Re: This used to be... (18/10/15 15:51:42)
I am still alive too. But find myself coming here much less often lately. I think we all feel similar. Getting old yes, Feeling that maybe what we write or say is not that much interesting... Feeling every day more out of fashion, out of time. And feeling that after all, in the end it does not matter much. So, what? Are we preparing for a "grand final" mixing tea and tears? Are we moving to Facebook or to Quora? I am very happy for the many hours I enjoyed on these gray pages. I really wish I could have known each of you in person, half a life ago or more, in time to better use your wisdom. I still hope it will be possible to drink some good wine together. As promised, wine will be up to me. Now time for some verses: Dear Ebenezer's Friends, May your roads be easy and may your words be wise. May your time not be too busy And may beauty be in your eyes. ... some wise sentences: [...]Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul. Worry, fear, self-distrust bows the heart and turns the spirit back to dust. Whether sixty or sixteen, there is in every human being's heart the lure of wonder, the unfailing child-like appetite of what's next, and the joy of the game of living. In the center of your heart and my heart there is a wireless station; so long as it receives messages of beauty, hope, cheer, courage and power from men and from the Infinite, so long are you young.[...] --Samuel Ullman And a nice poem from Dylan Thomas, recently featured in Interstellar movie Do not go gentle into that good night Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. -- Love to all, Marco |
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