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Some things we link against the finger and laugh.
Some things are hidden in the eyes of the people are heard and
cry softly.
Some things falling from the sky:
shapeless black things, monsters and terror of the night
days.
Some things seem to have been prepared
by God and the Devil.
[...] Some things are like eagles. They live in high
-
may well forget the valley.
Some things are like an earthquake:
use all our fears.
Some things are like the beauty that is long dead:
only deep water of the well can wash them and wake them.
Emanuele Carnevale, Some things (from the first Lord )
Sometimes the memory of water is raised to the surface of things by a tear that arises from an empty heart. How far we have come before it emerged from that dark background bully crying, articulate long held back a sob as the need for love?
find ourselves listening to an important person for two hours about love and home and roots, and together see a girl crying silently for two hours is bad for the heart. But how much love they needed our guys, if not then it seems that they have received enough or have not received anything!
I asked the son of a friend of my father a few days ago, while complaints against life and all the rest: "But you never tried to ask you what your father see you? If you love? You do not think your father loves you? Do you know his love for you? " - Do not believe it, but he said he does not know! He does not know if his father loves him or not!
I want to say, but how do you go around the roads of the world without knowing whether one is loved or not?
This is what I call "being without roots."
E 'has been written that we are trees. Each of us is a big tree. Not a tree or any tree: a large tree. His law is to be found in the deep roots it sinks into the ground. If we have had many relationships and great loves, great pain if we tried, the more numerous and deep are our roots.
When I wrote " errant root " I did not mean "without roots". Maybe, they are the two houses, two countries who live in me to make me feel torn between both of them: on the one hand, my father's house, the other in the apartment where I live alone. But this is not a reason that makes me feel disoriented and overcome by some kind of discomfort.
The tree bears a house inside. And 'the house that we build over time, with joy and with pain, assigning to each person that we happen to meet a precise meaning, finding a story in the midst of the fragments of a life seemingly without history. It is always drawing faces and to seek and find stories. We must find another tree that we know ourselves to be.
When I say that I live alone in an apartment in Toledo, all run at once to think that my life is sad, I miss the warmth of a family, I have not a woman. And just as quickly they are surprised to hear that I am a woman I loved, that I carry in my heart the many stories that I could build humbly listening to the life that throbbed in front of me every time that a young friend or a musician or a singer improvised spoken to me, or me smile or have had the courage to say that I appreciate my attention. Are surprised to hear that I carry with me the memory faded to nothing of my mother's caresses, his voice roca, recalls, from a distance when my disagreement with his heart and he suffered at seeing me away ... And what about the profound loneliness of my father, who was not afraid for us to stay for hours to hear the voices of the campaign, in search of refreshment, when the rain had already begun to tap the arid land? He feared that the lightning, how exciting to see him watching the sky, looking for answers to his troubles, in the long evenings of late summer ...!
I was also asked what are my roots, if I have it, if I hear a real musician or not. People are always so many questions all at once, because he wants to know everything. Not satisfied with an answer that, perhaps, is worth a thousand speeches, because it leads immediately to the heart of the truth.
I believe in loyalty to the land, in the long goodbyes with whom we bid farewell to it day after day. I know, even if they are still young, you die slowly. Every day that goes away is a part of us dies, because we are mixed of hours and days and months. It seems too easy to count the years. We prefer to think of the long rows of days, that inexorable slide in and out of us. We live the time that marks for us the pace at which we encounter his life respected and honored.
file continuity is required to be able to say: "I'm here, here and now, never forget my time in the world, which takes away the most beautiful things. Establish file continuity is able to love, give meaning to the fragments that fall to our feet and asking only that the broken and reassembled and is not never fall prey to the idea that irreparable damage has occurred, that the evil of which we have witnessed is unredeemable, unforgivable, indefeasible, as if those who make mistakes have to serve for eternity that they were not 'here', always present to themselves and others, committed us to love us just as if nothing else was granted the world if only we do not love us.
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