All things are drawn when the word appears to name them. The name of all things, in some way is written, beyond the limits of our language. When something can not be named, it can not be thought of either. In this case, poetry will come, which unlike poets, does not know of limitations.
As wildflowers do not know about roses either, there is the possibility of offending them when they are spoken of as poetry, since these wild flowers are only drawn through words like "pain". In this sense, they are like the bee of the working class, the same one whose time does not allow them to know the word culture. Not in vain, they know their towns, their neighborhoods, that is, the extensions of the cities from which they come; and finally, they know something from their own countries. All write and send letters. The letters are their own countries suspended in a breath of thoughts. However, in this same direction, neither flowers, nor bees, nor people have time for poetry. «Time» and «city» are the same as the concept «space-time». The city, as well as the town where one comes from, is also a stigma that is carried in the flesh as a temporary record, this is of interest and knowledge, therefore it is individually limited. Sometimes, and for this same reason, these flowers, bees and people, are not interested in knowing anything beyond how wonderful life is, and how ugly is pain. Ignoring that everyone deserves to also enjoy and keep their own misery. Something similar happens with the word "love". They take it as something that can not belong to pain. Also as the perfect synonym of an intimate journey to the deepest and most unsuspected corners of oneself, which is true, and this trip has as a hypothetical imperative a "having to love yourself to be loved by others." When this is not necessarily true. Love has that extreme, but in the other, the word also invites us to be able to love ourselves through (and thanks to) the love that we receive from others. What could we discover of ourselves if the other did not love us?
That is why love is such a beautiful word with two juxtaposed ends, or two different mirrors, one concave and the other convex in which we can, and it is necessary to do so.
Things come as the words appear. The pain comes in what they tell us that that needle prick is called "pain"; Love comes when they tell us that what we feel for another human being is called that. They arrive. Regardless of the degree or the way in which they are measured. They arrive, they stay with us, they mold us and it is for life.
Verzweiflung
[Despair]
Zweifel
[Doubts]
Zwei
[Two]
Some words have their hearts inside many others.
And that the word is the atom of the universe and the metaverse. Without the word, I could not define the atom as well as the tree or the person. In this sense, the word sketched the gods of heaven, and the demons of hell. The word is also the action that generates the name. The names are defined as actions, or are vestiges of forgotten words (or in disuse of the same language, other languages) as mountain or war. The names, on the other hand, are the most important thing in our history. A man is not only what is told about him, because his name encapsulates everything he was, everything he did.
God has many names, and a mask (personae) for each one. Finding the true name of God has been the task of some wise men throughout the millennia.
The demons, on the other hand, also have names, and they are bound. Those who know how to name them can therefore control them.
