Everything has a crack!

Yesterday my mother gave me a candle and 300 of eggs o sort out. All I
had to do was hold the egg in front of the candle and see if it had
cracks or any imperfections, a hour later she came back, I had 300
eggs inside the bucket,she said I was crazy, but you see, if you look
closely at them you see small cracks, micro-imperfections, everyone of
them was imperfect,everyone of them had a flaw, you just have to look
close enough to see, everything has something small, that if tap long
enough, it will crack...

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The thing about legends is... sometimes, they're true.

Chapter 23. You can call me Shot. My real name is Paul. What you've read so far is not the whole truth. Much has been changed to protect the innocent... and the guilty. I once read that the only philosophical question that matters is whether or not to commit suicide. I guess that makes me a philosopher. You can say it was my inheritance. She didn't leave a not... just a number. That number followed me from foster home to foster home till college when I met her... I thought she'd help me forget my past’s number. It was a mistake to think I could escape it. I loved her. And I thought she loved me. Until my father's number returned to haunt me. That fucking number... When I circled every 23rd letter of her note... it became clear. The number had gone after me. And now it wanted her. I was right. She was in danger. I just didn't realize the danger was me. What began as a suicide note, turned into something more. Much, much more. "He didn't leave a not... just a number." "not" should be note. Be sure your sin will find you out. - Numbers 32:23
To die there in the street would have been easy. But it wouldn't have been justice, at least not the justice fathers teach their sons about. I'll be sentenced in a week or so. My lawyer says the judge will look kindly upon me for turning myself in. Maybe it's not the happiest of endings, but it's the right one. Some day I'll be up for parole, and we can go on living our lives. It's only a matter of time. Of course, time is just a counting system - numbers with meaning attached to them - isn't it?
There's no such thing as destiny. There are only different choices. Some choices are easy, some aren't. Those are the really important ones, the ones that define us as people.Light is a particle and a wave. This is hard to understand how a thing can be two things at once; but a woman is also both a particle and a wave. She's a wave when you see her reach down to pull a shell from the sea, and you feel her beauty pass through you like electrical current. She's a particle when her hair brushes your face, and her hands push into yours. And a child is also a particle and a wave. He is a wave the sound of his pain shoots through and twists you away from yourself. And he is a particle when a doctor hands you a baby; a small mirror. Women, children and light can be two things at once; a particle, a wave. They ricochet off the hard surfaces and illuminate the corners. Without them it would be far darker. An element loses a particle and becomes unstable. A chain reaction is set in motion. Pulsing waves of desperation in every direction. Perhaps the lost part is clarity or hope. In the fallout, the man-made elements appear- isotopes of fear and anger that cannot be handled safely or buried in the ground. They take the shape of a mushroom cloud started above a desert that circles the globe and shadows us all. The hands on the clock are waving goodbye. It was my grandfather's watch. The dial was painted by hand in America during Word War I. The brides of soldiers seated at long tables dutifully making luminous little sixes and eights to help keep the world free. The eights were particularly hard to make; so the women sucked on the tips of the paintbrushes to bring them to a fine point. One by one, their mouths began to fill with cancer. The radium-based paint they had swallowed bombarded their brains and bones with alpha and beta particles. The women who painted the watch faces sued the US Radium Corporation of West Orange, New Jersey. Had the trial been at night, the breath they used to say goodbye to the world would have glowed like moonlit fog? They were given ten thousand dollars for their lives. I have been thinking about what hurts more: the jar or the pins. And I think I can tell you that it is not the pins. Because the monarch in the jar is already dead when it comes to the pins. At some point things stop hurting; and from inside the jar, with eyes that see in all directions, maybe it is possible to look into the future, well beyond the pins, to where the compass in your head tells you that you need to go. Are you aware of the radiological effects on living organisms? Protons cut through your DNA rewriting your genetic code. The instructions for teeth become the recipe for cancer. Your marrow dies inside your bones taking with it your immune system. The next coughing person will become an infection; the smoke from your cigarette becomes lethal as a bullet. A thousandth of a gram can change a life.
Uranium, Neptunium, Plutonium. They came from space; found their way here by comet and meteorite. No child ever wished this from a star. Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Chernobyl. Problems with half-lives forty-thousand years long. Half a life. Time takes half of us away and comes back later for the rest. We are children and then we are parents. We are long division. Slowly we decay into memory.
In the end, everything decays to lead, number eighty-two on the periodic table. All of the brilliant things born in the center of stars will have turned cold and gray. Everything is moving in that direction. Toward lead. Impossible to stop.

Cugetari intunecate...

