I used to imagine myself
As a young fox
Sleeping in a hole,
A small fenditure in the ground,
Perhaps under an old oak tree
Or maybe below the *****
Of a time-consumed hill.

That picturing of my fox-self
In his narrow hole
Always made me feel
Safe, secure and protected.
Even when the rain and the wind
Howled before my narrow refuge,
I could just lie there and be well.

But I am now enough strong
And enough content
Of myself and my life
To imagine myself
As a new kind of fox.
I am a young, proud fox,
Making my way into the world,
Smiling with a foxy grin
In face of everything.
I am strong,
I am cunning,
I am curious
And that's something
To be proud of.

I can jump,
I can run,
I can fight
I can live
Every moment
Feeling alright
And at home in the world.

I used to picture myself
As a young fox
In a small fenditure in the ground,
Seeking a warm and safe place
To rest and sleep.
But I now think that
I can be something different,
Something new:
I am now a different kind of fox.

So, I still lie in my narrow hole,
The one under the old oak
Or maybe the time-consumed *****,
Sleeping,
But I do it with
A new sense of self
And a sardonic grin
On my foxy face.

Some of the people
Who scorn at truth,
Meaning and values
Are similar to Aesop's Fox.

They imagine the grape
Hanging so high
That no one can reach it,
So that they can feel like
It is not worth struggling
To achieve it.

But then they become hungry.
And they die of starvation.

I have been like a blacksmith
Who forges only swords,
Sharp blades of war axes
Or heavy hammers
With flanged points.

Such were my arguments,
They were my thoughts,
They were my weapons,
They were my defenses,
The aggressive growl
Of a defensive animal.

I had plenty of resources,
To do whatever I wanted,
I could put my mind
On my most cherished themes.
But I didn't.
For I was a blacksmith
Forging weapons in a war.

I felt the urge of defending myself
From what could hurt
My soft inner-self.
So vulnerable,
Building defenses,
Fighting with courage
And strength.
I know
I am not vulnerable anymore.

Still, sometimes, there is a call to arms.
Or something that feels so.
Still, sometimes, I feel that urge.
To arm myself against a threat,
That maybe it's not even there.
I look at my molten metal,
And I imagine all the weapons
That I could craft.

But from now on,
I won't.
I look at all those metal,
All those would-be weapons
In my skilled hands.
And I think differently.
I can make so much more
With those materials and these skills.
I can be an artist, not a blacksmith.
I can be a statue of a horse out of bronze.
A bronze statue.
A bronze horse.

Yes, that would be wonderful!
So wonderful would it be to craft something
Out of love, or beauty, or interest or passion.
So different than building walls to defend you
And weapons to arm yourself.
So much more serenity in the process,
So much more satisfaction in the end.

And so, now I will built weapons no more.
I will build the bronze horses,
Or any other thing
That will make me yearn for something beautiful.

Life is a game
An odd one,
Elastic rules,
Different editions,
Some slight variations
Here and there
In packaging and content.

It is a game
In which nobody wins
And nobody loses
But everyone
Is nonetheless a player.

Yeah, you have
To think of life as a game:
Nor because it is always fun
Or because you can
Score some points.
Forget the scores, forget the rules.
Those are the ways
To try to stop playing.

But life is a game
That you can play
Observing what happens to you
And push yourself
A bit further
Than you were before.
Try not to be ahead of others
Or ahead of your time
Or ahead of whatever
Someone thinks you should accomplish:
Be ahead of yourself
From time to time
You will find yourself
A better player
At your own game.

I do not think
That this world
Is the best
Of all those possible.
It would be
A bit of a disappointment,
Wouldn't it?

I do not think
That this world
Is so bad
That a slightly worse world
Wouldn't even exist.
It would be an exercise
In masochism
Just to think of it.

I do not even think
Of this world
As a world
In a world of many worlds.
I am not a fan
Of metaphysics in disguise.

What do I think
Is that this world
Is the only one
We have.
This is the only world
We ever had.
Thousands of people
Lived in such a world,
Some of them
Were happy,
Some other were not.
Some people
Lived a pleasant life,
Other people had to fight
Against hurdles and struggles.
But they all lived here,
In this world.

