de lAmerican Dream et autres eldorados

Marie Bellando-Mitjans Marie Bellando

Typographie

American Dream Typography

"We touch to the failure of consciousness yet some still argue that the day is going to be born" A. Breton, Signe ascendant.

American Dream Typography

Marie Bellando-Mitjans

conversation with his ghostly double

Technicolor eye

Evaporated life looks lovingly, since the end of time, waiting for him to speak, this beautiful stream that knows the truth. How Everything Begins He is in the garden, like every night, at first I did not see him, I believe it was an optical effect, and then after a few minutes I know that there is really someone. How did he arrived here? Nobody knows. He is calm, sat cross-legged in the middle of the lawn, facing the hazel, back to me. I only distinguish his white shirt protruding from his jacket and his pants. He is out of space and time. But does he look at? Why not ap-

proach? Because Im afraid, its strange that presence and most importantly, its disturbing. After a few months to see him appear at dusk and disappear at sunrise, I begin to doubt. And then comes the moment I can not stand it, curiosity became stronger than fear, I approach. Arrived at two meters from him Im sure he is there, existing in one way or another as weird as it sounds. He did not move, yet he could hear me, I made a noise. I bypass to face him, he stares at me and yet his eyes are closed. His face is moving, it is moreover an impression of face, he could be anyone. Without knowing why I feel myself sitting down in front of him without letting go of the gaze. I would talk to him, question him, but I can not. A great calm came over me, I realize that I did not know calmness... - Good evening... He spoke, of course, he spoke! But without a voice, or rather without personal stamp with a stamp that is personal to me, the one of my thoughts. - I knew you would eventually come... - How? - Because we can not completely forget ourselves. - Pardon? - Because we can not completely forget ourselves. - I do not understand... - You have to talk to you and you need an intermediary that your materialistic consciousness accepts. - But its not rational, you do not exist, you are a kind of ghost or whatever. - Rationally reassures for a moment, perhaps, but not for long. He disappears like smoke from an incense stick. The heavy writings flood gently and run conceitedly towards the passing by shades.

How I learned I was deaf I open up my mail box, I am still overwhelmed by the dream of that night, was it a dream anyway? A sea of multicolored flyers fall on my feet, those days you are happy to not receive catalogs, it is considerably worse! Today, I have time, so I picked them up one by one to read. After tearing about fifteen coupons for miracles products, I am ready to throw in the towel when I see an animal without border prospectus. The Death Of Freedom. Freedom is a pig, funny name you will say, but it is even worse than you think. This pig was the pet of a young Afghan girl, soldiers, after raped and killed her, ate her pig, Freedom. The article ended thus: This is how soldiers killed Freedom. Talk about irony! The author of this article, far from worrying about the suffering of other girls undergoing, or likely to undergo the same fate, asks for funds to save the swine breed of such a cruel war. - That shocks you does it? - You appear in the daylight now? - I appear when you are ready to see me. So it bothers you that this man is more interested in the becoming of pigs than humanitys future? - Not really, what shocks me is that he does not dwell on the fate of the little girl and he does not offer to help both men and pigs. - Yet this is what you do every day, you miss many things in order to defend your life. As did the writer for the animal cause he is attached to. - Wh...Wh...What? - Yes. Did you find it frightening yesterday whan you heard a student of your class of 11th grade, ask to his mate what was the Shoah and that he answers: You know, the thing between Germany and jews? - No, I mean yes, but not instantly, just ... in retrospect. - What did I tell you? He disappears again, jingling the doors bells. It is true that I was not shocked at the time, I had not paid attention... It was not the first enormity... When we studied the First World War they had asked me how the soldiers could stand the rain if they had no umbrella... There, I had been frightened, and then I got used to...

