100 Maneiras de Fugir

First part of Song of Myself, from Walt Whitman

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their
parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.

Esse poema tem a capacidade de tirar meu pé do chão! Celebrar a si mesmo não num ato de egoísmo, mas numa apreciação de si mesmo, do privilégio de respirar, de ser feito do solo e ser feliz por isso. Lindo!

Today is a rainy day, again. The sun is nothing but light and heat, not even the rainbow's been flourishin' these days. Just go home, says my heart. I'd like to stay home, just to be in my safe shell, smelling only the purests smellings I already know for a long time. But the world is expansion, is a constant overflow, even when it leads towards the unknown, the not so safe places, not so warm lands. Pure is ideal, imagination, no contact, what somehow people have been longing to for years. Just want to go down into knowledge, overcome myself: that's my ambitious wish and my pleasure, my fun in my free time. No water surrounding me because everything is water, so water doesn't exist, it just is. In fact, for my surprise, I'm writing! For my need flowers of criativity grow: and that's the danger, God! I swear don't want to discover it, except for a minute: this and uncountable others. The full glass of extreme energy those who tasted it died for one, two or for all worlds. Although, somehow, all of us may touch, make thin the thick veil that separates the prohibited places behind conscience (that's what they call it).

Marcadores: conscience, rainy day, write