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There is a time that is in time, making history, creates, enriches the plasma at will.

It 's the time, bearded above the clouds, distant but always urgent in our lives.

It 's time-linear, ordinary, irrefuggibile, tangible in the wrinkles of lives lived, which reminds us that we are atoms and moments, only small metaphors which run against an order already announced before the birth of the world.

And then there is a long time, but that is not the time to witness all the poetic power of dreams and emotions.

It 's the time of the other and the elsewhere, of small but unsettling things, the seemingly senseless.

E 'without color, yet exudes all the seven colors of the rainbow in the lives of those who found features and quirks.

E 'at this time of Proust (sought and never found) to Nietzsche (eternal, redundant, less apparent, but not cyclical, it will oridinario linear), the time of Zeno and his dear old consciousness that is old science and magic.

E 'Freud recounts the meanderings of the dark secret remote inherent in us, who do not have time, not in time, and yet acting in time.

E 'the paradox of Benjamin Button, and the search for ultimate meaning.

A kiss, the last, as the baby in swaddling clothes is the story of the world, made up of time, yet timeless.

It 's the time of creation, the initial burst, the connection between what is time, what is first thought to be and what time it becomes the thought in action.

The links between a person and we exist only in thought. Memory, nell'affievolirsi them loose, and, despite the illusion that we would like to be the victims, and with which, for love, for friendship, politeness, respect for human duty, to deceive others, we live alone. Man is the being who can not get out by himself, he does not know the others if not himself, and that, if he says otherwise, consciously lies ...

conception of time, designed in a manner different from each other, is the first formal defect that distinguishes us, makes us unique and unrepeatable. Whether in employment, which in its construction, each of us lives and passions in determining functions of it. There are those who burn, those who are overwhelmed, who makes it unique, who lives in an unconscious way, but there, there, be part of our units within a cosmos without beginning or end ...

With the magic of the senses, there is no need for words, there are no doors to open, is a moment el'ebbrezza drags you off and she was really beautiful ...

will tell you that you have a limited time, you have to suffer to make money, you die, young or old. But it is not, it's all a big lie, a cage of nylon which makes visible what it really is, without pore afford to touch him. Do not feel one of those balls that surround people and landscapes, stopping moments, and that if inverted, feel the cold there is snow. There a time that is not the time, but that is within each of you. Out into the street, there is no time, and say that time is returned, and you will be immortal, what they want to defeat you are, stop time, your time, which is not time, but about time. Some people have the time inherent in the blood and travels emotions and conclusions even after they have ceased to be a heart, but perhaps not the spirit. And it's your time, if you will be true, and you will make your lives extraordinary.

Be time and time will be in you ....

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Desert ...

Nightmares and passions.

Lonely nights of Sand and Fog, trying to scream in a hollow voice.

wolves howling in pure desert.

It is only by choice, it is only because even when you're with yourself, with your soul, there is already too much noise, and the desert silence and admiration, fear, and reflection, but who knows .. love is never really alone, even with himself.

It is only out of necessity, need, but also in opposition to too much love, unhappiness, or simply because they are capable of standing alone with oneself without fear of confrontation with spirit.

The desert is temptation, stone becomes food, risk and hidden life. E 'poetry, pink unexpected storm of knowledge, an oasis of knowledge, illusion of truth. The dunes are transformed with the wind but the desert remains the same ...

Sit down, this is solitude, a non-place, where it grows hemisphere of the mind awareness, remedy crazy ... - perhaps madness.

We are unhappy because I can not stay alone in a room, in silence, in the beautiful romance of the transposition of mind.

And then sit down, sit on a sand dune. You do not see anything, hear anything .. but something shining in the silence ...

Nobody is afraid of dying in the desert. It is not a heroic thing. It is the desert. The desert man as a consuming fire consumes a tree.

on the desert sand as the waters of the oceans can not stay, put down roots, live, live permanently. In the desert, as we must constantly move in the ocean, and so let the wind, the true master of this immensity, erase every trace of our passage, makes the spread of new of water or sand, virgin and inviolate.

You really only then ..? Maybe you ... at crucial moments, in moments of intense life, in truth extreme, with its joys and sorrows as well.

In everything really is just from the first transition to moan, but a cobalt blue sky, above the clouds in rainy day ... .. we will meet again

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Loneliness ...




Solitude
(silence, his close relative, you must learn to listen. The silence does not exist)
does not exist in sense that loneliness is to not be alone, but rather in not knowing how to keep company. Those who can not keep the company hardly knows how to hold on to others. is why we can be alone in the midst of a thousand people,
is also why you can find in the company of yourself and be happy
(for example, listening to the silence, close relative of solitude). But the true silence does not exist, as there is no real solitude.
Just surrender to the voices of the universe ...