For the love of my sister

My heart aches to see her tears
sliding down towards her lips
and her dripping nose reddening
as her voice starts trembling.

She's my little girl, always,
no matter what happens,
she's a piece of myself
and there's no other way.

I hope she's never hurt
or injured by the harsh
or the damned like me,

So I try to keep her safe
within the light of laughter
and the warm hope of the after.

We're living in the world of illogical: all so social, but not socializing; able to attain so many wealth and not able to dispose/make use of it for lack of time and so...

There's no point at all: we're just money collectors.

We spend all life gathering money:
- for the infancy, then school, College, marriage, kids (and they start the vicious circle again), moving on to  gathering money to help their children and then to pay medical bills and sometimes lawyers and then the elderly home.

- in the end, after having spent a lifetime gathering money to pay for our lives, we have to have money to pay our own deaths and our burials too.

It's bloody awful what we've done to ourselves and others, establishing hideous core foundations for our existence.

Never start digging without being completely ready for what you may find.

To my brothers and sisters

You'll never know how much I loved you;
how much effort and dedication
I've put on to protect and take care of you;
as if you were my own to do so.

You don't remember anything
because you were young
and I've never reminded you
of how much we did together.

With the years passing
I've become bitter and angry
because you were no longer mine
to care and I wasn't important to you.

So when my life is trough
and my heart beats any longer
I want you to know
that I loved you so.

Lust for Design (?)

What is this craving for redesigning everything, trying to make it more beautiful?

Why has our society become so addicted to visual stimulus?

Is what we are and what we make, that awful, that you have to cover and incur in a blind pursuit to embellish everything?

It's comes to me the old question: «a rose, if given another name, is not still a rose?»

Or is it all a product of our deepest fears of death, damnation and disgrace? As always, trying to lie to ourselves in order to not perish at the harsh and ugly face of reality?

We stopped creating from scratch just to work on everything there is already, and most times not even making improvements. This comes to me as a sign of how we are in the process of dooming ourselves and not rising above. It's spreading like the poison of advertising and consumption.