On my mind, thoughts

The one who sees. 

The space we occupy is almost insignificant, if we really think about it. We are like tiny grains of sand, like a single drop of water, in the countless oceans of deserts that compose our cities and our worlds. In that tiny space, we are random leaves, flying or grounded. We cross each other’s paths almost imperceptibly, completely invisible in each other’s eyes. Until that one person that cuts right through it all, and finds our beating hearts with just one look.

Standard
On my mind

As beauty and magic… 

We leave fragments of our souls everywhere we go. In the people we meet along the way, in the smiles we scatter like fairy dust and in the cobbled stones we lightly tread. Those fragments are Imprinted forever in the hands of time; they are carved like marble in the dissolute fabrics of space, they are pressed like diamonds in the spirits of those who ventured to feel and there they live long after we are gone. Just as we carry those places and hearts with us, as memories and dreams, so too, they still carry us. We keep it all alive, as beauty and magic, pulsating within our veins.

Standard
On my mind

Doing what it takes. 

It’s fine letting things be, letting it all flutter with the air, and choosing to let the universe take its course. Of course it’s easier and probably wiser, but sometimes, it simply is not enough. Sometimes, we simply have to dare to be bolder and claim what is to be ours, even if it goes against all the odds, even if it questions everything that is already established and even if it will make the whole world turn upside down and readjust it’s course of action. It doesn’t matter, because sometimes, if the secret whispers that come with the moon are louder than anything else, we simply just have to rol up our sleeves, leave our Buddha Mountains for a while and just do whatever it may take to make it ours.  

Standard
Fiction, inspiration, On my mind

Counting shooting stars. 

It’s easy to grow bitter, it’s far too simple to grow sour, resentful and forget to care for anything or anyone because we think they are not worthy of our attention or love. It’s far too elementary to choose the darkness because we were hurt, bruised or forgotten. But that’s not who we are. It’s not what makes us human, it’s not what makes us worthy, and it’s definitely not what makes us true. Living is fighting for the light, not caving into the shattered grounds of an uncomplicated life. Living is choosing to be a lightness of existence despite the pain. It is believing in the good, the noble and the true. And for that, there is no space for resentments or bitterness, ever. There is merely a space for growth and for counting shooting stars. 

Standard
inspiration, On my mind, thoughts

To grow… 

We do not know how to endure. We want the depth, without the distance; the love, without the pain. We do not know how to be patient. We want the bliss, without the solitude; the forever without the steadiness of the today. We do not know how to be strong. We want the surrender, without the inevitable vulnerability; the ecstatic heart, without the melancholy of the soul. But can we ever really have the roses without the thorns? Can a butterfly ever fly without growing in a tight cocoon? It takes time, patience, courage and fortitude to become who we are supposed to so that we can live what is meant to be. And there is nothing on the other side of the today that is certain, just the promise that lives inside our beating hearts that makes it all ok… but one thing is certain: if we do not learn to persevere and if we do not keep growing and evolving, bravely and steadily, if we do not follow the whispers and the revolving dreams, we are nothing, because that is the moment when we will have forgotten and neglected the only thing worth living for…… 

Standard
inspiration, On my mind, poetry

A poem: Ode to life by Martha Medeiros

ODE TO LIFE by Martha Medeiros

He who becomes the slave of habit,

who follows the same routes every day,

who never changes pace,

who does not risk and change the color of his clothes,

who does not speak and does not experience,

dies slowly.
He or she who shuns passion,

who prefers black on white,

dotting ones “it’s” rather than a bundle of emotions, the kind that make your eyes glimmer,

that turn a yawn into a smile,

that make the heart pound in the face of mistakes and feelings,

dies slowly.
He or she who does not turn things topsy-turvy,

who is unhappy at work,

who does not risk certainty for uncertainty,

to thus follow a dream,

those who do not forego sound advice at least once in their lives,

die slowly.
He who does not travel, who does not read,

who does not listen to music,

who does not find grace in himself,

she who does not find grace in herself,

dies slowly.
He who slowly destroys his own self-esteem,

who does not allow himself to be helped,

who spends days on end complaining about his own bad luck, about the rain that never stops,

dies slowly.
He or she who abandon a project before starting it, who fail to ask questions on subjects he doesn’t know, he or she who don’t reply when they are asked something they do know,

die slowly.
Let’s try and avoid death in small doses,

reminding oneself that being alive requires an effort far greater than the simple fact of breathing.
Only a burning patience will lead

to the attainment of a splendid happiness.

Standard