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Description
I’ve created a world so personal that anybody that steps in soon seems an alien to me.
Love is always calling me like a siren’s chant. And I sometimes get chained and watch the suicide of the sirens. But I’m not so strong... I fool myself... I get chained with chains made of paper, words that seduce me and easily unchain me and I can’t resist the siren’s chant, but I die half way because I can’t swim... I think I’m a cat with its seven lives --I can’t tell how many I’ve drowned...— all the times I died, I died of love. Some call that passion because only passion has that capacity of killing or dying... since I can’t distinguish both feelings, I don’t care what’s the cause of my death. What else can happen to a soul that suffers for love except suffering? Until it calms down, the pain of love is absolute and doens’t allow space for anything else.
I conclude: man is a selfish being that can’t live without carrying its cross.
I must be insane, but I’m not different than anyone else and love is for me a tragedy. It’s not the fact that it’s a tragedy, cause it’s also a comedy. What disturbs me is the anguish that it can end. Anguish feeds of nothing, it doesn’t need any cause, like fear. We project ourselves to the future and what can we see as the only real posibility? Death. But, aren’t Love and Death together, like Eros and Thanatos?...
If we were so evolved, image of some God, why would we spend our life searching for limited and human values, like stability?
We adapt to everything and all movement is illusion. Until when?

Description
I’ve created a world so personal that anybody that steps in soon seems an alien to me.
Love is always calling me like a siren’s chant. And I sometimes get chained and watch the suicide of the sirens. But I’m not so strong... I fool myself... I get chained with chains made of paper, words that seduce me and easily unchain me and I can’t resist the siren’s chant, but I die half way because I can’t swim... I think I’m a cat with its seven lives --I can’t tell how many I’ve drowned...— all the times I died, I died of love. Some call that passion because only passion has that capacity of killing or dying... since I can’t distinguish both feelings, I don’t care what’s the cause of my death. What else can happen to a soul that suffers for love except suffering? Until it calms down, the pain of love is absolute and doens’t allow space for anything else.
I conclude: man is a selfish being that can’t live without carrying its cross.
I must be insane, but I’m not different than anyone else and love is for me a tragedy. It’s not the fact that it’s a tragedy, cause it’s also a comedy. What disturbs me is the anguish that it can end. Anguish feeds of nothing, it doesn’t need any cause, like fear. We project ourselves to the future and what can we see as the only real posibility? Death. But, aren’t Love and Death together, like Eros and Thanatos?...
If we were so evolved, image of some God, why would we spend our life searching for limited and human values, like stability?
We adapt to everything and all movement is illusion. Until when?