The tedious clouds are dismayed by a detour of a robust and exceeded legal that envelops me almost tenderly ignoring my opinions. How I found hearing again I found that when men do not know something they made a point to make fun of it. Finally, I think the society against which I fought eventually sucked me, I also became a monster blind and selfish... Does nobody realize what he has become? I have to stop thinking, it is way too depressing. And I increasingly get difficulties to stay calm in front of of injusticies and human folly, I will eventually become irascible... - You become irritable because you become intolerant again. - Intolerant, me? But I am for... - Intolerant because you pulled your conscience out of the sleep in which you had dive... Then you are intolerant to indifference, to idiocy, and who knows what else? - I must stop talking to you. - If you want, but once awakened consciousness is very hard to keep quiet... - So thats why so many people consult a psychiatrist, because they had the misfortune to look inside? - Yes, you start thinking, thats fine. - Thanks, but I reason more than I think... - No, we only reason when we put together ideas and principles made by others, just like a mathematical rea-son-ing. While the verb reflect is used for the light, something beautiful, mystical, the only thing that is both immanent and transcendent! - As you wish ... But then what? - You must learn to love, to welcome all things in life with love... - Talk about a goal! - Do not be pessimistic... Rome was not built in a day... - Antiquity... it makes me think of something... - What then?

- In ancient Greece, an ideal of beauty was explicitly set, and an ideal of... ugliness. While in our time it is already not an ideal but a standard, a norm that is fixed and only for the beauty. - What is a norm for you? - ... A curious blend of a thousand things and nothing, all the more futile and arbitrary than the other... This is something that must be followed, rather than towards which we should strive... Also the ugliness is no more explicit, giving to the scale of beauty in our society a form of half line with only one terminal, one benchmark, one and only way... - But, does beauty still exist? - Yes... well, no... Fashion has replaced beauty... - Yet in my opinion, in your time they are antagonistic ... Moreover, beauty is something subjective, to incarnate it in a single standard, is to destroyed it. - You are right, I will even add that to find beauty in something you have to be disposed to, you have to be somehow happy... - This also follows from the fact that there are less and less beauty to grasp, that the ideal and ultimate goal of any modern culture is money, power and not nature, ephemeral, grace... - Unfortunately... Do you want a coffee? - Gladly! - But you are a gh... Before I could finish my sentence he had transformed my coffee into a kind of luminous smoke he swallowed immediately. - It was very good, thank you. The sumptuous end speaks of memories singing loudly and smiles warmly; the magpie lost in the shadow of its past calculates the vagaries of life.

How we could exist - Today, I felt what free will could be, I found myself facing my life was as a kind of grizzly that I had to tame. - Its beautiful what you say, it is very interesting that you tame the life and not domesticate. It is important to know that we do not control everything in our life, that it is somehow autonomous, that sometimes she sends you signs. - Its a bit surreal as that thought that had a friend: Life is not straight, parallel to the sky. It would be wrong to say that it is full of trap... rather nice organizers in the form that our mind needs to assign... Is it possible to limit the need of our mind? - Absolutely... - However, I think we limit all the needs of our mind... - This certainly comes from the fact that your society shouts: Shut up, assume your discomfort, produce, consume!it is possible that no one ever realize that the discomfort he feels is one and that it is not natural to live with. - Its true, it seems that consciousness was replaced by an endless series of preconceptions... Everyone has forgotten that the good and evil are highly subjective notions, which depend on the individual, his culture, his education, his past. The memories form the personalities they are the ones who allow to exist, to think. - And to create, maintain memory, which is not, as we think something global and universal but biased and differ from each. - It is the appropriation of a fact by the actor or the witness, it is quite possible that no opinion or truth is universally true. - You almost dont need me anymore, it is good, I am a little asleep. See you soon. - Good night. The imperturbable voice screaming and crying tirelessly for opaque veil through which the dark light goes.

How our time... ? - I feel empty, uncomfortable, I do not really know why... - What day is it? Maybe this is it? - We are September 13, 2006, five years and two days after 11. And it is clear that for most people Monday was a day like any other if the press hadnt forced them to remember... But did they do anyway? Nothing is less certain... - Its strange, you said five years and two days after 11, there will be no more 11? - Indeed I fear not. - I see... Go on, please! - Thats exactly five years and two days that we are in the twenty-first century. Although historians still wonder, and only time will provide the answer, if this century began with the fall of the Berlin Wall or at the fall of WTC. The comparison is difficult, I grant you, between an act of peace and unity among peoples and a declaration of war on terror... - You are very pessimistic today. - Its true, but I do not blame anyone, forgetting is natural... But force of forgetting you can not fight to change what you have forgotten... - Things change you know, more and more young people become involved in associations like One, UNITAID,... - Yes... In fact, what I wanted to say is that it is essential to live conscious but to live anyway. - Its much better... It is marvelous... - The memory does not require a perpetual mourning, just a... flame of remembrance which prevents the renewal of past errors and horrors... - This sentence pretty well defines your approach... We have been slow but we finally did it! - Thank you very much for helping me. - Youre welcome, see you soon maybe...

