Lies
My 2008, first lie was to say that I am a writer. I called in a foreign language in a foreign land, to a stranger. I wish that this lie was not such, but the months have passed since I have so far delivered only confirm that it is a lie. And if I had responded that night to be a liar, I would not have started the year, more appropriately, with a paradox?
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Free Poptropica Credits
right and wrong
will be true, then, as I thought last night, I prefer to be wrong by reason only that many? and what does this mean? 08.03.2008
will be true, then, as I thought last night, I prefer to be wrong by reason only that many? and what does this mean? 08.03.2008
Birthday Thank You Quotes
Obsessions
's funny how some days you walk by an obsession to another, completely different, though not without points of contact with the insistence with which they shall possession of the mind.
The obsession of the early afternoon was all conceptual, abstract, and goes back to a world view started in my teens. Walking, suddenly and without any real reason, I heard him all the futility of my existence. The Seine flowed to me from the side, and I returned the 14 year old avid reader of Leopardi, prone to nihilism, no ifs, ands or buts. I felt useless to myself and my choices, my ideas. Once again I have the ambition and opposite sign to leave the world the choice of an anonymous life, set aside in the flow of things as a debris into the Seine.
obsession lasted a few minutes, although intense, and which is replaced, about a couple of hours later, inside the Hotel de Ville and around an exhibition of photos of Paris, an obsession more concrete, more physical. A girl's face, a half-smile that seemed directed at me, in answer to my eyes too long. I've seen somewhere, and where? Who is it? because my mind, so stingy in recognizing faces, it was put on alert to see the back of his head and his red hair cut to the boy? There is something mysterious and obsessive in the sense of having already experienced a personal basis without really remember anything about it. As if it were to accept the idea of being able to touch someone's life without leaving or hold nothing more than a uniformative and unconscious I remember his face. And I wonder how many times you repeat in the future, with people I know or that I attend now, the same situation. This face now haunts me but will not last long, will vanish, too, perhaps again, perhaps for the first time. What remains is the uncomfortable awareness of my inability to stop a person and ask, simply, we have already known?
's funny how some days you walk by an obsession to another, completely different, though not without points of contact with the insistence with which they shall possession of the mind.
The obsession of the early afternoon was all conceptual, abstract, and goes back to a world view started in my teens. Walking, suddenly and without any real reason, I heard him all the futility of my existence. The Seine flowed to me from the side, and I returned the 14 year old avid reader of Leopardi, prone to nihilism, no ifs, ands or buts. I felt useless to myself and my choices, my ideas. Once again I have the ambition and opposite sign to leave the world the choice of an anonymous life, set aside in the flow of things as a debris into the Seine.
obsession lasted a few minutes, although intense, and which is replaced, about a couple of hours later, inside the Hotel de Ville and around an exhibition of photos of Paris, an obsession more concrete, more physical. A girl's face, a half-smile that seemed directed at me, in answer to my eyes too long. I've seen somewhere, and where? Who is it? because my mind, so stingy in recognizing faces, it was put on alert to see the back of his head and his red hair cut to the boy? There is something mysterious and obsessive in the sense of having already experienced a personal basis without really remember anything about it. As if it were to accept the idea of being able to touch someone's life without leaving or hold nothing more than a uniformative and unconscious I remember his face. And I wonder how many times you repeat in the future, with people I know or that I attend now, the same situation. This face now haunts me but will not last long, will vanish, too, perhaps again, perhaps for the first time. What remains is the uncomfortable awareness of my inability to stop a person and ask, simply, we have already known?
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