INSPIRATION
We often hear from people who write in the imaginative mode that they need to be inspired.
What makes us want to write for ourselves or for others?
When do we write?
When do we create our poem or short story or other?
The answer is that we can all do this if we:
a) have a clear objective of wanting to create something that is ours.
b) have the willingness to reflect on what we are going to write about.
c) have the patience to first write and then perfect our piece of writing.
d) have the good sense of keeping our piece of writing and finally.
e) keep on making as many drafts of our writing as necessary until we are satisfied with our creation.
The two poems "The child within the poet" and "Mute Inspiration" contain in themselves elements of this need to be inspired. In the former, the memories of childhood in a small country town in Italy are recalled after many years. In the latter, the absence of inspiration is the essence of this poem. "Inspiration" occurs within us during the course of our daily living. It is a fleeting state of mind. Therefore we need to photograph it by taking the time to capture it in writing. Once we have captured it on paper, then our work begins...
Where poetry is born
He said to me: “Do you still write them?”
referring himself to my poems.
He asked me not so much out of curiosity,
but more to encourage me
on this road undertaken
so many years ago.
“And what does this poetry give you?”
they ask me. “To tell the truth”
I reply “it has always kept me company.”
It has always been born, this poetry,
when I least expected it: in places visited,
amongst the confusion of activity,
sometimes during reflection, often
in the evening or at night, on holidays
or during my daily work routine,
on a tram or even in a car!
Finally these are thoughts
directed at capturing some knowledge,
to make this visible. Poetry
is born everywhere...like love!
Creator
Control the moment
with your words and with your pen.
Make inroads on the lines
of your exercise book.
In your fantasy
you meet so many things
and so many people.
Give them surroundings
like in a dream.
They deserve it!
It's your own very world,
ephemeral.
Don't dream beyond
your limits.
Become the builder
of life situations.
Let your characters
live!
Make them feel
the warmth of living
with all its contradictions.
Now and then
move them from their places,
just like the bosses
do with their dependents.
Be a god
in the world that you have created.
Don't be either too logical
or too good... in fact
sometimes be bad.
Respect your created work.
Continue to smooth it
until it can stand on its own,
like a work of art.
Be satisfied.
Then proceed to other things
The Rain and the Student
A deluge of rain is falling down
whilst I, with my pen,
am making some verses.
It's late, but my will
and my passion for creating pushes me
to write something that will remain
with me forever.
The rain is falling on the roof noisily;
she continues, confident in herself,
without regard for the old derelict
who wanders about the city.
She doesn't think that a child
could wake up, frightened...
and that the mother would have to get up
to give him a comforting kiss and to say:
"Sleep. There is nothing to fear, I am here".
The rain continues uninterruptedly,
not caring for these men of earth.
She overpowers them, she conquers them,
it is she who is in command.
You can't do anything about it.
You can't stop it.
* Rain (La pioggia) is neutral in English.
* La pioggia is feminine in Italian.
* I have decided to translate La pioggia as a feminne
word in English. All references to rain, for poetical reasons,
are translated as “she” not “it”.
Although she doesn't think
she is capable of speaking.
She breaks on the roof,
she becomes infuriated
then she calms down;
she is infuriated again
this time more persistently, ceaselessly...
She becomes angry: she can't enter
the student's room who,
satisfied and confident, writes.
In fact he is thinking of her
and of her rhythmic descent
which surrounds him and encourages him
and which moves his mind to think:
man is small and without importance
in the eternity of things,
but in his insignificance, he creates...
He is a little god all alone,
who creates for himself by himself
He is a thinking animal
who is proud of his capabilities.
Nature is nothing in comparison to this little god:
he is great in spite of his smallness ...
and he knows it!
Mute Inspiration
I lack inspiration.
I don't know what to do.
I'm here lying down on the carpet.
I think. I'm not successful
in putting my ideas together.
My mind is not functioning.
I don't know. What shall I do?
I want to play with my fantasy:
Everything is ugly.
It doesn't make any sense.
The idea takes form slowly.
It transforms itself.
It becomes alive.
How beautiful! I'm smoking.
I don't know. What shall I do?
How ugly!
What?
I don't know, what shall I do?
Good! Look! It's beautiful!
The perfect poetry. Where?
You're joking. Yes? Why?
Those beautiful times.
Muse, where are you?
The portrait of every man
in the sky, yes?, which
transforms itself.
It changes.
No.
Yes, that empty frame.
And then... yes, it fills up...
What?