Continents harassed greedily swallow a few sips of this life abruptly freeing his mind of all the dogmas that imprison their lives in our souls and consciences.

or the dream that wants to be a reality

Eldorados in verse and rights

Firsts

They know the value of life, sadness and lack. They know the joys of life, the flower, the sun and waiting. They know the music which makes the gods speak. They know the music that rises to the skies. They know the arts that relieve the souls. They know the arts that bring calm. They know the land which always feeds them. They know the sea which sometimes betrays them. They know the prayers that bless. They know the stones and plants that heal. They know the desert and death, the great rivers and water. They never lose the north. They know the cold of knives. They know the wisdom of elders. They know that war is not a game They know a lot and even if they have nothing, they are richer than those who no longer see through the storm the dove that flies there, who are no more festive since they have no more joy.

American dreamer

The flashes you see are not those of the paparazzi, and yes, you know, it rains even in California. This light so white, so beautiful, chaotic din arising from beyond the sky, the terrible crash that repeats itself, reflected by the hills, which might, perhaps, robbed apart the windows in pieces of time, seconds. This sound of doom, the absolute light and the rain that falls, harmless and fertile. Yes everything could end tonight, finally... Yes but to start over, because the end, the ultimate, the last always precedes the beginning, because the terminal does not last long, and it will soon be spring, new and different, certainly, but just as beautiful and great, the birth of this new era is not done without breaking the war. And how better than by the elements do you force people to be tolerant? Yes, this ordinary cataclysm makes you think of another thing that shines, but even when the sky is blue, everything is calm and beautiful, when you see two candles in the night, you cant help thinking of two other things burning in the sky, burning down the sky, falling from the sky. Yes, it struck me too, who had not been? Yes, weve all seen the end of the world, the chaos next door. But if all of this was a storm, would we be so scared? You now feel the ashes and not the rain, you hear the thunder and for you it means collapsing world, it means tens of thousands deaths , it means blood, tears and cries. The morning always comes, and believe me this is what we think at night, everyone hopes that in bed, because if you blow one of these candles, the other will shout hope to you... And the Sun will remain the same removing fear and shame. As to clean you need the rain, you need the sun to read your brain...

Face

Servitude, servitude, torture of the time that passes and changes nothing, nothing, nothing but hunger, increasing and decreasing, here then forgotten, work, work, work and malnutrition. Yes, yes, work, strive, again and again, again and always, to give hope, to say that we will have done our best to do what we had to do to look alive, to make believe were alive. Certainly, there is no longer any doubt, she is no longer, she no longer belongs to the race of alive people, the only category that seemed valuable, she is a mere shadow of herself, they say, she is only the figure, emblematic, but like so many others, of hopelessness and fatigue. And live, or pretend, rather pretend she knows what is to live, and its not that, it is not fighting for a bag of rice, small, so small... It is not to be stolen for a loaf of bread. And over there, where they say they live with their grass greener and higher, more dense, over there, so close, here, in the middle of limited companies, this is a limited society. Here we have nothing, and yet we are someone, people know your name, your face, you exist for someone, someone is watching you, and here he sees you. We survive, but we know we exist, and that life is beautiful. There, over there, they also survive, in a way. They have names, but no honor, no merit, no face.

On the other side

A man stands beside a showcase, thinks that stuffs arent cheap, ashamed by the way you buy it, wear it, and exchange it... Afraid that you ignore everything he tries to forget... All those screams remain silent cause nobody wants to hear. The show must go on, and everything have to glitter, be more glamorous than ever... Nobody knows about the truth out there... Or worst, they know but they dont care... But which human being could live knowing those things? He tries so many times to escape his own mind but every-time he closes his eyes, pictures come again... He sees the landscape ablaze under a still deep blue sky, soon a blood red sky... As red as the earth beneath his feet... He sees children turning into soldiers, dying soon anyway... Since, here, where you live decide wether you live or die... He says many times: no matter, Im already dead and hes not alone in this case... He sees this ridiculous stone turning every-men fools. He sees those white men from the west, cynics, they just want to make business... He sees also, between flying bullets a man still able to lend a hand... He knows he had lost everything but his pride, the will to go on and shout what he knows cause everything could change one day, if men move straight away... If spokesmen stop talking, and start acting... A man stands beside a showcase, crying and crying; a man stands beneath a quiet sky, praying and praying...

