Military Hairstyles Updo

Wittgenstein umbrella

THE UMBRELLA OF WITTGENSTEIN




1. As people know or do not know ever, but sometimes falls total, suppose that the rain will meet with a woman under an umbrella. You say: I? and she was hesitant and surprised, weighing the pros and cons you says no, that umbrella is yours and you go. Suppose you obey and walk away and jumping puddles after a street, two blocks, three blocks to find a little roof guarecerte and there, precisely there, hiding the murderer was written would have to kill you and you come to meet with that of the money or your life, and you respond to life, because you feel wet and cold and wanted to die or to order a cup of hot coffee, but as in this hall there is a cafeteria, for you with huge knife through and from the ground towards your murderer lost your watch and your wallet behind the curtain of rain that leaves the girl who loved you no harbor under its umbrella, and when it happens: you die.

1.1 Suppose that heaven exists and that you come to die at six in the evening or, better, that your murderer will have killed at that time or, if you will, that time everything has synchronized coordinates with great precision timepieces for you to die for your country at six in the evening without you nor your murderer walked concerned about punctuality. If heaven exists, a quarter past six doors would towed by the smoke of a chimney next to where your body would have been. The doors are wide open, you walk, walk, looking for either side, but there is nothing anyone can not find: The sky is an infinite hangar, you think and enters the consciousness the image of women in the middle of the rain refused you dry shade of her umbrella.

1.1.1 Suppose that in addition to heaven, no God, your ascent and arrival are the same, only now are a counter and behind the counter, a green coat Butler beckons with benzine torch you approach. Das few steps and immediately discover the bright green of the coat that the sky is not the place for you, you're entitled to other hobbies: Death decoding the reasons why that woman refused to share with you his umbrella , and other matters of that sort. 1.1.1.1

Suppose there is a God and you're waiting, you cross the eternity and infinity that are not nothing but an endless stream of waiting room, waiting rooms and lobbies, and in the end, or you consider the end, you find some furniture like a coffee shop with comfortable chairs, blue plastic, imitation leather, and you take seat convinced that if God waits for you: you must get together Palpate him there with blue lining of the chair and your old habits do you want a milkshake, but God, even if you are waiting, fails and instead, associated with the shake and desire, what comes to you is the memory of the woman in the rain I said: No.

1.1.1.2 Suppose that God comes: travel advance may be identical except, of course, the color of the coat of the butler, because if God comes coat color must be bishop. You're sitting in blue plastic chair looking a milkshake and then God comes disguised as a waiter brings a tray of just such a shake that you want, comes with tie toilet bow and a bonnet on her head. You get up respectful and invites you to be, God will grant and invited him a sip of your milk, but he declines and tells you just eat, but thanks you have no appetite. You step back sorry: that was improper understand how confianzuda with which you offered the sip and, afraid of having committed an imprudence, questions whether you can smoke. I answered yes and even you accept a cigarette. Your hand trembles lighting matches to be human in the face of God. However, God wants and says: They are good cigars, snuff "blonde? No, you answer without realizing that fixes no less than God, are dark snuff. Is less processed, Is not it, says he, you answer yes, it is cheap cigars. As they are gorgeous, sure you breathe the smoke him and think they are not as good, but you dare not speak. God looks around and makes a commentary on blue plastic seats, something about that seems to leather. You give the reason, God finishes his cigarette and says: Well I, you know, I have to go, has been a pleasure. You could not manage to say anything and when God moves away from between the chairs that lined blue leather look, remember the way your murderer walked down the street in the rain and the face of the woman who refused to accept you under its umbrella.

1.2 Suppose also that there is nothing that you die at six in the afternoon as rain forces you to find where the hospitable roof to protect you and you seemed harmless hid the criminal who would kill a result of that there was a woman who declined to share her umbrella with you. The chimney would loose their breath dirty air, the rain cut through the smoke and soot would fall to the floor again, very fine powder that water wet drag with your last breath into the sewer. The next day your body washed by rain would be found: One dead, scream, but you would not hear anything, not even the sound of rain, or the footsteps of your murderer, nor the women not excluded you his umbrella, would not hear or you would see or would know nothing: no milkshakes, or conversations with God, and stewards of coat, or chairs that look like leather. There would be nothing.