It fills up with a child...
An outline.
And then?
That child changes with time.
Look!... It becomes a boy.
Explain the transformation.
How?
Well then? He becomes a man, an old man.
He disappears from the frame.
Another takes his place.
The same end.
To put these ideas together...
but how?
I'm lacking in inspiration.
Will I be able to realize my wish?
A perfect poem, carved in time,
forever...
Yes, the portrait chiselled by an author.
It is beautiful, really!
The portrait.
Yes.
Life.
The Child within the Poet
In the fresh air of Spring
the birds fly freely
like the spirit of the poet
that furrows eternity
scented with life.
The flowers bloom early in the morning,
whilst the dew wets them with love.
The petals are beautiful
when the first rays of sunshine
dyes them as if they were new.
The night disappears.
Peace listens to the matins;
the people slowly
wake up, get up and go.
It's the stirrings of life
whilst the young sing
about the joyfulness
of the little birds.
The first rays of sunshine
cross the windows of the child,
and the swallows sing whilst they're making
their nests for the little ones
under the balconies and the eaves.
The peasant is walking...
the housewife is making bread...
the sweet bell of the Main Church
calls the people to God.
Tom Padula - Poetry My Friend
The dreams of the night go,
the joy of living returns
with the first call in the morning.
Time goes by quickly...
the poet doesn't sleep at night,
an angel calls him to his table
since the Muse has inspired him.
He remembers those distant days,
he feels joy in his heart,
he feels it close... and then
that little boy who so many
years ago had his head on the pillow
awakens whilst Spring
plays joyfully with its breath
full of life.
Counsel
He said to me: “Write when you’re happy.
Your poems are a little sad.”
I replied: “A writer tends to write
when his morale is a little low!”
But my friend was right.
Happiness is to be cultivated
as much as pain and sadness.
Our emotions are so many...negative
and positive...and you, poet, you should
know them all a little! Especially
because we go up and down
according to how we feel.
Write when you’re out
seeing new places and people.
Write on friendship and the many
individuals who like you.
Write about your successes and satisfactions,
when you have done a good action.
Write about those who please you
and those who are really kind.
Write a little every day
wherever you may be.
Give this your gift to life.
Write about time and things,
on what happens to everyone.
Don’t discriminate. Include men
and women, children and the aged,
animals and nature
and then so much, much more.
Appreciate the positive
and give away your optimism
like the bud of a flower.
My imagination
One faraway day in my past
together with the children of my youth,
I remember having had a dear friend
who, truthful to his childish dreams,
always enjoyed himself besides me.
This was my imagination, which never tired
to beautify my days with eternal visions
of a more happy world, where the universe,
the stars and even God touched
their hands in mateship. And, in a valley
full of blossoms amidst the mountains,
there was a multitude of people, who,
accompanied by divine music,
sang and danced joyously
in subliminal happiness.
Now I am grown up.
But all day I still find beside me
my most faithful friend...
and it is for this reason
that now, when I am alone,
in times of sadness or happiness,
I look enchanted into the emptiness...
and close my eyes...
and search for other things in my mind...
because I don't like human things
when I have in my head
a more happy and attractive world.
Blessed philosophy
Why is it that in this spring
I no longer hear the much loved singing
of free birds in the sky
and of sweet scented flowers?
Now summer has already come,
and I, unmindful of spring,
have forgotten my dreams.
And I look behind and feel only
the mute voices of the so many in the past
who will tomorrow be overlooked.
Will my life be another dream?
Or will it be a blooming plant,
which one day, when winter so far away
will let the warm snowflakes fall,
will rest under the white mountain
and it'll remember with satisfaction
that he* has left to all people
his blessed philosophy.
* Although “he” should be “it”, I have used
“he” to refer to the writer.
Hope
With so much nostalgia and love
I see my star still shining
up there in that so attractive darkness!
Man, like a boat on the high sea,
moves and goes forward towards the shore,
so fixed and serene down there in the horizon.
And, almost always, the boat moves on the waves
of the great sea... happy, without a goal:
like a child held by the mother, who peacefully,
sings to him a sweet melody... a lullaby.
But, sometimes, a more pensive boat is
upset by storms, luck and winds of joy.
Oh you boat, oh my life!
Don't leave this spirit without a goal
until it hasn't amongst so much darkness
left behind a little warmth for humanity.
Continue to swing in the middle of the tempest
and then, after the shores, let the noise
of your past movements, at that time so joyful,
and now forever making happy the eternal cheeks
of those people who still live in society.
