Without green hopes we're just public spectateurs

 

I don't know if any of you know who Haruki Murakami is or if you've read his Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. I've been reading it when I'm at home, thanks to my brother's forgetfulness, and I share this reading with António Ferra's pedagogy centered on the Person (about Carl Rogers) and Philip Roth's The Human Stain. And with Easy Pruning where you learn gardening. He says it's for simple people and for good results. I don't know. I haven't tried it yet. I've been standing still a lot when it comes to doing things. Do. 

The act of moving hands and feet, undertaking initiatives. That of thought is, perhaps, the greatest. That when I go to bed to sleep, I'm not able to turn off the synapses. Even after taking unisedil. And adalgur. And the pains are more than of the body, of the soul. I have never met anyone perfect or anything that really dazzled me except the spontaneity of people, the easy laughter of children, the stillness of nature, the gliding of a mixless animal among weeds, the conversation without formalities.

The fidelity and goodwill of dogs, the net and its use. In fact, in my momentary truth, the sky is easily charged with clouds and my eyes with rain. Life brings new thoughts and ideas to cross paths with ships and ports, with people and corpses. With destinies and stories that have been spent in my evocation. The years don't end when we change their last digit. The pain doesn't go away when we go to the doctor. No matter how competent it is.