What do you call the lie that wants to tell the truth? What do you call the hesitation that wants to dare? I can't remember their names but I know they are the ones that dim the lights in the room every time I undo the buttons of my soul and open my shirt to reveal my chest to my authenticity.
At the edge of a verdant valley, the ruins of a dilapidated farmhouse lie in the no man’s land between two warring armies that have been mercilessly fighting each other for some months now. The farmhouse has been completely wrecked, except for a wall right in the middle, the only thing left standing. Two wounded soldiers, cut off from their comrades, a long way from the logic that brought them to where they are and coming from almost diametrically opposed sides of the valley, barely reach the farmhouse seeking shelter, each one on a different side of the wall. Without noticing each other’s presence, they both lie down amid the ruins.
A man and his Conscience are having a conversation about how to handle what they don't know how to fear, how not to pollute their world by letting their own silences live forever in them, how not to let everything that makes them sad make them also uglier than they are. As the conversation progresses, they move into such subjects as how many walls must they construct in order to become more visible to their own ambiguity, how many bad checks must they write to each other to be happier, how many sentimental fogs must they cross together before they feel they don't have to move forward anymore. After all, honesty is not to hide the truth from others, while happiness is not to try to hide it from one's own self.
Unclenching, the fist discovered a caress inside it
3.00€
Maria and Jimmy sit together but apart, facing each other, anchored as firmly as they can in their own ego and even more in their own private abyss, the abyss a person begins to form when even his loneliness decides to leave him alone. Between them sits a gaunt silence which, occasionally glancing from one to the other, doesn’t know how to begin to be silent the way they prefer.
In a duel with his self-confidence Paul is about to find out that he cannot quarrel with his future without quarreling with his favorite version of his own past as well, the one his self-confidence has deliberately forgotten in the most visible spot of his memory. You see, silence is not just the death of a word, it's also the death of a self-confidence. Maybe this is why there are no insensitive hearts, just hearts that don't find it profitable anymore to feel. Are illusions the gifts a man's ego gives to his stupidity? Most possibly because rich is the person who cannot turn on the lights in that room of his mind where his poverty permanently lives. By doing everything to forget that he has appointed himself the favorite servant of the steepest cliffs that live inside him, the ones that swallow up economy-class truths and spit out first-class ambiguities, Paul will soon discover that he is the gratuity he gives his self-awareness so she will let him live another day without asking him too many questions.
At the edge of a verdant valley, the ruins of a dilapidated farmhouse lie in the no man’s land between two warring armies that have been mercilessly fighting each other for some months now. The farmhouse has been completely wrecked, except for a wall right in the middle, the only thing left standing. Two wounded soldiers, cut off from their comrades, a long way from the logic that brought them to where they are and coming from almost diametrically opposed sides of the valley, barely reach the farmhouse seeking shelter, each one on a different side of the wall. Without noticing each other’s presence, they both lie down amid the ruins.
A man and his Conscience are having a conversation about how to handle what they don't know how to fear, how not to pollute their world by letting their own silences live forever in them, how not to let everything that makes them sad make them also uglier than they are. As the conversation progresses, they move into such subjects as how many walls must they construct in order to become more visible to their own ambiguity, how many bad checks must they write to each other to be happier, how many sentimental fogs must they cross together before they feel they don't have to move forward anymore. After all, honesty is not to hide the truth from others, while happiness is not to try to hide it from one's own self.
Unclenching, the fist discovered a caress inside it
3.00€
Maria and Jimmy sit together but apart, facing each other, anchored as firmly as they can in their own ego and even more in their own private abyss, the abyss a person begins to form when even his loneliness decides to leave him alone. Between them sits a gaunt silence which, occasionally glancing from one to the other, doesn’t know how to begin to be silent the way they prefer.
In a duel with his self-confidence Paul is about to find out that he cannot quarrel with his future without quarreling with his favorite version of his own past as well, the one his self-confidence has deliberately forgotten in the most visible spot of his memory. You see, silence is not just the death of a word, it's also the death of a self-confidence. Maybe this is why there are no insensitive hearts, just hearts that don't find it profitable anymore to feel. Are illusions the gifts a man's ego gives to his stupidity? Most possibly because rich is the person who cannot turn on the lights in that room of his mind where his poverty permanently lives. By doing everything to forget that he has appointed himself the favorite servant of the steepest cliffs that live inside him, the ones that swallow up economy-class truths and spit out first-class ambiguities, Paul will soon discover that he is the gratuity he gives his self-awareness so she will let him live another day without asking him too many questions.