Hope of the Poet
Oh beautiful muse,
oh my mortal time
awaken in this heart
that has so much loved
the poet's breath,
the musical notes
of that adored chord.
Now I raise to the sky
this mute prayer,
this vain pleasure
of a transient, who dares
to look at infinity
for the immortal soul
of a mortal.
Oh my muse
keep my company
in sleepless nights,
in days of need!
I offer you
a world of joy,
full of fantasy,
that has for company
a glass filled
with my homemade wine.
I shall be inspired with things
that please me,
and I shall let you hear the pomp
of that teacher of ours, who
in the history of two thousand years ago,
wrote on the papyrus,
of the lost youth,
that famous enigma
which people today
are still disputing!
I will want to speak amongst
other things of this place of ours
to our future citizens.
Gracefully and humbly, tell them
that speaking to others
is a bit of a fraud
when we are lacking in our own opinions;
the greatness of whomsoever
is a product of their vanity
which is looking for praise...
and pride enjoys it!
Poetry
There is no more sure way
to joy than having the certainty
of having for company
the beautiful voice
of my friend, poetry!
To listen to her sweet notes
feed the chords of my intellect
which occasionally deigns
to make me dream of poetry!
Consolation
This consoles me
everytime I write
on this ruled paper.
That something will yet remain
if you tell of true facts
that happen on the street
wherever you are!
That in looking for reality
on written paper, you sometimes find
a true sense of life.
It seems to you that the writing then
adorns you with a thought,
a memory, a something.
And to see the great writings
of poets of many centuries ago,
from Dante to Ariosto, to Leopardi,
you realise that vainglory
leads you a little everywhere
with your imagination.
But if you think about it even more
so many are the hours that you have spent
together with your soul, my friend.
And discover that in fixing your ideas
in precise thoughts, that you then improve,
you are really an adventurer,
a traveller seated at the table.
And from this fixed spot you focus
your binoculars on human nature
or on sentiments or other varied themes.
Don’t tell others with resounding words
all the love that you feel in your heart,
because the written lines speak clearly,
as if you are looking into the bottom of a brook.
Who you are you don’t hide to anyone
because when you engage yourself in introspection
one can see openly what you have inside you.
I began these lines without knowing
where I was going with my pen.
Perhaps writing is like going through
a dark forest of trees, with covers
that do not allow in the sun’s rays.
But it’s beautiful to see again
what you have said a little out
of curiosity and a little for empathy
because this pastime, my friend,
belongs to those who dream in daylight!
Curiosity
Curiosity
led me to you;
to see if I could
talk to you. I am not doing
it for love, or friendship,
but just for curiosity.
If only I could
stop this moment
of strangeness, of discovery.
I see your beautiful face,
your well shaped body
but I cannot see
your “I” that belongs
to you and nobody else.
What will you think
of this strange moment?
I shall never know.
Forgive my daring
but I had to meet you,
because you have been
my inspiration.
Valued
You fill your heart
with an exhilarating feeling
from who makes you really
feel that you are great.
You know that they were good
the things that you wrote.
It was your pastime
and also a gift for others.
Now you have the confirmation
that a little of your work
has been appreciated...
and it has made a real impact.
You have been fortunate to have had
certain circumstances in your favour.
Thank all those
who have honoured you!
The Poet Remains
Men and women learn
and keep on dreaming
whilst life
quickly passes by...
and hope grows
with the passing of time
for dreams are more
beautiful than reality.
The wheel in fact turns,
it does a merry-go-round:
children grow up,
old people go.
But the poet still
remains amongst everyone
and he shines
like stars in darkness.
The lord of the centuries
You run away quickly, oh fleeting time.
But why, why do you take with you so suddenly
the few joys of the restless beings?
Why don't you stay a moment longer
with mortals who live happily?
You, who remain behind, even after the passing
of the sun beyond the west, tell me if the passion
of mortals changes the ideal of the human eye.
Tell me if dawn after the shadow of the night
brings back afresh the joys and hopes
of the past which now sleeps under the cypress tree.
Oh time, extend your hand to life
and remind those, for whom it is forbidden
to think just now of the warmth of the star,
which fell within my youthful heart.
Let my words flourish again
in the bosom of someone who still loves
the sweet melody of a little ancient bird
who extends his voice to the infinite.
I don’t know anything about poetry
I have never seen her,
I don’t know her,
I haven’t met her.
No one has ever
spoken of her to me.
Now here is
finally someone who
wants to teach me;
to open the door
to my emotions.