Fifth of November

A vibration, which nails on the spot, which orders to advance, to keep looking, even further than the space. To say, to say and know, that this time is over, with it the Earth stopped rotating, at the horizon is a black sun, stone sun, wall of silence, stormy weather, a colorless dawn, a time which disappear into science. A cold and dusty world, out of what we do not live, wherein we dont exist, a claws, close world. At last, fight for freedom, know that the time is free, knowing that you have the time to live free, hear, here the rythm of Freedom. Dont blow, dont blow up the dust, its the only remedy for memory rust, dont blow... Our secret our secret leave it there, because nothing is more terrible than this silence, it is better, much better, not to hide anymore... The wind that looks at us, the wind that pushes us towards ourselves, the wind of calm revolt, the wind that howls, for us to go forward.

The last man of Europe

He came to this conclusion, he is no longer from here, and still no from over there, like what, the blood does not dictate, where we must stop our steps. He comes at the time, to turn the page, without remorse or regret, just enough memories to think back, some nights of September, with a sky color of amber... When the night is not yet. He is at the moment where there is only the future, and if everything was still to come? He is afraid like these birds fallen from the nest, that cruel children trample in the rainy morning. But he believes, he knows that it is in these points of intersection, midnight, or the headlong rush, that we meet the Infinite, that we meet ourselves. He knows that an elsewhere expected him, and here, nothing really exists anymore, he leaves and becomes free from all that hindered, he left and finally breathe, feels his heart beat, like for the first time, he knows he will be free, he will live, he will live. Sole survivor of a continent, only free man, only crazy man he had the courage to think, remember, and love and write, and nothing, nothing, will never stop him, he left for this elsewhere, this home he does not know, but he will recognize, where he can say eso es la libertad rather than S.O.S for freedom where he will born again, where he will be born.

Register of another world

After the Black River, as threatening as the pearl of dying empresses. After the Black River, whose water never will wet, dry water who takes away the death. After the Black River, is an area of light devoid of any warrior soul.

Here, here where traces fade no more, where truth is no more a question of money; she is whole given to you without duration and without matter. At the place where nothing exist anymore, and yet everything that doesnt exist exists. This space full of emptyness. Our wings emerging from their chrysalis. Fate has never been traced out, life is senses improvisation. The wings grow and we go up until the light of the choices we make, to stay or return again on the other side of the space-time, find a body to try to live again; to experience the best or the worst; start from more zero, because not everything will be erased by water. The water of this amnesia drink that clears what is known about life but can never erase the feeling. The water of this amnesia drink, we are blank page but recycled, knowledge barely camouflaged. The water of this amnesia drink which gives us the taste of the quest and the truth, this crazy desire gives us hope.

The Long Way Traveler

And stop climbing to not find the sun to not touch the everlasting ground, easier then to turn around. And get sucked into the void, dissolve life into the streams, pretend everything was fine and at all costs keep your rank. So much for dignity, silence full of thoughts, stereotypes and prejudices, better to hate than to love. And this silence sometimes in stations like so much time get lost at the bleak surroundings of indifference. And passed the subway, all the stations which are linked like as much as I count Ave, and dissolve the curtain of eternity. To produce again the hope, to revolt again. and love again, from morning to night to put life into our bodies.