2. Now suppose that down the umbrella she will answer: Yes, of course, come with me. And you, hesitant and surprised to have reviewed some of their earlier negative consequences, you begin to tell you that the "no" you said in another story throws you into the hands of a murderer and a chat with God and a number of assumptions that she celebrates laughing, just as they pass in front of the door where the murderer who expects you to get streaming to kill; long pass, and as the evening is for dogs and are just six, she proposes to enter the cafeteria is on the next street, which, of course, has the blue chairs. Enter, they shake the rain clothes pearl, and she asks you a milk shake and a coffee.

Story taken from my book God does play dice .

Is Mild Reversal Of Cervical Lordosis Normal

The Kabbalistic Language Manifesto Uchronics

Kabbalistic Language

write because I have not found a better way to touch you, or another avenue that this road of words from which I can show you a planetary system that I still have a deep estimate . How ensure that the day is sunk without object into irregular streets of the city? How to prevent escapes, you disappear to turn a corner? Here you get a buzz and your breath is the vapor of the ink to dry, this is the place to go off or where you expect me to sleep. Here it's always night when I come back after getting lost in routine, or after the chase, along with other crows, objects whose brightness was false. I acquire here that background that I carry, because it is not only your sex, or the magnet of your breasts overwhelmed in the table, not your stomach that ends in a black oasis. I write because it's not just your body and I nervous walking the suicide on the roof nor only time. It is rather a way for rolling vowels and sweat for your labios.Tú come here to collect what you need that depth, the following without which the months turn to no avail. But finding your own will not leave you: you think you are not completely, that is not yours you move your arm from the door when you say goodbye, that hand too interested in digging my papers can not be yours and your face little has to do with the line that will extend through the channel of these lines. And it is true, this certainly does not belong to you and this disagreement. Nothing here is like nothing, but each image is your image and every smile out of you. This is where I write a longer course a glance or a gesture path. Here, the smoke and calligraphy, make you lower eyelids and extend your body. Because in the end no good is elusive: neither mutilated flock of angels that flutter in the dream, or the days you do not remember a week going over and over again, not your mouth that seeks to escape through the left side of this page where you appear stretched free will. Are that hill momentarily as the waves of the paper, when my hand felt hindered by your appearance go back surface or placing dots and accents. And as you read these words, without being able to avoid, but you lower your voice, vibrating your lips and the sound travels you will piel.Después silence the streets that stretch until dawn and sleep for solitary lamps till morning, and will, no doubt about it, the endless drip of the alphabet with his phrases. After these words, let's see where my fingers turned into syllables they move over and get wet. Then there will be anything: at most a fingerprint to be deleted in your neck or on your waist. But now, understand, and not words you hear: the sound of the pen to draw your consonants, is the score that moves through your legs and spelling moons brand: your body is finally gasped.

Text taken from my book God does play dice.