And what do I do?
I remain here seated
and I think why
don’t I too try
and discover what I think
or feel or do?
Writing it
perhaps one day
I’ll be able to give it
to someone else.
* Poesia is in Italian feminine
* Poetry in English is neutral gender.
* I have retained the feminine feel of the word poetry.
The tune
There is in the world
a guitar that plays
in the mind of artists.
It doesn’t play for everyone,
this singular guitar,
but only for those
who know how to make it play.
Oh you children
who are living now,
don’t forget
to learn to use it
because, in today’s world,
it doesn’t play
unless in a group,
but you are alone!
Make it play
sometimes
in the lovely meadows
of our beautiful Spring!
And if nature
won’t listen to you,
don’t worry too much;
just raise
the live sound of the guitar
that pulsates in the heart
of poets!
Do you see it?
Everyone knows,
everyone does.
Everyone listens
and looks.
Everyone speaks
and acts. This is the story
of every day.
But everything ends.
And then all
is repeated
in other places,
at other times.
Seeing
this path
closely
is something truly
interesting.
Do you see it?
To the closed-in Muse
I’ve asked the stars
tonight to extend
their smile upon me.
They’ve looked at me
gently and then they
said “no”! What do I want
to do with the stars?
What can they give me?
I feel in me a spent fire
that in vain searches for
a match to again set alight
my joy, those thoughts
of love. But it is better
to remain alone tonight to think
of my sweet lovers of bygone days
when I blindly played with fire
that the wind kept on stoking.
Oh my dear muse,
you have, for a long time,
been closed-in. Come out
in the open to again revive
the spirit of the flowers.
To whoever feels like a poet
Search in your soul
those beautiful live emotions
that go past the rhyme
or the numbering of syllables.
Don’t be intimidated
by those who would like to...
but unfortunately can’t,
they suffer that others feel...
Don’t be trampled upon by who
doesn’t know or can’t do.
By the one that auto elects himself...
a critic of beautiful poetry.
This is the one that rejected her*
that recognises only the classics
because he doesn’t want to appreciate
those who live in the present.
And then when there is a little success,
when your doing takes shape,
he comments, analyses, he wiggles himself in
magazines, he tries to teach those who really know!
And from afar you can give him your smile,
because you are the poet, the real creator,
because you accompany your life
with your close and loved poetry!
* I have used the word Poetry in the feminine
like in the Italian translation.
And the word became flesh
And the word
made its way
amidst the other arts
with its articulated
phonics, by actors
sensitive to its meaning.
And she was received
this cinderella word,
like a princess
who till now misunderstood,
had remained apart and unloved.
The strong cadenced calling
of the soul and the blood,
in the veins of those who had felt
and those who still feel the poetry
of things and of daily existence,
was raised on our local stage.
Another type of spectacle, amongst the many,
in which the poets have advanced
their capital of words of the soul
bleached for this occasion,
at the insignia of words made into flesh
onto the Italo-Australian cultural skeleton.
Written in the night of the 10th of June 1995
Always her
And she said to me
“Always with this poetry!”
And I replied
“You’re right. It’s true!”
Poetry is born here inside
when I least expect her.
She is like a breeze of fresh
air that bring you
happiness.
Poetry, the true one,
the one of the soul,
cannot be given.
Even if you could sell it
there isn’t money in the world
that can buy it.
Poetry is beautiful,
like youth!
* I have used the word Poetry in the feminine
like in the Italian translation.
Rich is poetry
Today I have re-read
some of my poems
to a dear
colleague poet.
It surprised me
the fact that even
after so many years
my poetry
is still fresh
like when I wrote it
a long time ago.
In it I find myself again,
I keep myself company,
I abandon myself to the memories.
All the time that I dedicated
to her is well repaid.
Poetry is your personal
fortune.
* I have used the word Poetry in the feminine
like in the Italian translation.
What we feel
Poetry (don’t tell me)
is here between these lines
of unknown authors,
perhaps in other languages
and different times.
Poetry is not rhyme,
nor only beautiful words...
Poetry is the sentiment
behind each verse,
it’s the weight of lived wisdom,
of met happiness,
of known love.
Poetry is an outlet
that comes from the heart for who
feels the need to communicate,
perhaps with himself!
Poetry surrounds us,
like the air that we breathe,
like the food that we eat,
like the wine and water that we drink.
Poetry is everything
that we feel...
Gift from within
What can we give
of ourselves to others?