So, please, stop.
Stop telling us
That this world
Is the best
Or the worst
Or at least bad,
Maybe capable
Of improvement.
This world just is.
And so do we.
Let's try to just live
And let the world
As it is.

Always behave according
To this maxim:
Think of a young child,
Feeling alone and scared
In the world
And in need of love.
The behavior
That benefits him
Is the best
For all of mankind.

Words are wonderful.
They can make you
Click with the world
They describe.
They connect.
They define.
They distinguish.

But those precious toys
Are much more than this:
They can imagine,
They can shape your mind,
They can communicate,
They can convey emotions, feelings.
Every little shade of your soul
Can have a word to express it.

But sometimes people do not think
About those strange tools.
And so words lose meaning.
And so they do harm.
And so they divide people.
And so they are removed
From the ever-flowing flux of life
And turned into
Political artifacts
Religious dogmas,
Or prescriptions
Of an ambitious moral system.
When this happens
Something in the wonder of words
Is lost.

What's that missing miracle?
What's the cause
Of that Fall
Of language?
Life is the answer.
That's what missing.
That's the ever flowing source
Of words themselves.

When you remove them
From their natural place,
They die
Like flowers in a dark room.
Meaning is lessened,
The world do not click.
You give meaning to meaninglessness
And you can not
Give meaning
To what meaningless is not.
Triviality seems meaningful,
While meaningfulness seems not.

But when everything runs
In the right way,
Wonder flows from every corner
And the world seems very much
Like an open book.

I have been
Bent on myself for years.
Thinking deeply about my thoughts,
Thinking hardly about myself,
Thinking and thinking
About my life.

It's been a long journey,
It's been so long...
So much time has passed.
So much change I endured,
So much struggles I won.

Now I am rising up.

I am not bent
On myself anymore.
I am free.
Freedom flows into me
Like a much-desired gift
In spite of pain and jadedness.
I want to be free.
I want it.
I
Want
It.
So simple.

And if sometimes
The world seems a bit stormy,
And the waves
Of your consciousness
Wind up in your mind
Don't worry: just surf.
Surf on them, be strong
And be aware
That when the storms end
The world will seem
Beautiful again.

And you will be
Even more beautiful.

The Passions are not gone away,
But they are a bit sleepy now.
I am so tired
That I prefer Quiet to Joy,
And Calm to Enthusiasm.
I am not detached,
I  just have to be on my own
For some time.
Love has to lessen its intensity,
And so does Friendship.

I think I'll go on a holiday
From Reason and Theory:
Plain Common Sense
Is a good friend of yours,
Don't you know?
Empathy!
Better turn you off too,
For some time,
Some very long time
Of quiet On-my-ownness.

Language is tricky
When you become too serious
About what words mean.
Thoughts are like tiny fishes:
They flow aimlessy
And not everything
Has to be picked up.
Introspection is cool,
But Spontaneity makes
The world go round.

And you know what?
I am just satisfied
With my life
In low-cal version.
This is not
An appeal to moderation,
Nor an eulogy of apathy.
I am just saying
That happiness
Is a much softer pleasure
Than outbursts of joy
And hedonistic delight.

So sleep the passions of my life,
Calmly and softly.
And I watch them in awe.
Everything is so good,
When the Passions
Are not Gone away.
But they sleep so well.

I know it's alright,
And everything
is going to be fine.
I know I am loved,
And I love too.
I know my life
Is almost easy now.
I know pain is gone,
I know I am stable,
I know I am strong.
I know who I am,
My little piece of world
Seems to me more stable
Than ever.
And it is.
Everything is so quiet.
I know what I am doing
And what I have done.
I even know what to do
In my future.
Good, good, so good.
No problems at all.
But I just want to sleep.
To keep this still calm outside
Inside me as well.
I want to make it mine.
And so I am quietly
Sitting on my bed now,
And I know all these things,
I know even more.
Everything is beautiful.
But please let me sleep now.

