Looking at immensity

Pull the gate, the route was short, and especially known. Comfortably dressed in a blue shirt in star white social dating to somewhere between 1979 to sweep the sky looking for clouds allowed me a curious sensation never before experienced. More scans the sky and they had ways Balkanic, romantic, splendid. But it moved too fast! I always save to a memory that effervescent cause for happiness, but was afraid that go home and get the camera, they had changed their position and shape, changing my game lugubrious. Prefer to entrust everything to memory, and enjoy that moment. Looking at them, felt an impulse electric shouting to my legs ran as fast as he could know that, it seemed that only I could use at all, do not lose anything. Thoughts lovers are traitors, and traitors mobile! Immersed in a sea of happiness generated randomly, derrepente, invaded me a unique and devastating thought: that says it can not show you? The clouds began to harmonious blots of dark blue. Nothing like a psychological tone for each sunflower is close in ash around it.




This was written in portuguese by my friend laés, i really love this....

thank you for share!

Field.

The horizon encircled all around me. For I was not in the presence of humanity, my mind was bewildered by a transcendent beauty; the soil was hard, and out there, the wind thrashing my face, it doubled my existence, for I felt as one to the Earth. I was feeling it breathe on me, and my heart beating, resting with the heart beat of the environment that was nurturing me, shielding me from man's evils. Shielding me from the beast. I threw off my clothes and lie there in the corn field. Lying nude, with my ear to the ground, so that I may hear the Earth's heart beating; pounding away a song, a neverending drum, pounding away, alive for millions of years, sustaining the evils of man, and shielding those that had come to seek it. Shielding me. My clothes were stripped off of me now, and I let the wind and the soil caress my body. I lie there all night, watching the Sun go down, listening to the Stars, the insects, the whisper of the wind. I lie there still as a bird, hearing the world that we had so gladly turned away from. The man that was once a part of the Earth, as tall, beautiful trees; ever multiplying. But man had turned away from its mother world, and destroyed all of its trees, reduced to paper scraps. For we destroyed the world that nurtured us, and constructed our glass world, one of ugliness, one that has become like us; a beast...

Words.

The words are tired, are misused; absorption in idealized cliché. What is said has been said one thousand times over, but it is no longer being said with sincerity, with heart, with hope. The words are infertile, and I find no meaning in repetition. Even though I am repeating as such now. But a new form, new books, must be put down. We can neither alter or change history, it is already written. The cause of mankind will be the same, this world and the next. For it is us that have raped, that have pillaged, that have murdered. We are the reapers of the world. The outlying, ever wandering battle of man and soul, man and spirit. We are corrupted, and we can not, we must not blame, we have only ourselves to blame. Why the world has turned to shit, it is because we have made it that way, and we are the cause of our own alienations. We have simplified life and made a means to an end, for we have become our own God. For we have allowed ourselves to obtain absolute control, which in turn, has ceased the individual in man, and has torn him to shreds. Man once was a tree, alive and healthy, in a forest ripe with fruit, ripe with life. But Man itself has ceased his tree, reducing himself to paper scraps. For an individual is and can no longer be, under the scrutiny of man, for we have become our own God, and have turned away from the world. The mass of our thoughts, our intellect is continually growing, increasing. That itself is reducing the state, the quality of the world. The bigger, more expansive our brains, our minds have become, the smaller the world becomes, leaving nothing for exploration, for we have seen it all, have combatted it, and have killed it. The more we are, the more we are becoming, the more shit that we are in. And the words are the same, for we have already written them. Talks, scriptures, ideals of a revolution, of something that can outlast Man has already been written. For we have created it. And the utter confusion we have created for ourselves. We cannot open our mouths to speak honestly, for the reason is that we have already lied to ourselves; proclamations, decrees, advances. It can not continue, and it furthers, it justifies itself as a lie, as disaster, as cliché. We cannot change the state of things, for first, we must realize we have already destroyed ourselves. We destroyed the world, and a new pattern is not written in our character, for we cannot cheat ourselves and proclaim that revolution is possible, nor is there no starting point, for we are the reapers, the manglers of mankind, and our race has been overdone. I'm tired of cliché words, ideas, that every philosopher has already theorized. We cannot theorize more, we cannot find harmony, because we are the destructors of our race, and we have killed the self in all of us. Transformation will never reach us, for it is we that are the reapers...

il sesso naturale.

Posso sentirla, lei parla a me. I suoi pensieri che ci possiamo scopare con la passione. Io scrivo troppo, io penso troppo. Ma per scoparla, per parlare a lei; i miei occhi apre, che posso vederlo; il sole scrive sulla terra, che dopo ho la scopata, che lei è un angelo e sono il mondo che lei corre...
Come sentire dopo un orgasmo?
Come un pittore che l'ha fatta la sua pittura sull'altro corpo....

gioventu'

outside the world is crying, the wind howls, a dull humming sound that pierces lobes and leaves bitter tastes in dry, hungry mouths. i sit in a cubicle all day, on a desk, or else, in the comfort of my own home, gazing at my window, my bedroom clock....or a dead wall, but at least when i am in a so called learning environment, i can think; burgeoning, non-virginized thoughts about the fiery women that i see. because i feel dead, or immobile. as you can see, education systems where i am, even at college level, reduce the size of the brain into mere abstractions. and the youth know of this, they are depressed. the youth take drugs, get drunk, have non-passionate fucks, and next day, is the same repetition. where is the value in this education, this world that is happiness? the world, the earth, the sphere is crying and we are meaninglessly screwing, screwing our lives away. how many youths will it take to screw in a lightbulb? endless amounts, because we are all dying...
where is the world that once cried so triumphantly? not somberness, but a happy whimper, because it was birthed out of creation, and it had the will; "io posso," to want, to strive, to touch, and to taste. now, the world, the earth, the globe has lost it's will to feel. the youth must create, like the creation of worlds, must birth their passions, non-robotic. if youth finds a sense of passion in what they are doing, they will not be depressed. they will get drunk off of themselves, in each others' company, no artificial stimulation, and they will fuck, they will dance passionately. they can create and take the world back from all its rubble and make something as brilliant that brilliance will be a dead word, and a new word will find its place. out of this comes a new meaning of youth. for it is youth that we are afraid to lose, but age is meaningless. there is a youth in all of us, but we must never lose sight. but growing up in a mundane world is difficult, in so making us partially blind, or for a time, obstructed to see...a light that is not light, but a light that is blank, dark, nothingness....