Auctioncarscalgary.com

Tired of silence. Tired of keeping silence that serves as a vice and injustice becomes bearable. Against the treacherous and wrong, the unwitting accomplices and executioners of vocation. Against all those who through ignorance or naivete, or your thought and scientific backing his irresponsible provide support to disaster. And also against those who channel the protest to outline their Infiernito or distracted by minutiae critical to the widespread dissatisfaction, we raise this Manifesto.
We moved to it any recent event, even the repeated and brazen indifference and inefficiency that characterize the decisions of this time, but the shameful confirmation, repeated as a delusion, that in all peoples, geographically and historically-dominant reviewed subjection, subjugation and repression. It would appear that a single design rules the world since its inception: to oppress the man, bound as the geese are nailed to the floor to honk and we grow the liver, or folded like a letter sent to the life and must pass through the narrow slit in the mailbox.
therefore deem it necessary, we feel compelled, we recognize the imperative to suspend the production of foie gras pate and stamped lives flowing in the direction of death without another sender that the absurdity or nothing. For though the chorus of official orthodoxy has begun to recognize the crisis, and the lackeys of dissent by emphasizing shout themselves hoarse, yet the voice is heard to hit the target of the disaster. The voice signal, without equivocation or shades, the real reason for the protest, because until now the metaphysical dissatisfaction has been capitalized on by political factions miserable ideologies, by not providing successive horizons to infinity, but mediocre goals beyond which opens the cliff of despair, frustrated by the rebels and transform their anger into listlessness and dreams in pessimism.
This is the reason of breaking the silence of the dormant or boisterous noise of political stridency, and the justification it gives us the right to speak for those who, like us, rip the belly with a knife Japanese will raise the cap of the scalp with a bullet, thrown into the precipice of a bridge, tabletting with cyanide, a stone tied around his neck blooming in waves on the surface of a lake fright thrown in the bed of a room perfumed with gas, sawing the wrists in a public bathroom, sprayed gasoline on a forest where the fires are prohibited or open up a diversion to the open landscape of the canyon, or jump to the bottom of alcohol or opium fund or fund of a memory or the merits of a book that is worth more than that is wasted daily.
acquire the right to speak, and our motives "of the mountain of pots where they have accumulated acts without deployment of the fearful, the actions that leave the repentant, broken promises and, in general, all actions cut short by conspiracy vitaltraidores because beyond them, beyond the narrow conditions prevented real or meanness of those who did not know, refused or failed to carry their wishes to the bottom, further: in that mountain where knelt offal our right to speak, germinating power of these acts orphans claiming that embodies a player, someone willing to stand before the runaway bull in the historic march, a new movement capable of derailing the human inertia and cause it to crash in mirror of their blunders. A movement committed, nothing more, enduring limbo of unfulfilled hopes and dreams of man.
Our opposition, therefore, can not be partial. Critics partial, partisan (and there have been no other), play a functional role: they generate the amendments, patches, blobs that used to restructure the companies, are pivotal to escape to postpone the explosion; are reformers who only attack a law or seek a different system, or whether the law or the system were simple pieces of a more complex reality, a whole completely unbearable.
We are against the ordinance stupid, harmful decree, but also against the provision of accurate, correct order, as the essence of the mandate is repression.
We are against public gorillas from murder and burn to dissent, and against private gorillas in an alley to rob the true and only spends his wealth: life. But also against the death as natural law accredited harvest each year and month to month regardless millions even in the personal nature of those crushes. We are against the law intended to show off her blindness and fair equality is nothing but the worst of the dirty tricks and the greatest injustice. We are against death and against its most powerful tools: the dictators that enhance its ability to annihilation from power.
disapprove the unjust social inequality, because not only condemned to hunger for more than three-quarters of the world's population, but worsened by the defects of the anemia of a biological imbalance per se arbitrary to assign each individual a psychobiological inequitable allocation. Disapprove the genetic order because, beyond all efforts of establishing justice and any attempt at equitable distribution, has always uneven human possibilities. We also declare enemies of racism, racism to which is attacked all those who are discriminated against for any reason, since the exclusion is universal contempt in which exercises its outrages against the weak are either black or white, copper or yellow, minority or majority endless. Our anti-racism absolute proposes the inclusion because it is not possible for the universe being infinite space does not fit all in a pitcher knowing respect.
We are therefore against the pain and death, limited opportunities and lack of freedom to have many different lives and not be suffocated by none. Disagreement with us having to carry our past and can not change as one moves from clothing or choose another toothpaste. Why not everyone can do and live as he pleases, rather than having to do that to force him and most of the time what can? Why do we only have this semblance of life sufficient to ignite the pyre immoral livelihood?
challenges to the shameful political reasons or have not proven ineptitude led to the society to the world that suggest the utopian sighs. Impeach
Scientists have not applied all his knowledge to repair the serious flaws of the cosmos.
We challenge artists and intellectuals with his genius or even have been able to propose a world to which we might have to turn.
objected to sellers not to sell the keys to life or at least lasting satisfaction.
challenges to the engineers who make houses where you can fit all people, no bridges to cross humanity to the other side. We challenge
doctors are not the final remedy against flu and death.
challenges to the sweepers to sweep no such indignity and decay.
challenges to the workers who have not built the lever arm or catapult that could arise and, in short,
We challenge all humans by their resemblance to ancient taxi drivers, for they are able to go to the site are ordered by most who choose the longer route, the rodeo err awkward and useless.
has built an ominous world against which there are only two responses: cutting it to the ground and sink to the bottom of the roots of memory or leave it: take the exodus to the World Uchronics: exile en masse to immeasurable dream space that is to gather the islets of our individual dreams. Let's start
flight. Only if we desert of the real world universally will create a movement able to render inoperable the inertia of a historical process that is directed at this time and so fatal to the disaster. Not a crazy call, although exasperated. In the world has choked the possibility of living and, therefore, the rational choice, the healthy alternative, the possible alternative lies, by strict qualifying in a fantastic solution: move en bloc to the ucronia to found there a different civilization. No one can cross off
utopian in which output has not committed all his forces.
For the triumph of life and extension of hope!
for the establishment of a new world! Because of the possibility
total impossible!
for the destruction of reality! PROHIBITED
DIE!

