Today I finished reading "The Virgin Suicides" by Jeffrey Eugenides. It 'a period of suicidal authors, I love their writing afterlife, verging on death, though combative and vivid.
E ' day was incredibly active, even if I could do more. After a steaming cup of strong coffee, I wrote a page to work, a diary, a letter, a web search (this is a daily habit), I got a new book which will draw up a list of entries and exits of 2011 (just to give me a set).
There are many good intentions for the new year, start by giving me the rules and continue the work on myself. I forced myself to watch a film at least a month in French and in English twice a month, this to improve in vocabulary and listening ; continue to read a lot, but we should put in writing more often, no hope to write well if there is no exercise.
If I could change the length of day, so if you had to use a fourth hour instead of 24, began to take piano lessons and painting, but the day and night do not mark my will, someone above us all so touching and I wanted to make some sacrifices, even if reluctantly.
I realize at least two of my wishes and my ambitions this year, to see them take shape and I'd make another trip in solitude, perhaps in an Italian city, who knows. I need my encouragement to write, to speak with interesting people and seeing a speech that can teach me something. The other day, for example, I discovered what the potlatch -report here a copy and paste from wikipedia - (it is a ceremony taking place among some Native American tribes of the Pacific Northwest of the United States and the Canada, which takes the form of a ritual ceremony, which traditionally includes a feast of seal meat or salmon, which are destructive practices of ostentatious goods considered "luxury") and nobody but me can understand the joy that I tried to learn this new term. Nothing makes me happier than learning. A housewife could reveal the secret of his recipe, I'd be equally happy. If serotonin is harbored books, I'd always be in seventh heaven.
I know I have to live with day and with other explosive creativity of apathy. I'm not scared. I know the loneliness I'll try to recharge and bring order to my thoughts, I also know that there will come a time when my social life will become intense, and then go out and be nice to talk about anything and will be equally beautiful to hear a music that never buy cd.
If only I could explain to people that I love, that my silence is not a departure, a friend, that if I avoid a hug is not because I do not like, but why do I want more ...
If only I could not keep malice, if my mind had the ability to cancel a portion of memory, then maybe I could be happy forever. But my shoulders are curved when I think about it, and my stomach hurts, everything darkened and it's like knowing that you will give birth to a stillborn baby.
But this is the work that gives me 'life and will bear fruit, and my well-being and sickness will be the key to what I will create. And I know that I shall not live until I see a flower born from my sweat.
I assume full responsibility for my choices and rattopperò my mistakes, I'll be good every morning and read the best of Confucius (but there are other theories about belonging to the sentence) written character headlines:
NOT do to others what 'you would not want done to yourself.
Selfishness always ruin everything. The maturity starts from admission of his guilt.
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