We, indeed, and complaints ... I have a strange relationship with the complaints, love and hate.
E 'for months now that I am surrounded by countless people who do nothing but complain, it is curious, I decide not to do more because the famous story of the glass half full is more reassuring, but alas, the complaints continue to haunt me.
So much so that I'm working on my own, personal, theory on humans and complaints.
I think at this point, it's cathartic to complain about ognichè (neologism, created for the occasion), it is increasingly curious, must be a reminiscence of childhood, must be, I dunno, some kind of strange path which is a part of our brain, buried in the unconscious, which makes us realize even to what we can become unsightly by dint of saying "... this is wrong, that other ... now who knows how it goes ... and who knows what will happen to me ... and what will this or that thing ... "
... well enough, enough complaints, I can no longer hear old grains that become huge stones, I can not hear more complaints!
What then are some subtle ways, because those in the quiet, little direct, which does not have the explosive force, destructive, I can get him when I'll put my commitment, those are the worst, because it absorbs them slowly, under skin, but one day you wake up and realize that what they were actually words spoken with a smile, without the inniettati eyes of sagu (this is me ... usually I do not have half sizes), but with a languid look abandoned fawn.
So this morning at 7:30 I just realized that, my ears will not be lenient with those who still complain about anything, because from my sour, I know right now are very acidic, there is little point of view to complain, but because we choose life that we want, not the opposite!
"... Today I'll tell you one thing, one thing I know for some time, and you too, you know, but maybe not canvas detta.Ti you ever tell what I know about you and me and our fate. You Harry , you were an artist, a thinker, a man full of joy and faith, always in quest of the great things and eternal, never content to small and pretty. But as life has awakened and brought to yourself, the more you made your misery, so much more you are sunk in grief, anguish, despair, up to his neck, and everything is beautiful and sacred had known and loved and revered one day, all your buttock faith in humanity and in our high destiny you are not served anything, has lost all Valur and is shattered. Your faith will not find air to breathe. And die of asphyxiation is a bad death. Am I right Harry? And 'that's your fate? "I continued to mention yes, yes.
" You had incuore a vision of life, a faith, a postulate, were ready to act, to suffer, to sacrifice ... and then you accorgesti and little by little that the world did not ask at all deeds and sacrifices and the like, that life is not a sublime poem with heroic characters, but a good middle-class room where there is content to eat and drink, and drink coffee with her knitting, tarot cards to play and listen to the radio.
And who wants those things, things beautiful and heroic, respect or veneration of the great poets of the holy man is a fool, a Don Quixote. Well it happened to me the same, dear friend. I was a girl of good qualities, destined to live according to a model high, expect a lot from me, and for implementing my duties with dignity. I could take an important part, being the wife of a king, the lover of a revolutionary, the sister of a genius, the mother of a martire.La only gave me life instead of becoming a courtesan of discreet good taste ... and I was not too easy! So it happened to me. For a while I was disconsolate and long tried to blame myself. Finally, I thought, life has always right, and when life mocked my sweet dreams, I thought that dreams were foolish and were wrong. But it was useless. And since I had the sharp eyes and good ears and I was a little curious, I watched carefully the life, neighbors, acquaintances, and more than fifty human destinies, and saw Harry, that my dreams had been right, a thousand times right like yours. Life however, the reality was wrong. That a woman like me had no other choice but to age poorly and stupidly in front of a typewriter, who was serving a money, or marry such a quattrinaio for the sake of his money, or instead become a sort of squaldrina, was not correct: as little as just a man like you, lonely, fearful and desperate, had to resort to the razor. For me, the misery was perhaps more material and moral, for you ... but rather spiritual life was the same. Did not think I understand your fear of foxtrott, your dislike of the bars and dance halls, your opposition to jazz and all this stuff? I understand too, and so orrrore your policy, your sadness for the gossip and intrigues of the parties without responsibility, the press, your despair over the war, the past and those to come, the way you did today to think, read, build, make music, organize parties, to spread the culture! You're right, Steppenwolf, a thousand times right, but you must die.
In this world today, simple, convenient, easy contentatura, you have too many demands, too hungry, and it rejects you because you have an extra dimension. Who wants to live and enjoy life today must not be like you or me. Who wants music instead of meowing, joy instead of fun, spirit instead of money, instead of working activity, passion instead of amusement for him this beautiful world is not a home ... "
From: Steppenwolf, Hermann Hesse ... a book of 1927 .. I know it's a bit long as a citation, but I could not cut anything ... that's what we humans ... we were and continue to do so ... this is perhaps because of my reflection ... I admit it a little sour, but still a reflection!
I'm going to make a tart of apricots and oranges that come back ... who knows a little ...:) docezza
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