The Night Whisperer

42, and if everything was here in those digits over there, 1,1,2... Which roll like a river, toward infinity proofless. So much for life, to the world that runs like a Grand Prize. And all these things that have stopped to let me move on. And all these things I saw without thinking but that I heard before they shouted. So much for nothingness and the other bank, all that is known about the unknown and the drift. And see again the rain at midnight a continent that suffers, legendary. The world, well, a bottomless pit in which to lose my land, and always this dream, this memory, for those who gnaw or make the night less black. And that breath all the things more beautiful that makes itself heard and camouflages the darkness of alleys. And I will not low down my eyes, because everything would start again. And I will not close my eyes, those things should not be forgotten. And I will open my eyes, to denounce again. And i will rise up my eyes, to pray again.

or the dream of universal roots

The Gypsy

The Gypsy comes through the door aged by moisture, between two trees covered with moss as green as bullfighted phosphorus. She walks along the wall, infinite race, patch of red brick and roots of the vacuum in this staircase with a salt crust and frost-bites, metal and concrete, so sad chrysalis. She was cold this morning, under this gray sky heavy as tin the sun, who switched it off? As before Columbus, the world is limited. In the street men are blind the Gyspsy wondered what they see in their hallucinated and voiceless night where alone black, cows moo. And these golden yellow fishes, fishes who persist near broken window, Andy Warhol would have loved... Under these strange television colors she meets very often a Czech passer by who tries to understand his irrational reality. Men always silent and tense, who never will doubt nor in the coldness of the lead characters nor in the texts they compose she would cry so much. Shout, even if it made her notice, and it is not well seen to be different in a world where everything is sold. Then she spoke. And no matter if no one listened, she will, at least for her, testified of this world even more foolish than her illuminated dreams.

The Gypsy walks on a gloomy sidewalk, the sun in the distance disappears behind the streets, behind the squares on which it rained, Gypsy runs under the street lights of shade. The light bulb moves, the light is not yet but the void is no longer. Why her eyes fog up? because she knows that soon the dawn will come and will require a struggle again have faith, believe that peace will come, one day this world will grow and love can grow. She knows that she has just enough time to live, but what then is time? Just minutes parading, movement although it was nothing, she still wants to live. She wants to exorcise the void her fear that gnaws in the city at night oppressive when the black encloses the soul and locks it down. She unconsciously seeks the watchtowers the guns are sleeping with one eye open and those soldiers who made mourning yet she is far from all those deaths. Years, miles have passed but human societies are still heavy she carries in her memory, alive, the spark to testify. Another night to spend, behind the streets, sidewalks salons and boudoirs sleep has filed. And then, after sleep, we should dare, she said, to no longer bear the yoke that hold us on our knees all rise; proud as the morning sun.

The Gypsy is still walking, always on soiled pavements by the smell of the subway from here the gray of everyday. Suddenly, glass, broken as blue as the sky to reflect Surprisingly, even the sun does shine, after so long hibernation. She feels European, under this sky Pacific Blue, actually... Atlantic rather... But always without rancor. These men who have committed to build a new future with peace and culture, to avoid start all over again, to avoid to start all over again like in 14 eradicate war, they dare already hoped. The Gipsy feels European. This awareness within her of a brotherhood of peoples, they might forget the hatred under the flag with golden stars, slamming on top of a white matte spires of the cathedrals of now. Banner of gold circled.

But the rain does fall. The flag would be removed, step back, forget everything, nationalize everything. Do they know that without this hope rain would become red and the wind, sow the torment? That dawn would be black, for those States who have faith and who believe in Democracy to save them and their economy? To betray their dream, by what right? Then she asks, she prays, for all who pass quietly still give a chance to the Union, the great. Peace, Liberty, Democracy, the desire to say yes, to belong to this community, this practical utopia. Certainly it needs to be improved, always perfecting, as each of us, our lives...

The cold wakes her up in the night... How did she get there? Amid these steppes, this vacuum there. A void full of dry mountains, limestone and noise. Muffled sounds, ghosts that hit in the surrounding quarries under a sky of fear. Only the bell rings. It sounds, wind-driven, the furious north wind that made the trees bend, twisted olive trees, polished the bark as marble, and perhaps, dissolves time. Time has crumbled the church but the crosses, carried by the prayers still cling to their rock, their stone stained with tears and overgrown with flowers, in the gray night But these colors she sees them, in the insipid, nothingness, in black and white she sees them as daylight and believes. The Gypsy believes in these colors; she believes in these symbols, this cross, the lamb that is sacrificed, She knows that He exorcises her fears and everything. Stones steep as cliff White as foam and yet so green in daylight, so red when theyre lighten up. The fertile ash recreates and nature is always at ease. When the day breaks after the chiaroscuro and every shade of molten gold we see the sea on the horizon. This vast sea like an ocean and yet safer. This sea to be crossed to connect the North and Souths, Shiites, Christians, Jews, Sunnis, Kurds. Contemplate it to all unite.