Text taken from my book How to destroy reality.

Tylenol Or Advil For Brazillian Wax

The unlearned ignorance


San Agustin said he knew that was the Being if not asked and, by contrast, when asked what he himself or another person's head he became a stage of uncertainty and doubt. The truth is that all we can think of what the philosopher and not only on the Self, but with minor issues mounted, then, in general, our understanding the world is so vague that no one can claim not say I know everything for sure, but even I know something in depth. Anyone can distinguish a person from a dead person alive, but who, strictly speaking, know what life is and what is death?
Our ignorance, however, is not only to extreme problems such as life and death, but for most of what we handle every day: I know I start up my computer and use it as much as 2 percent of its capacity, but I have no idea that a vaguísima its internal workings do not know, well then, how does my car or my cell phone and why I spent the day using them. I look out the window, but do not know why glass is transparent, pat my dog, but do not know why the tail moves, even if that reaction I properly call it a sign of happiness.
not know what's happening in politics: I have my suspicions, but then to be assured that this is a gang of scoundrels is a distance. The same thing happens to me when my classes in University and I am certain that my students have understood and insist I keep my sake of explanation: the day of testing imposed on me the evidence that everyone understood what was given wins, and then I suspect to me: is it true that I could communicate with them, will it be they were my students who understood what they wanted or that I was unable to convey?
Not knowing anything fully is, paradoxical as it may seem, the only truth that story, because even on issues unrelated to know so narrowly as emotional issues: how to know, really, if my pet me want?, "I have, perhaps, a comprehensive questionnaire of questions that applied to my dog's behavior to verify without a doubt his love?
And yet I could live, I mean enough to me how little I understand to have come through relatively unscathed today, but my actions, guided by cognitive dim light I have, I have made pay dearly for the inaccuracy of my knowledge. Is life that requires only vague truths, half-truths? I guess so, because my ancestors, living in caves know unless I and survived, my existence is proof. Yes to life, therefore, you only need a good tuntún truth must be suspect because there really is some truth, or my dog \u200b\u200bif I want and the politicians are scoundrels.
Truths of these I have many, many like everyone else, but I will not take, it is one thing to believe in what I consider real and one that really is true what I believe. I would at least have a full truth even if extremely simple, let's see if I can reach it: I, like everyone else, accept the truth that the wheel rolls, but why roll? The triangle does not roll, not the square, the pentagon can reach it and hexagon succeeds with relative ease. Imagine these figures and put one condition: that they all have the same height, if we comply with this notice that the more expensive figure has its contact surface with the plane is smaller and easier it is rolled, the wheel almost perfect octahedron. The circumference wheel, because the only have a point as contact surfaces with the plane that makes it quite unstable: the wheel rolls because I hardly touch the plane on which wheel. Will this, even a fraction of what you can really know about the wheel?