What do we have in the luggage
of our suitcases full of experiences,
of content, of expressed ideas
and so many, but so many others submerged?
When we ask ourselves where can
we find happiness, satisfaction...
Surely we feel in our intimate self
the presence of that humanity
that vibrates outside of our existence
like a mass to get to know...
in order to make us know better.
Yes, the act of giving, to do for others
is the necessity to feel various reactions
at times positive, sometimes negative,
that our work gains amongst the people.
Are the intentions always good?
Is it what others really have
need of? Or is it that
which you want, to then impose
on others your preferences,
your ways of doing!
Our creativity teaches us
sometimes so many varied things... that
normally are excluded from us
during our daily life.
When we want to give we must
learn to reflect on what
we give and why... in that which
others from us in reality
have need to make their life
more rich, more varied and more full
of happiness. When we want
to give, we must learn to feel
to receive in the same equal
manner that which we’re giving.
The balance of giving
If you offend, you should be offended.
If they offend you, you should learn
to offend... This is the natural
balance of feelings...
It’s necessary to be
who knows how to receive without giving
and knows how to give without receiving...
True greatness you will find
in your own real humility
to accept or give with dignity.
Enlightenment
We work.
We please
and play.
We seek
the truth.
We lie.
We differ.
We stay apart.
We discover
others.
We find them
similar, but
not so!
Behold the difference
It’s hard
to respect.
We pray
for enlightenment.
LET’S LIVE NOW
Sometimes life presents itself very negatively. Things just
seem to happen. We take living passively.
However there is a solution to change the boredom of
everyday being. We can view again the world more
positively. We can find in it a joy for living, for
reawakening and recharging our spirit, for sharing our
happiness and companionship with others.
The art of good living requires a certain youthfulness in
our approach to our whole existence. We need a
wholesome philosophy. In "So It Is For Me" there is a
statement in regards to the need for a healthy attitude.
"Happy Awakening" throws off the shackles of
daydreaming and contemplating in favour of laughter
and parties.
Hedonists are the winners in "The Wine of Bacchus"...
Leave your worries behind, don't think of the future.
Have a good time NOW!
"The vagabond’s riches" celebrates our free spirit. In it
a vagabond's liberty is admired for his ability to enjoy
the company of beautiful women, wine and the pursuit
of happiness.
The Wine of Bacchus
There is a fountain of plentiful wine
which flows joyously in a wood
that I by chance discovered one day
for all those who love good company.
My friends and I meet there often,
with tankards of terracotta, to draw,
with avid hands, of the divine red.
And we drink... thinking only of the moment
and not of things which are immortal.
And we sing... in such a place,
merrymaking gloriously:
"In the Garden of Good Fortune
life is always merry,
and we enjoy it all
creating a great uproar.
In Life we do not go wrong
if we love the good times,
the women, the songs,
and certainly, the good wine.
Friends, come! Let's gather together
around this fountain of Bacchus
singing, dancing, drinking
and sending our pains to hell."
Happy awakening
Under the shadows of the dark sky,
from far away, carried by the wind,
a murmur of trembling words
and incomprehensible sayings
shouts unintelligibly in my spirit:
"Don't forget your love!"
I contemplated the bare branches,
darkness and the blue sky
and life singing with youth.
But now, asleep or awake,
I no longer look only at the stars.
Feasts, parties and games,
songs, dances and company
are a part of my life.
What past! What future!
The fleeting moment is all powerful
because it is a source of light and rain,
fog, storms and even peace.
Blotting out pain and sorrow,
I drive joyfully on the city's roads
and I entertain my earthly hours
with beauties who keep my company.
The vagabond’s riches
Vanity of riches unknown,
thoughts of lost illusions.
But what is the happy vagabond doing
after he freed himself from the slavery of Pluto?
He sleeps in a deep sleep
with dreams of perpetual liberty
amidst rowdy gypsy girls
who live in extreme poverty.
Around a booming fire
he routs with the beautiful foreign girls
forgetting past and future
in carefree curiosity.
Then his world confounds
in the red of a glass of wine
like dancers amidst
a chorus line.
Forgotten is the rich gentleman
in his golden armchair,
forgotten is that time past
of greed without joy.
The shining stars are warm,
the bohemian girls are sweet;
it's good the bouquet glass,
it's good its ancient taste.
The fortune teller nearby tells him:
continue your happiness.
And he continues happily to indulge
with time that does not end.
So it is for me
The day is festive
at the break of dawn
Amid the chiaroscuro
I see every shadow disappear.