Upon waking up this morning she felt well, something was unregistered, without pain, quietly, in the morning. The Gypsy knows she is released, of this strange weight of the genealogy that she knows to have chosen, she knows she has changed. Before, you had to be strong, have a hardened heart, since on your shoulders weighed the Infinite you had to be like dead. Romantic? sensitive? Never, for being a woman, and therein lies the drama, should be avoided to be girl. You had to be more impassive than a rock. But even a rock knows that it cracks ... And it is by ignoring it will ultimately broken ... She marks the end of that time. Already, in herself, has always dozing the certainty of being the key since to talk, now she said She instead of he, although she always is a poet. She knows that times are changing, they have already changed and that soon her rock heart will beat, after all the water flowing in the cracks is made for it, the matrix resinous and dark bursts, transfigured. Since love is not banned, wanting to be more man than man forgetting humanity itself, in short, love, they had simply hated. It took a lot of distance, change status, sometimes was not enough, when they wanted to keep the harmonies, and appearances that hurt like spearhead.

The gray sky has never been so quiet think the Gypsy with a vague melancholy. She is unclear why just a feeling of for nothing, for everything, for that. They closed their umbrella, and already forgotten that it was open, close their lives, away from the pink and green. She thinks that everything is always calm, here where there is no more border, no more of these invisible barriers all covered with blood and tears. Here there is no more Peace negotiations, and there is everything to make it. Here, we see only what you will, and for the rest, just keep quiet. And yet she knows, she knows that not everything is finished, elsewhere, yes, elsewhere, where evil is done, where when you get out the weapons all is said. She feels, the taste of blood crying, this wind blowing terror. Here where trains run daily, Monday to Friday, and including Sunday, then no problem, leave our turn. Since it is enough to close your eyes for all to disappear, because everything hurts us, since we no longer believe in God, let alone in Humanity. It would still be sufficient to hope, Yet it would be enough to love, out of this pit of dogmas.

She walks straight ahead, she follows the panels, she follows the course of water, Rhine, and she knows she is also home. She knows she can go on foot, everywhere and nowhere, she is at the crossroads, a simple point where everything is, a nothing, a somewhere. She knows she can talk, she will be understood by all, she will understand them all, that they will say, and that there will be the truth. There would even be no need of words, these machines do not need them, Yet they express themselves very well, and the same for these paintings... She knows, thats all one people, would this be freedom? Could it be that, far from cynicism poisoned is it the mere ability to decide? And that day that opens, colorful these symbols in profusion, these works-puzzles, clear as the horizon, Would it be speak? Could this be communication, understand, as evidence, since everything is fluid, but the message dense would this be the creation? And she walks, she knows, she knows she is an artist, she knows she exists, that everything is there in what has been. What is, is always What it is not, will be, if someone listens to her voice, if they want a world of Love.

Their most treacherous curare, he had been victorious he had come out without wrinkles but no tear. He was called hero since he had made war. He was called hero because he was coming back from hell. The gypsy looked at him and she did not believe it. He was sitting next to her, in his garden of memory. The subway had started, and he had spoken. He said what keeps him awake, everything he does never forgive. He had tried to drink, he had tried the night, he did not want to believe anymore, Then, he chose life. The Gypsy had already seen survivors, those who suffered, but chose to move forward, but he, the traveler with light eyes, he was different, he had rebuilt himself, in some way, and locked all its doors but there was time... and Time passes on the memories, and revived the events. the memories never fade away really, it remains the price of victory. The Gypsy took him in her arms, this stranger who was not, she wanted them to do a long way together. And that day, the sky was blue.

or the philosophical dream

Meta

A man walks in a forest made of time fog, he seeks into himself the strengh to forgive, because even after centuries one should not forget the reason of all this blood. He seeks in him the truth which always, like lantern at a window lights up the grey sky of our life of beings, allows to build happiness. And if only one word was enough to cure, if a word, only one because it is right could erase years of fight, only one essential word, free of any hyperbole ; he would seek it, thorough by the love this hidden spark in ashes of our nights, this light which creates the day. He saw that his armour is from now on obsolete and that nothing more matters of appearence that it is enough to listen to the murmur.