I am not controlling
My life,
Nor the world,
Nor the words and actions
Of all these people around me.
Still I am in control.
Still every word makes sense,
Just as it always had.
Still their actions are clear,
Plain and intellegible to me.
I have an identity, somewhere.
But I don't bother to find it.
Everything just fits.
And I am not really supposed
To explain why.
Maybe this vertigo
Is the last sigh
Of my controlling self,
Slowly fading
In this new found peace.
Maybe it is the beginning
Of an emancipated self,
Free and calm.
Maybe this vertigo
Is another name for freedom.
We can call it
Freedom, or Liberty or Self-determination.
Maybe the cultured man
Will think of Euthymia,
Or some other label
Of Stoic wisdom.
Be like that.
Maybe it's an ending.
Maybe a beginning.
Probably, both.
Maybe it's just beautiful.

I feel almost weightless,
As I notice all my problems
Fading into the nonsense
To which they belong.
Serenity reigns,
Everything is calm now.
A deep sentiment of rationality
Pervades my mind:
Everything is in the right place,
Everything is in the right time,
Everything is in the right order.
Everything makes sense.
Everything is just fine.
Everything seems so quiet,
So calm and still,
That I feel like
Nothing could ever affect me.
I am ethereal-minded,
I am like sunset on a lake,
I am like the breeze on my face,
I am like a deep underwater cave,
I am almost weightless.
And that's the best I've ever had.

Time heals our hard times.
Time softens our hardships.
Time makes the past stay dead.
Time makes us live the present.
Time tells us who we are.
Time makes us accept who we were.
Time makes some people unimportant .
Time makes other people unique.
Time connects the dots.
Time makes things click.
Time shows us what's real.
Time dissolves ghosts.
Time makes us forget forgettable things.
Time makes us value what's valuable.
Time gives us perspective.
Time makes illusions crumble down.
Time shows us that true dreams are solid.
Time is all you need, my friend.
Because time heals..

Once upon a time
In a distant land
Lived a king.

He was a bloodthirsty tyrant,
A lover of massacres,
Excited by war,
With a lust for fight.

Every day the axe fell
Upon the head of some dissenter,
Every night the body
Of some enemy
Dangled on the castle's walls.

He showed no mercy,
He felt no pain
In witnessing the horrors
Of his ****** rule.
War was his entertainment,
****** his joy.
He had no friends.
He knew
Only enemies and servants.

So this king
Once went to war,
With his knights
and his horsemen,
Aiming at a merciless victory.
His horse was the on of champions,
His sword the masterpiece of blades.
His shield was shiny and strong.

But he lost the war.

And then the enemy captured him
And put him in jail,
Almost naked, wound and fragile.

The tower he was in was cold,
The chains were tight,
His fate unsure.
Nothing was left of his glory.

The first day he cursed
The enemy and all his ancestry,
The second he promised
All the money
He could give
To the prison's watchmen.
The third he just yelled
Unrepeatable slurs
And unspeakable atrocities.
But the fourth day
Something happened.

The king started to feel.
All the pain he inflicted upon others
Was now his pain,
Their suffering was now
The same he was feeling,
Their moaning was now
The only sound he could utter.
His was the head cut by the axe,
His the feet dangling from the walls.
His the wounds and the mutilations
Of every veteran of war.
He felt all of that
And he cried.

And so he cried,
And he cried, he cried
For hours and then for days.
He asked no mercy,
For him never granted it
For his victims.
He begged no forgiveness,
Because he was aware of his nature.

But he was forgiven.
The winning king
Had mercy of the tyrant,
Hearing his crying
In the middle of the night.
He set the ****** enemy free
And all of his army
Was able to follow him
Back to his kingdom
Knowing that something changed
In the tyrant's heart.

And so it was.

The king was amazed
By an act of kindness
He could not even conceive.
He felt so strange.
Suddenly he has become
Permeable to the pain of others.
Suddenly he gained empathy
For all the suffering
He could never feel before.
He felt so human.
All his life he wanted to
Distinguish himself
From the common men.
Now he just felt
Like he could live
In the heart of every man.

When the king died,
Many years after that fatal battle,
Everyone remembered him
As a wise, tender man,
A lover of peace,
Moved by compassion,
Delighted by love.
No one knew what happened,
But everyone
In that lucky kingdom
Knew that it was something
Unspeakably beautiful.

This happens to many men:
They're cruel when they're sheltered
By power and glory
Validated by honors and praise.
But none of them can stand
The power of an heart screaming,
When the discover this ancient truth:
Money and power
Make people different,
But common pain make us all equal.