We adopt, as a rule, the homeopathic illusion of an identity that, in fact, is fluid. I hope, it is true, for mass freedom, rejoicing in mutual benefit and the sincere exchange of all that may add up. Life, however, seems to me bloodthirsty as it infers an upside-down anthropophagy. objectified. We lost the Tupi heritage to associate ourselves with the parasitic postures of those who do not know how to think without having their own vicissitudes as their first prospect. A love of self that became self-love and that disintegrated some senses of being. To Rousseau, any measurement is an external lens. Any misunderstanding is supported by the sovereignty of having what one looks like and then, and just maybe, being that something similar.
All pains convalesce an existence sworn to death. Life glows with pain as you make tact, shiver. The sensations reverberated by the effervescence of an anxiety affirmed by haste are proof that something is not right. Fighting the system without taking care not to reproduce it in combat. So raising the wrong flags for the right causes. Thus pointing out the arrogance of the value judgment on certainties. What is wrong anyway?
In these pretentious anchors of dubious purposes, we lose the limit of the present to the necessarily endless projection of an unknown destiny, but which has become the primary religion of business. I live, like everyone else, on board a vital voyage whose outcome at sea seems analogous to the stupid attitude of quenching thirst with salt water. We seek infinity as an escape from the precise end that life forms with each new birth. We have a deadline, but nobody understands that.
The gaps elucidated by the lack of response emanate from universal wisdom, the same crystallized by the deluge of waiting. Today there is no waiting. Today there is a search object, preferably divided by the new goals added. Existence has become a lost conjunction of misunderstood truths. The reverse theorization of principles tends to be the plastered lie of a conviction that is swallowed by the indigestion of the rest. We are excellent theorists of a senseless metastasis. After all, you don't realize that sailing on this boat is an illusion of arrival. The sea has us, not the other way around.