It knows from now on that Time is not reality but that it should be respected by preserving Peace to him. He said that word belongs to Humanity, since to all it was given like a sign of God, breath of life. He heard the translucent bird and the clearness of the vacuum, its hearing thus was not completely lost. It knows that he is still alive, and fo long, for infinity, since if everything fades away, it is to recreate.

Forgive & forget

But the scent is fading, and at long intervals, the noise fades to let appear the heady sound of silence, the hubbub unhealthy of oblivion. Amnesia is flawed, it is the hidden ghost of secular resentments, for the door of the unconscious will drop one day, pouring forever its flood of hatred unexplained. For not, forgiveness is not forgetfulness; it is the strange distance necessary to understand the act and through the ages prevent its repetition. Justice (in its search for social peace and express healing for its moral illusion to be restored) aspires to a full and final oblivion of the facts that necessitated its existence. It tends to a general oblivion to maintain an hypothetical future ... But how to have a vibrant future if we can not heal our wounds by a kind forgiveness? If the only option allowed is oblivion since the grief is considered ridiculous? If evil is not accepted as reality but as an error to be corrected in order to turn the page faster?

Truth & Happiness

Now the light goes off and, fortunately, the truth still shines on us... But as the light turns back and the truth disappears because it is no longer necessary; someone else is guiding us now. Let us follow, since it is so difficult to think by ourself. What do I see there? Isnt it the strange light of truth which makes me see that my reality is opaque and that what I think is happiness is a pale distorted echo of what it may be in a kingdom where the truth illuminating everything of its clear and translucent glow would make of happiness a fullness that nothing would damage. Dont I want to go back? While we need to fight for it and even suffer, they say. After all, we fought, already for centuries, for freedom, and we are not doing anything of it, out of fear and weakness, since we should be fighting against ourselves this time. This is indeed the hardest part, to overcome the dogma that we ourselves erected to protect us from too great danger of thinking. So the question is different, convenience or real freedom? Yes, at the end we are braver and dare: happiness and truth, since happiness is to live and that without truth, without freedom, we only dreamed of living!

The internal word

The step, hard, is not so high... Would she collapsed, or is it me that grew up? And the lighthouse at the top of the reef which enlightens me always... This light so bright that fades then rebounds... Thats the word. Just because a word, a single one to cure everything to calm the storm that tears us apart... This word is the flame of truth, the light of eternity, the ultimate essence, a reflection of the soul, the mystery of our being, the one we seeks to look beyond the definition of ourselves. Beautiful and pure although subjective truth, formed by our lives, our memories, our tears, our cries, our joys, our desires... Its a quest that builds the path of our existence, winding, hilly, crossed more or less willingly, steps to climb... To face up, closer, this word that has already changed, but what are letters against mixed feeling that enlightens us, reassures us, makes us grow... Another step past...

Love

The wind blows over the desert steppe of our minds but in the ashes the spark is still shining. The strings of smoke, parallels that meet, always show the way. Light even hidden, even dirty survives in the darkness of the earth at the end of each fault in the deserts of our conscience. The ambient vacuum repeated indefinitely its echo of clarity, one day the air becomes incandescent and suddenly the fire resumes, out of the ground and spreads. The light flashed from all parts, the sun is everywhere, from the horizon we see the tip. Infinity is at hand so who cares about the day after? The absolute and eternity: it was enough to reveal them, a breath that revives the flame of love in the wandering soul who had forgotten that we must create to live, to live you must love.

Armor

Drops bead up and blink in the sun, the protective frost disappears. The thick ice that was only water hardened by the cold and the accumulated sediment, dust nothingness, and evaporates, sublimated, returns to its original essence. The armor was illusory parade and protectress so weak, now the steam makes us more courageous, love by its smell is the most reliable porous strongholds. Nothing bad can happen because at its contact iron returns vegetal and fire, pure light. This is just one breath, of course, it is unique, it is grand, it is vital, it is love and nothing else. The ice melts a little and soon it will be gone forever. The being free, then spread its wings to fly to the sky more serene, yet, where having only love to otherness it will train and grow through imitation and soon will give birth to an even greater love, because the student still exceeds the master and Love like air always pushes mankind rights above.