Intr-o lume in care totul este instabil, unde nimic nu poate sa dureze si este purtat mereu inainte, in viltoarea grabita a schimbarii, unde daca un om doreste cu orice pret sa ramanana neclintit trebuie sa avanseze si sa miste mereu,asemeni unui acrobat pe o franghie.Intr-o asemenea lume, fericirea este deneconceput. Cum poate dainui intr-o lume in care, asa cum a spus Platon, “ e o Devenire continua si niciodata Fiintare “ cea care este singura forma aexistentei? In primul rand, un om nu este fericit niciodata, dar isi consuma intreaga viata nazuind la ceva ce crede ca il poate face fericit; isi atinge foarte rar scopul, iar atunci cand o face, este doar pentru a fi dezamagit; si de cele mai multe ori, in cele din urma, este un naufragiat ce dupa o lunga calatorie incautarea secretului fericirii pe ocenele lumii ajunge intr-un port cu catargul frant sivelatura sfisiata. Pentru ca abia apoi sa afle ca era totuna daca ar fi fost fericitsau nenorocit; pentru ca intreaga sa viata n-a fost nimic mai mult decit o clipa din prezentul vesnic pieitor; si ca acum, ea s-a sfarsit.
Scenele vietii noastre sant asemeni portretelor schitate in mozaicul brut. Privit de aproape el nu va avea nici un efect. Nu este aici nimic frumos pentru a fi descoperit, in afara de cazul in care te asezi si-l privesti de la o anumita distanta.Tot asa, pentru a castiga ceva la care am ravnit indelung trebuie doar sa descoperi cat de sterp si de inutil este; si chiar daca traim intotdeauna in speranta unor lucruri mai bune, in acelasi timp adesea regretam mult si amarnic ca aceasta clipa a trecut din nou. Privim la prezent ca la ceva ce trebuie pus la timpul viitor si servind doar ca o cale catre telul nostru. De aceea cei mai multi dintre oameni daca isi arunca privirea inapoi atunci cind vor fi la sfirsitul vietii, vor descoperi ca asa s-a petrecut de-a lungul intregii perioade cit ei au trait ”adinterim” vor fi surprinsi sa descopere, ca tocmai lucrul de care nu au tinut seama deloc si l-au lasat sa zboare alungat de tristetile lor, a fost tocmai viata in asteparea careia s-a scurs pe langa ei tot timpul ce le-a fost acordat. Din cati oameni putem gasi unul despre care sa poata fi spus ca speranta n-a facut din el un nebun pana cind a ajuns sa danseze in bratele mortii!
Apoi, din nou, ce creatura nesatula este omul! Fiecare satisfactie pe care o atinge aduna in el semintele unor noi dorinte, astfel incat aici nu exista nici un sfirsit al dorintelor ce se ridica din fiecare vointa individuala. Si de ce se intimpla asta? Motivul real este pur si simplu ca, luata in sine, Vointa este suverana asupra tuturor lumilor; totul ii apartine si de aceea niciun singur lucru nu poate so satisfaca vreodata, ci doar intregul lor, care este fara de sfarsit. Cu toateacestea, trebuie sa stimulam simturile pentru a intelege cit de putin primeste.
Vointa, aceasta stapina a lumii, atunci cand ia forma individuala, de obicei doar atat de putin cat este necesar pentru a mentine un acord in intregul organism. Din acest motiv omul este foarte nefericit. Viata omului trebuie sa fie un fel de gresala. Adevarul acestui lucru va fi suficient de evident daca doar ne reamintim ca omul este alcatuit din nevoi si necesitati greu de satisfacut; si ca chiar atunci cand acestea sant satisfacute, tot ceea ce se obtine este o stare lipsita de suferinta, in care nu-i ramine nimic altceva decat sa fie aruncat prada plictiselii. Aceasta este o dovada directa ca existenta nu are o valoare reala in sine, pentru ca ce altceva este plictiseala decat un sentiment de,desertaciune in viata?
Doar privita la microscop aceasta viata apare atat de mare. Ea este doar un punct invizibil ce este extras si amplificat de puternicele lentilele ale Timpului si Spatiului.

6 Minutes To Midnight, Rain!

Stood in firelight, sweltering. Bloodstain on chest like map of violent new continent. Felt cleansed. Felt dark planet turn under my feet and knew what cats know that makes them scream like babies in night. Looked at sky through smoke heavy with human fat and God was not there. The cold, suffocating dark goes on forever and we are alone. Live our lives, lacking anything better to do. Devise reason later. Born from oblivion; bear children, hell-bound as ourselves, go into oblivion. There is nothing else. Existence is random. Has no pattern save what we imagine after staring at it for too long. No meaning save what we choose to impose. This rudderless world is not shaped by vague metaphysical forces. It is not God who kills the children. Not fate that butchers them or destiny that feeds them to the dogs. It’s us. Only us. Streets stank of fire. The void breathed hard on my heart, turning its illusions to ice, shattering them. Was reborn then, free to scrawl own design on this morally blank world. There Was Something Worth Living For. Does that answer your questions, Doctor?

Dog carcass in alley this morning, tire tread on burst stomach. This city is afraid of me. I have seen its true face. The streets are extended gutters and the gutters are full of blood and when the drains finally scab over, all the vermin will drown. The accumulated filth of all their sex and murder will foam up about their waists and all the whores and politicians will look up and shout "Save us!"... and I'll look down and whisper "No." They had a choice, all of them. They could have followed in the footsteps of good men like my father. Decent men who believed in a day's work for a day's pay. Instead they followed the droppings of lechers and communists and didn't realize that the trail led over a precipice until it was too late. Don't tell me they didn't have a choice. Now the whole world stands on the brink, staring down into bloodly Hell, all those liberals and intellectuals and smooth-talkers... and all of a sudden nobody can think of anything to say. Come, dry your eyes, for you are life, rarer than a quark and unpredictable beyond the dreams of Heisenberg. Come, dry your eyes. And let's go home.She says I am like a god now. I tell her I don't think there is a god. And if there is I'm nothing like him.Honey...Even though you will not read to this point, because I would only agree that a symbolic clock is as nourishing to the intellect as a photo of oxygen to a drowning man...I am disappointed, Very disappointed. Reconstructing myself after the subtraction of my intrinsic field was the first trick I learned.We're all puppets. I'm just a puppet who can see the strings.A live body and a dead body contain the same number of particles. Structurally, there's no discernible difference. Life and death are unquantifiable abstracts. Why should I be concerned, Why should I care about the faith of others, when you care a damn about mine?I've walked across the sun. I've seen events so tiny and so fast they hardly can be said to have occurred at all, but you... you are a machine...not a person... And this world's smartest person means no more to me than does its smartest termite. In the end...The morality of my activities escapes me...but... Nothing ends...nothing ends... death is not an end to a cause that has not been finished...but only the beginning to a verdict... to something more than death can take away. The only verdict,remains vengeance.