My Baby Has Red Cheeks Chin

Learned Ignorance The Story: Painting Paradise alienated labor

last 5 years, every Sunday I come to the Garden of Art to exhibit my pictures, I say to explain and not to sell, because, first, do not always sell and second-which is the most important - because my relationship with painting is that of Andy Warhol or Botero. I paint because the bizarre parade of all that look, sometimes, I smile a glimpse of a leaf, a feather of an angel, a mane of a unicorn or apple bite primal yet. I want to paint the paradise from which we were expelled and that, despite everything, still surviving here and there a fragment, for I am convinced that neither God with all their fury got annihilated. Paradise is here in snippets, in the light and the hand is in water clarity and the way the clouds are blurred (not in the clouds, but on its dissolution), is in the smell of bread and in flexible assembly experienced by bodies in intercourse, is in the earthy feel of snow in the mouth and the warm weight of the hen that sits to hatch, it is in so much and looks so unexpectedly in many places my work seems to have unity.
Paradise was even here in the Garden of Art, in the space shaded by the branches of this tree and occupying which measured the width of four trestles. Yes, he was a painter, a classmate who came with his work when least expected. And I live stalking occurrences of Paradise did not know him at first. I was busy, as now, explaining to a client my work, trying to make him see that the value of the bread of this painting is not hyper-realistic effect that causes the airbrush, but the fragrance of peace with which he says: "All is well, no matter, is "I was enthralled with my own roll and did not pay attention to the smile that did not depend on short lunula from his lips, but a light that came from within, as light comes from inside of a watermelon pit . Came and mounted their works, I waved hello and I replied with a cold grin. Paradise
But come when you do not wonder then, hiding and for a long time, working in silence his next appearance. And that's what happened to it: the Sunday routine with the camaraderie of fellow bohemians of the disguise, a painter most of all the compas. While our pictures, faced as they were, began a profound dialogue, began exchanging reflections and little by little, as if running on roads asymptotic, became more similar. Neither of us noticed it, because our paintings come from far away, my stroke was without texture and correct (as befits the airbrush), hers was long and trembling, there was no point in common between my air brush and the violence of his knife, and where more plunged the difference was in palettes: mine committed in whites, the stridency of his in a blue and orange and yet, our works were brother and me, at least, were becoming less heavy me on Sundays.
And is that Paradise is traitor crouches and jumps, it is flooding all quiet until one day, suddenly, appears with evidence is undeniable and lightning burst that blinds and stuns. This revelation came the day when the two arrived with a work identical. The reason was the water, a sphere of water against a white background, everything around her was white and the brightness seemed impossible. Install the paintings on easels and on turning to greet me I realized that Paradise was in it. She, as always, gave me a smile of friendship, but to realize the absolute convergence of advanced works to upset me. I wanted to talk about the miracle, it's plagiarism. I was shocked by the surprise and mumbled in her indignation grew with every word and became eloquent. I understood nothing and understand everything she believed. For me it was the first time that Paradise was maintained, it was not a mere flash elusive and the more dilated that presence, I became more incoherent.
Seen from outside, everything was working against me since the failure to answer the charges was only the failure of a summary trial which was summarized in one sentence: You're despicable, he said, and, yet, at that time, I could not understand what that was happening externally. Collected his paintings, easels and left. I was ecstatic seeing, contemplating how he was going, how Paradise away with it, how it was shrinking in perspective, how is concentrated in a last point of light that engulfed the landscape background. Only then reacted: I wanted to reach, explain, tell him what it meant to me. But it was not. There was at the bottom of the landscape, or the right or the left side of the street. I stopped running, what if he had?, What sense it could have for my musings about Paradise? I stopped and let myself be overcome by gently melancholy.
Weeks later, I find, had moved to the other end of the Garden, but it was not her, had returned to his palette knife and her wild screaming. He saw me, turned his face with the same contempt and I stepped back. It was not worth entering into explanations, because if something I know is that Paradise is not recovered, is Pt.

