, radar,
ultrasound, television,
a rocket landing
on the surface of the moon.
They do not know, nor dream of,
that dreaming commands life.
That whenever a man dreams
the world leaps forth
like a colourful ball
into a child’s little hands.
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