use the blog for reminding some parts of a book that shocked me the day:
\u0026lt;\u0026lt;The had entered into his eyes, those two images, such as the instantaneous perception of absolute happiness and unconditional. If
would carry for ever.
Why is it that you care, life.
you seize the soul when you're still asleep and you sowing into an image, or smell, or a sound that then do not you take away more.
And that there was happiness.
I discover later, when it's too late.
And now you are, forever, an exile: a thousand miles away from that image, by the sound, by smell.
But the secret was that the treasure was always the same.
They changed the boxes but he was always the same.
It started with the man, remained with him wherever he went, he spent a suitcase in a suitcase, from city to city and back.
came from the hands of the woman and returned there, just as the clock back into the hands of the Admiral.
People believed it was a gift, a precious gift for each flight. Instead
was what kept the thread of their love, in the labyrinth of worlds in which the man ran, like a crack along a vessel.
was the clock that counted the minutes of the time normally, and only one, which was the time of their wanting.
turn back before him because she knew that was coming in who had not broken the thread of that time.
So the man came, finally, and there was no need to say anything, claim anything, not to know.
The moment when you saw was, for both of us, once again, the same moment). ... valuable as a secret, like a precious jewel - a clock that kept the train together, which took London and Dublin related to each other so that they do not vanish at the drift of a babel of time and hours differentiquesto suggests - suggests that yes - this makes you think.
At the precise moment when the silence returned understood to have absolute certainty: that there was no note.
what is beautiful in life there is always a secret ...
for me it was so ... the things you know are normal things or bad things, but then there are secrets, and that's where you go to hide the happiness ...
All you have broken glass bowls were just life ... are not those errors ... that's life .... and real life maybe is the one that breaks, the life out of a hundred that eventually breaks ........ I make this my understanding, that the world is full of people running in your pocket with its small glass marbles ... its sad little balls unbreakable ... and then you never stop blowing into your crystal balls ... are nice, I liked looking at them, for as long as you have been close ... see you in so much stuff ... is something that puts you on the fun ... never stop ... and if one day life will break out also that, in its way ... wonderful life.
And all this - everything - to soak in the silence.
If you are able to imagine it, we must imagine so.
An infinite silence. Not for
other: it is always some wonderful silence that gives life to the tiny or huge roar of what was to become irremovable memory.
There is the horrible and wonderful.
would not be anything if they did not had to face the infinite.
>>
Alessandro B.
-
D. Alba
Madness - more or less -
0 comments:
Post a Comment