I’M NOT AT HOME

Pride is a detestable vice. It makes you blind: you no longer see your own faults. It makes you presumptuous, unjust, bad. Ridiculous vice. Superb because we have money: but wealth is a good outside of us. A dwarf always remains a dwarf even if he is on top of a mountain. Superb because they are young, beautiful, full of strength: but youth is lost day by day: ruit hora… soon we find ourselves old, without boldness, without strength.

We observe certain athletes, who are proud of their health: a very fragile asset. Just a small vein that breaks, a fall, an insect bite, an infection ... we have one foot in the grave, we are more fragile than glass. For a glass to break it needs a stone, a bump ... we break for much less. Intelligence: so fragile ... a thyroid dysfunction, a sudden emotion, a premature senility and we are poor beings to be admitted to nursing homes.

How many times are we put or rather "classified" in categories?

We are white, black, yellow or brown, right or left, tall or short, beautiful or ugly, Catholics, Muslims, Hindus and atheists, Asians, Europeans, Americans, rich or poor, brave or fearful, or worse northerners. / southerners, young, old, adults and adults. In short, the quantity of "classes" is infinite.

The thing we should understand is that we are actually all HUMAN BEINGS. We should know how to appreciate and respect each other for who we are, and try to learn the best that any other type of culture or social background, other than our own, can give us.

After all, even in nature there are more than 15,000 species of ants but we persist in unifying them into a single category. We learn to love each other.

Bring back the cold days, where I can distract myself from the thoughts that are knocking loudly on my door.
I hate summer, heat, long and endless days.

I hate her because during those three months you have no excuses, you have no distractions, or at least you will not have extended them.

And that's when the thoughts come to assault your mind.

Summer gives you a way to think, which many would not want to do, not even me.

I don't want to think about what's to come, I don't want to think about death, which is approaching step by step. Because it is when it happens that fear attacks us, blocking our movements, our breath.

The awareness that hour by hour, second by second is one step closer to death.

But perhaps, very likely, the greatest fear is that of dying alone. Maybe in a small bare room, where you can hear the breath of death as it grows stronger as yours struggles to survive. Where the dark catches you, holding you still in its icy grip.

And that's where a particular feeling is triggered; regret.

What have I done wrong? Haven't I done enough in my life? Why have I never committed myself? Why didn't I prevent this from happening in this way? Was my life worth it? Is there anything that can be saved?

The frantic questions that swirl, moved by dark feelings, moved by the terror of not having really lived.

It is heavy to think of such a thing I admit, death is something that no one would ever want to talk about, but we face it day after day through the people around us, a life goes out and we have to deal with it ourselves, who we are left with a void to fill.

Many think that death is just a passage from one life to another. But will it really be like this?

Well, in the meantime we are here trying to give meaning to the life that has been given to us, a motive, a purpose for which to continue living.