Pain In Shoulder When I Have A Cold Drink

Una megalópolis futurista atestada de gente, perpetuamente bañada por una lluvia de aspecto malsano y cubierta por exhalaciones subterráneas y vapores y humos de las chimeneas industriales.

 

Un deseo de supervivencia tal que provoca la rebelión contra el amo, la búsqueda en su misma casa de las respuestas a las preguntas inherentemente humanas: qué, cuándo, por qué. Jugarse la vida misma para satisfacer las respuestas, desechando el vivir y morir lejos del odio y de pro infamy in the desire to know, to know.

Doubt and human guilt. What is a living, but being who feels and suffers? What is a human, but a living being who feels and suffers, loves, hates, happy and unhappy, which is related to community and is aware of this? Do not make us human consciousness of our existence?

No souls, no space, no time. Only our perception of it. The need to compute and endlessly trying to cover something as extreme as the very existence. The question before the reflection. The doubt to life.

And a final song, an allegory of the verb miserably purporting to represent the conscience of his own existence. But a beautiful song, however, reflecting the importance of the intensity of the experience, not quantity. And the final thought, the terrible outcome of all that is lost by death. Nothing came before self, and nothing will be after yourself. Lived, the experienced, will be irretrievably lost to the self.

desire to scratch a target dummy a little longer to live, or believe that we live long enough. We've taken our time. Perhaps the desire to prevail, the animal instinct of survival. But death is inevitable: it can accepted or not arriving in the inner self, but it is relentless.

At the end of all, it only matters how you lived.

If - Kipling

If You Can Keep Your Head When All About You

Are losing theirs and Blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

            But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

            Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,

Or being hated, don't give way to hating,

            And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

 

If you can dream-and not make dreams your master;

            If you can think-and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

            And treat those two imposters just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

            Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

            And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

           

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

            And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

            And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

            To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

            Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

 

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

            Or walk with Kings-nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

            If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

            With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

And-Which is more-you'll be a Man, my son!