Janitrol Furnace Lighting Pilot Light

there a trade today and lost, whose memory allows me to raise my puberty, on moderately absurd while walking aimlessly through the streets of Mexico. Not going from nowhere to nowhere, I went to a meeting and was accompanied by someone. He walked to put down, to stretch your legs to get away from my house to kill time, to think and, above all, because I expected something, not an event off the charts, but "something" means any thing capable of distracting . Invariably arrived at the intersection of avenues and Popo South Coyoacán where he was the bottling Jarritos soft drinks and there, as in cabinet, behind a window, there were three people with their backs to the street that looked over the newly filled bottles. It was an endless parade of helmets and employees had to monitor the liquid level reached the agreed or had not cast any impurity. Behind the soft light was a powerful display and the three spent the day dazzled and, like Sisyphus, chained to the treadmill.
Each Therefore, some stretched out his arm and pulled the offending bottle row. I stood there, watching for hours, until reconciled with my life ended, there was something worse than I am standing in my class in sixth grade, there was something worse than my walks aimlessly. Against this window was found that years later defined as "alienated labor" in Economic and Philosophical Manuscripts of 1844 Karl Marx. But since then, even without having the concept, the activity of those employees I was aberrant.
wore a white coat and were part not only of the Quality Control department, but of Marketing, because I was not the only one who watched, but many people stopped to watch and while I was awakened me all kinds of sad thoughts about life that fate, others were pleased and clapped hygiene measures in the bottling and certainly more than happy to buy Jarritos.
Today, many years of my puberty, I'm trying to imagine what those three people thought before the parade of soft drinks, what would happen in the head while the eyes are passing bottles and bottles? I am no longer happy with the explanation he gave me then, and with which I assumed after reading Karl Marx, today not even convince me that offered Chaplin in his film Modern Times: I do not believe they have had a mind blank I'm not so sure my old dogmas, I'm not even sure there was an activity so abhorrent.
That office and the like disappeared planet with the advancement of information technology: my three robots were launched long ago to retirement or the street: electronic sensors became useless one day and away from the endless belt, as they had separated the filled bottles wrong or dirty. One day he found free from what I assumed the worst fate possible job. It was not like there was something worse for them: no longer do even that.
As I write these words I realize that my work and theirs is like: I'm sitting for hours in front of a bright, go look at the words, let they serve, remove those that do not, I do not wear white coats and I'm in a glass case but it may be that, as well as I go through my head stories and ideas, to them has been the same as his hands did nothing.

What Is The Best Brand For Shea Butter?

Bibliography

What D Rubber Dark Purple Bracelets Mean

On the importance of writing

There is something very important in writing that older people have realized they had to invent it before: the need to make a backup memory which made it more sturdy, but also the conviction that wanted to preserve what was so valuable that should not be lost. Before writing-and specifically as a prerequisite for feeling the need to invent "human beings had to be understood that the death time and ended up with what they considered valuable. The origin of writing involved a very profound knowledge and a high desire: knowledge is knowing that we are mortal and the desire is to conquer death. Awareness of the importance, awareness of death and desire of immortality are gathered in the origin of language. Develop a set of symbols similar to what he meant to them (ideograms) or devise a few notches with a stick on a soft clay tablet (cuneiform writing), or an alphabet or an alphabet or system-based binary zeros and one is now a secondary issue. Great step, perhaps the most brilliant way how has humanity, because he went from prehistory to history, was the invention of writing.
And today, thousands of these sources, why write? The reasons are and will always the same: the writer believes it has something valuable: an idea, a witness, his very particular way of seeing soñarlas or things, and wants to save him from death, but not only, also wants to offer it to others, because writing is an act of generosity. Thanks to her is why humans of today, biological and physiologically identical to the first homo sapiens, is completely different from homo sapiens, just think of the social, cultural, spiritual that distinguish us from our ancestors. These differences, the mainstay of our historical being, due to the generosity that is sprouting of writing. Writing is the backbone of the human. What we are good and bad, what we have achieved good and bad, would be inconceivable if we had left in an oral culture only.

But the importance of writing is not only ontological her we owe our being, it also depends on many individual advantages and practical character. Who writes not only reflects his words, organized and clear, but plasma itself: one is in his writing, one discovers in the text, to write not only organize the words, one organizes his head: is a rinsing. By objectifying thought, to write, you think more easily, as is discussed with yourself, you reflect. When writing one discovers that he knew more than they thought they knew, because writing introspective and makes us Explorer is that we have more than we expected, because writing not only allows us to focus attention or memory activate the role bringing our memories, but we can invent, imagine, discover aspects that we had never considered: writing allows us to know ourselves. Write

is also a weapon. A defensive and offensive weapon, a way to put the record straight, to set our differences or our agreements, to mark the other boundaries, to fight for our rights, to convince, to deter. The written word is an instrument of seduction, since the same is effective for amorous conquest for political persuasion. Writing is power.

Finally, for many reasons writing is important, but for me, writer after all, is mostly because I write more possible the best things in life and if not, write enough, it is like if he had lived.

