The obscure zero, the vacant one and the man in between - 3.00€
ISBN: 978-618-5308-13-1
Every day I learn how to think by forgetting what I already know. I learn how to be happy by ignoring all that wants to make me sad. I learn how to move forward by attacking anything that wants to make me retreat. I have no right to uproot anything I haven’t planted. I have no right to erase anything I haven’t written.
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.
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.
Why do I feel that I betrayed everything I have forgotten? How I became the brilliant idiot who can answer almost anything except for what my soul wants to ask me? The same way I managed for years at the end of every evening stealing what my cleverness had already stolen from me during that day. Could this be the way loneliness ends up stealing the “1” from the uniqueness of her owner? Maybe it’s time I realize that a soul’s ugliness can be much more ambitious than her beauty.
Collection of Poems: For those who measure time in smiles, not minutes. For those who let art blaze new trails in their soul so they can reach those parts of hers they don’t own yet
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.
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.
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.
Why do I feel that I betrayed everything I have forgotten? How I became the brilliant idiot who can answer almost anything except for what my soul wants to ask me? The same way I managed for years at the end of every evening stealing what my cleverness had already stolen from me during that day. Could this be the way loneliness ends up stealing the “1” from the uniqueness of her owner? Maybe it’s time I realize that a soul’s ugliness can be much more ambitious than her beauty.
Collection of Poems: For those who measure time in smiles, not minutes. For those who let art blaze new trails in their soul so they can reach those parts of hers they don’t own yet
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.