Time

Time passes but the noise is still pink. All its voices agree, color of love, absolute eternity. The clock is broken and the hands by turning TICK create flows of diffuse shades, anabasis and katabasis of inspired creation TOCK Time is made and unmade TICK essential discontinuity TOCK Digits, skinny symbols obsolete remnants of a declined time where they were not used to coldly count the hours passed but calculating the eternity of the soul, still cling to their piece of universal TOCK The artist thought overcome the time by his creation, becoming philosopher realizes that nothing ever ends TICK Time is relative TICK everything is relative TOCK What good then in wanting to leave his name in history, what good in being tortured by an over-rationalized ego TICK we are stories TICK unit per amount of diversity added by Love and Hope in Peace Time TOCK Eternity TOCK But then, what is war time? TOCK A moment of finitude, despair, violence and cruelty put an end to the humanity of Time TICK which disappears in a split second, ridiculed, which exist only as an instrument, unity of place and time of attacks, deaths, funerals TOCK Time is an infinite length TICK a pearl necklace, both cyclical and linear TOCK The scissors of the Parcae encounter perhaps the pearls but never reach the wire TOCK Time will go away by itself when it feels useless to Man TOCK Who it reassured for so long TICK allowing him to cling to its materiality impalpable, its subjective irrational rationality TOCK

Word

Words belongs to the Other, since I think, I build, making it more or less intelligible because of him and his face, which still awaits a response in sending me a picture so similar to mine and yet different. Perpetual question and silent answers discontinuous, multiple, noisy. But could word be possessed? Basically, it is not material, since it is beyond us it is a tool of thought and therefore innate and transcendent, then: what no man can own, no man can take and vice versa. The difference is that for speech, everyone can take, the right to speak one of the most inalienable... This is what makes us human beings... So in terms of the true ownership of the word, would require a title, or speech is a gift of God to men, no legal title. This is what makes it so valuable, it sets us apart and brings us together, it is the unifying factor, communication of all the differences of humanity.

Consciousness

A bird sings beyond the window, it reminds us that although independent we came from somewhere, too. If others do not been so lucky, they will have to fight harder, again and again against the memories that haunt them; but any chance is not lost because what they are born with will take over the top because the light is whiter and the bird sing louder. This bird, far from a raven carrier of never more, is transparent and iridescent, it is a bird of crystal which, far more than it sings, shouts for us to listen to ourselves, because it is not enough to hear and turn a deaf ear to these distant voices, we must listen as we see that the Earth has rotated. The bird flies because the ear is open, but we must still follow him in a glance to get used to the sound pure and free of our heart, the first rythm. In the sunshine of the new dawn, the so-called aurora.

Instant

It had not anymore, in recent times, its full meaning. It had no more its last sense. It had lost the sense of reality, the sense of feeling or truth, it had gone mad, to such an extent that it is auto-destroyed, an end as Camus had predicted. Yet, yet there this instant. That instant almost nonexistent, where everything is still almost, however without existing in this place. The matter has shifted, fell into oblivion, chaos, and yet remains standing, in a reality that only the technicolor eye can see, the crystal soul, eternal and untouchable of the place. There are still remnants of heavy writings, malleable and useful, yet, for who can read between the lines. It can then finally be free of its chains as the concrete, itself, believe in God and in stars and seeks also, alive stone, to take root in another world. The suspended instant when everything changes, when we know that next time it is with stones that they will fight, and yet in the midst of unfathomable secrets, books hold the world standing. The world, these doors that lead to nowhere, proofs that at the edge of eternity, we sometimes go without saying. The library of the stars, remember that everything is not good to take in the collective knowledge, essential pages, alive, stand still, last challenge to gravity and other dogmatic laws. These laws are on the ground, fragile, balancing, brittle and sharp... It is knowledge that is not learned in books, Faith, Philosophy, Hope, Liberty, there is only us that can forward it to ourselves. Sun flowers, finally, as if to prove that nature is the only glue that keeps us on the edge of eternity, that even if everything is destroyed seeds remain fertile and everything can start, a new man can reborn. Sun flowers, evidence that amnesia is not beneficial, sunflowers remember where they come and pray every second the one that gives them the strength to be.