quarta-feira, 14 de janeiro de 2015

Being Born

Fotografia de Justin Dingwall

Take the matter of being born. What does being born mean to most people? Catastrophe unmitigated. Social revolution. The cultured aristocrat yanked out of his hyper-exclusively ultra-voluptuous super-palazzo, and dumped into an incredibly vulgar detention-camp swarming with every conceivable species of undesirable organism. Most people fancy a guaranteed birth-proof safety suit of non-destructible selflessness. 

If most people were to be born twice they’d improbably call it dying — you and I are not snobs. We can never be born enough. 

We are human beings; for whom birth is a supremely welcome mystery, the mystery of growing: which happens only and whenever we are faithful to ourselves. You and I wear the dangerous looseness of doom and find it becoming.

Life, for eternal us, is now, and now is much to busy being a little more than everything to seem anything, catastrophic included.

… Miracles are to come. With you, I leave a remembrance of miracles: they are somebody who can love and who shall be continually reborn, a human being (...)
E. E. Cummings

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