After me, I leave you,
silent night, a dream.
One far away day I'll see
your beginning in my rest.
Meanwhile I'll give my life
to life as a gift.
As long as I live
I'll cherish all the seasons.
Writing at Night
I find myself again in front of this white paper. So seated
at this small table in my kitchen. I make this fleeting
appearance often because my sleep is interrupted almost
every night. I hear a recall… almost daily, a live desire to
write something to satisfy this restless soul. And I think of
many things…
But is it possible that I am so mad? Who gets up late in
the middle of the night? I do it in order to discover the
quiet that reigns uninterruptedly, when there, outside,
everything sleeps and rests. I remember this habit of mine
even as a child when I used to wake up because of this,
my recall.
I used to always say that writing for me is a passion. It’s a
need of the exhuberance of this vagabond spirit that wants
to roam all the world and also there in the universe, in that
unknown immensity, to cross the all, in order to find reality
and truth. And in fact in this travel from the table you find
yourself, your worth in the middle of these things… amidst
the humans.
They tell me or better I feel that someone could tell me:
“but are you stupid!” To get up in the night for these
monkey-like stupidities! Don’t you have anything to do? But
rest... who do you think you are? Don’t you see the preestablished order?
Everything is in its place in this premeditated place.
And I find myself a little lost once again, and I do my
things and make many plans. I notice that these thoughts
keep me company… because they are the daily voices of
my life. All my world is here present… and it is filed away
in my mind.
I retrieve from my experience, at times I dream, the things
that I want to do and I often relive, here seated, the
various moments that I have already lived. But who cares
about this my travel? But here I must be a realist and say
“to very few”. But I find in this my walk the so many
excursions of life. Every one has many obligations, many
things, many necessities that tie him to an existence, to
one’s own experiences.
Not always have I succeeded in understanding life. But I
have very slowly always found that a way exists, at times
so many roads, that lead you where you want. The choice
that you make depends on where you are going, who you
are. If you are locked in your self importance, if you
appreciate only your existence, you become always more
egotistical. But if you love, if you find inside those
sentiments of wanting to do good, then your walk begins
to take a very different aspect: the adventure that is
brought to you by your imagination becomes important.
And you begin to liberate yourself of immediate things, of
preoccupations, of the various delusions and also of
success, of exhaltation, of your vanity. Finally you acquire
that objectivity to see beyond the there, past the
immediate, past the regulated world. You discover that
inside universe of the emotions, of systems of life, of
wishes, of the very riches of this humanity.
But when you find these sentiments in front of you, pause
a little to give yourself courage. Every each time that I find
myself here, I see two well-delineated points: when I was
born and when I shall die, and all that middle period
where I live. The experience of my already lived life
guides me to research the reason why I am here. And I
begin to appreciate life, the great variety, its confusion, its
fragility. And I look around and I find that everything has
its limit, its beginning, the vainglory, the tall point before
the defeat and the end.
There is a continuous creation of flux and reflux, like the
waves of the sea near the coastline. It’s a continuous
succession of events, of facts and the ups and downs are
there for everyone. But not everyone is at the same point
of life… Each one, every thing, every situation follows its
path. Sometimes one meets at the tall point of a wave,
sometimes one grates the lowest point, touching the sand,
on the surface of things, which we cannot pass over.
Therefore we discover the truth about our own existence
and that of others: it’s a limited existence in its duration
and in its time. And it is at this point where we begin to
value our world, the past world, the world of others and
all the other worlds whether we know of them or not. And
then we value the individual above our emotions, with a
certain objectivity.
But present are always these beautiful emotions, our
interests, our wishes that are sometimes like this darkness
in the middle of the night. They don’t allow us to see well,
but they make us feel inside… they bring us anxieties and
fears, uncertainties and delusions, but also reflection,
peace. Here we find that we can do something for us and
a little for others. Sometimes someone succeeds even to
have his moment of vainglory when he communicates with
others from afar… like with this writing… that gives you
the power to speak as you wish… without restrictions.
And then you see your ideas, your thoughts altogether.
And you read your creation. You can re-examine, admire
and even criticize it. Even change it if you wish. All this
was closed in my mind… and I got up to give it birth in
the middle of the night. Even this writing has a life of its
own… short or long it doesn’t matter… I can throw it in the
waste basket or be proud of it.
Or I can take in my hands this creation of mine and enjoy
its company until dawn when the night, tired of sleeping,
gives way to the day to initiate another wave of life in this
city… in this my world.