Free Stream Kates Playground

Ages

Make

philosophy at age 20 is for some bare to be in their truth, the truth is cohabiting with the glow of each occurrence, is excited about the dust storms that raise the awkward smacks of thought youth. Doing philosophy at age 20 is belief in the possibility of truth is to assume that the first truth which can be obtained as the last and final. Los ánimos del joven llevan a la filosofía un ímpetu similar al del primer amor, y no es extraño ser apasionado y terco, dogmático y ciego a esa edad. Las páginas de Platón o de Marx, de Schopenhauer o de Nietzsche, de Bakunin o de cualquiera se levantan como quien le alza por primera vez la falda a una mujer. Toda lectura juvenil es erótica, porque el joven necesita entregarse; los pensamientos que descubre, los que descifra, los que grita son como las caricias incendiarias de una amante; diferentes del todo a las caricias maternales. La madre es la religión y sus caricias se han venido depositando en la conciencia hasta adormecerla: son esas pequeñas seguridades con las que nos arroparon la infancia. Los primeros pensamientos philosophical, however, are worried sensual caresses that arouse the desire to possess a lust for knowledge, wanting to wallow in reality to achieve his deepest secret, his mystery opened for us. In the 20 years anyone unconditionally love a philosophy, everyone is willing to die for the truth, everyone is a lover of wisdom or, in short, at age 20 everyone is a philosopher.
But time passes and thus cleared the spirits and clears the sky when it clears, over time and are living together, decay and boredom, the thoughts cease to thrill, the pages of philosophy books rise without shivering, it is discovered that those ideas that caused orgasms in the soul are, at bottom, neither as original nor as bright: it is like that, that is opposed to the other and, finally, one day, The Philosophy, Truth, becomes a sequence of philosophies, a museum of broken truths, the first love is confused with the second and the third with the fourth: they lose track of love, lost love, lover wife becomes the admiration is usual, and burning and incendiary philosophical vocation dawn transformed into a living, in simple trade for a living.
mature philosophy and the philosopher who tends sleepers, like one who builds a railway line: it becomes a university professor and is forced to teach what she loved: to become the most abstruse teaching slurry thoughts to present a project to justify his salary, to develop a critical path that says: Now I thinking about this subject, I will start here, I will continue there and I'll get to this in many months ... The philosopher becomes a bureaucrat mature methodical listening with fatigue and thoughts your own thoughts and those of others. You no longer have the need to surrender, is not seeking to surrender, seeks to teach and to perform its semi-annual research project. Shipping to the ideas considered a childish attitude; be unconditional mean just a childish philosophical ideas. The mature philosopher is suspicious, is reluctant, is skeptical, but skeptical because no doubt, but because they do not love enough: no one would die for truth. He knows that there are too many truths in the world: one for each day of the week, one for each day of the month, a truth for every season. Knows that truth is a list of seasonal fashions. And so begins the metamorphosis of background: the philosopher becomes a professor of philosophy, that is, a scholar, that is, a collector. If truth is not worthwhile, perhaps the collection of all, being a connoisseur, could support life. And no matter the truth, but what you said A, B, C, D, E, F, G ...
But still spending time and spending so much that, finally, the old philosopher discovers that all along has been to back, which lies off time on the shelf, which eventually became the books of philosophy, written or read, in lectures in philosophy in philosophy classes, in philosophical thoughts and at last he had no more time, the old philosopher recharges in her work as parents in their children are recharged, as grandparents are recharged in his chair, tired as trees are recharged in the wall on the supporting branches. This will recharge the old philosopher in philosophy and then there is not much to do: repent or understand, finally, something. Be still like the insatiable Doctor Faustus at the end of the road has instructed to sell his soul to the devil to get a second chance or be like John Jacob Casanova, the Venetian seducer, who after a lifetime, like most in the does not build anything, old, decrepit, helpless, with memories of syphilis, poor finishing and turns from the balcony of his reports and states that to have another life would do the same. The 20-year
either a philosopher, at 80 only a few get to understand that philosophy, or anything to which one has delivered the existence, is the sense. Not that it makes sense, but it was the sense: what we had a bed in the middle of the absurd.