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.
This art installation, named Le miroir de l’eau, placed across from Place de la Bourse and designed by landscape artist Michel Corajoud is composed of about 2 cm of water which alternates in depth and rhythm, creating beautiful reflections of the heavens, the architecture and the children whom run around as if they are walking on clouds. I’m pretty sure the pictures on my Leica are muchhhh better… when I get home.
Yesterday I was looking into some Robert Frost quotes. Here were some of my favorites on poetry and life.
A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.
Poetry is what gets lost in translation.
Half the world is composed of people who have something to say and can’t, and the other half who have nothing to say and keep on saying it.
Don’t ever take a fence down until you know why it was put up.
A diplomat is a man who always remembers a woman’s birthday but never remembers her age.
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,
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,
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,
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,
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,
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,
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.
Indeed, it was a world of beauty, it was a stage of magic. But to understand either, to live there, in the edge of that transcendent madness was to let it consume you and possess you with all of it’s depths. Not for the weak of heart, not for the ones that ran away from tears and fear. This glistening world of perfection demanded an evolvement that only a few really dared to feel. Made out of strength, honour and devotion, it spoke of worlds of perfection. Sustained by love, it spoke only of eternal longings and connections that broke the threads of time itself.