Our
life's between birth and death, as well as between right and left. It's
sometimes a struggle between the worst and the best, as if there were a
war between East and West.
Perhaps
we have no experience of being poor, striving for being rich. We'd like
to have our heart so pure just because it's qualifying as a bitch.
We don't care about divine nature alongside our human body. We neglect our fine venture, placing ourselves as noddy.
O,
restless soul of Augustine, look beyond the world of your lifespan:
people cry, people laugh, some fly while others quaff; they make war to
seek peace, they create whores to corrupt the bliss.
O,
pilgrim soul, what is there between birth and death? Is it narcissist
fear of death or fundamentalist escape of life? Is scapegoat a real
necessity in the absence of a future-shaping goal?
What are you looking for, my soul?
You
proudly make every attempt to posses the whole world, but you are
afraid of losing it. You prepare your own performance stages out of fear
of being unrecognized, abandoned. You fight for freedom but you're
imprisoned by it. You're glad to be rich but afraid of poverty. You
appreciate healthy so much that you might be frozen by sickness.
Our life's between birth and death in this earth where we take breath. What are you looking for?
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