Spinning to: You get what you give by New Radicals.


Boast of Quietness by Jorge Luis Borges.

Writings of light assault the darkness, more prodigious than meteors.
The tall unknowable city takes over the countryside.
Sure of my life and my death, I observe the ambitious and would like to understand them.
Their day is greedy as a lariat in the air.
Their night is a rest from the ragewithin steel, quick to attack.
They speak of humanity.
My humanity is in feeling we are all voices of the same poverty.
They speak of homeland.
My homeland is the rhythm of a guitar, a few potraits, an old sword, the willow grove's visible prayer as evening falls.
Time is living me.
More silent than my shadow, I pass through the loftily covetous multitude.
They are indispensable, singular, worthy of tomorrow.
My name is someone and anyone.
I walk slowly, like one who comes from so far away he doesn't expect to arrive.



It's a pretty poem if understand what the poet's trying to say. And it's a great song I'm listening to right now. It's an old song though. Download yours and get it for free.

Sigh.

Nowadays, I don't think twice and I don't understand what I'm saying sometimes. Perhaps, my mind is frazzled and pertubed by these multitudes of unanswered questions that keep playing like an old film.

I need answers to these questions. But the answers I'm seeking are nowhere to be found. Perhaps, I looked for them in the wrong holes? But, just why?

I didn't ask for certain occurences to take place. But did it happened for a reason or reasons? If so, what are they?

Maybe these are just the days of dull and unmerriment. Maybe? Or maybe it'll be good if I could convince myself to believe that.







Tirra little people.