pablo's f****** core

note: the blog will be able to describe the world where the hands, apart from making poetry, can give origin to the valley of thought. That at the same time there are cherubs that are reborn from their ashes and shed their wings annually, parallel universes exist deep in the bowels of the mind. Confusing to say the truth, but exuberantly beautiful, watching the horses ride and the stars pass by is the pastime (I'm high). 

🐚: “Writing is a religious act: it is an ordering, a reforming, a relearning and reloving of people and the world as they are and as they might be. A shaping which does not pass away like a day of typing or a day of teaching. The writing lasts: it goes about on its own in the world. People read it: react to it as to a person, a philosophy, a religion, a flower: they like it, or do not. It helps them, or it does not. It feels to intensify living: you give more, probe, ask, look, learn, and shape this: you get more: monsters, answers, color and form, knowledge. You do it for itself first. If it brings in money, how nice. You do not do it first for money. Money isn’t why you sit down at the typewriter. Not that you don’t want it. It is only too lovely when a profession pays for your bread and butter. With writing, it is maybe, maybe-not. How to live with such insecurity? With what is worst, the occasional lack or loss of faith in the writing itself? How to live with these things?”

- Diary; Sylvia Plath ୨ৎ

🐚: "I inherited from my ancestors the desire to flee. They say my blood is European. I feel that each blood cell comes from a different place. From each nation, from each province, from each island, gulf, accident, archipelago, oasis. From each piece of land or sea they have usurped something and thus formed me, condemning me to the eternal search for a place of origin. With lips expressly drawn to exhale complaints. With a forehead squeezed by all the doubts. With the instinctive malice of prohibition. I inherited the hesitant step in order to never firmly settle in any place. In everything and in nothing! In nothing and in everything!" 

- Diary; Alejandra Pizarnik ୨ৎ

Sometimes when my head feels the need to turn back, all it will be able to see are all the galaxies I could breathe and all that I was; all about the spirit that folded into a breath of eyes. Where in that bud could explore the different fragrances I could smell, like the fluttering of birds in the cool air, the riding of horses into the sunset and of my maternal grandfather's last smile. I miss the tears and the drops of blood as I fell in every childish game, I miss spending the gold coins so I could give birth to experiences before the clock turned and the sand began to fall.

Desent To The North written by pablo  

🐚: When I was just a baby and the sun reflected on the cliff of my tears. The world, gave me its offering of melting solid gold in every hair of my hair. I was blond, born of fire and the radiant heat slipped through my fingers. In those times, the highest star had not been missing as the hands ran, nor would my ears have heard the fall of the hanging tree. I turned my back on the reflection of my childhood, and that gold melted by the smoky smell of childhood left me, leaving me with a devoured aura and a brown hair. Covering the radiance that in its days gave light to the light itself.

🐚: “I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in my life. And I am horribly limited.”

 - The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, Sylvia Plath ୨ৎ

🐚: “It was as if that great rush of anger had washed me clean, emptied me of hope, and, gazing up at the dark sky spangled with its signs and stars, for the first time, the first, I laid my heart open to the benign indifference of the universe.
To feel it so like myself, indeed, so brotherly, made me realize that I'd been happy, and that I was happy still. For all to be accomplished, for me to feel less lonely, all that remained to hope was that on the day of my execution there should be a huge crowd of spectators and that they should greet me with howls of execration.”

- The Stranger, Albert Camus ୨ৎ

---

🐚: “The first study for the man who wants to be a poet is knowledge of himself, complete: he searches for his soul, he inspects it, he puts it to the test, he learns it. As soon as he has learned it, he must cultivate it! I say that one must be a seer, make oneself a seer. The poet becomes a seer through a long, immense, and reasoned derangement of all the senses. All shapes of love suffering, madness. He searches himself, he exhausts all poisons in himself, to keep only the quintessences. Ineffable torture where he needs all his faith, all his superhuman strength, where he becomes among all men the great patient, the great criminal, the great accursed one--and the supreme Scholar! For he reaches the unknown! ....So the poet is actually a thief of Fire!"

🐚: “DAWN I held the summer dawn in my arms. Nothing stirred in front of the palaces. The water was dead. Camps of shadows rested on the road through the woods. I walked, awakening live warm breaths as precious stones looked on and wings soundlessly rose. The first undertaking, in a path already filled with cool pale glimmers of light, was a flower that told me its name. I laughed at a blonde wasserfall whose tresses streamed between firs; at the silvered summit I recognized the goddess. So, one by one, I lifted her veils. In a lane, whirling my arms. In a field, shouting to a rooster. Into the city she fled, between steeples and domes, and I gave chase, running like a beggar on marble docks. At the crest of the road, near a stand of laurels, I enveloped her in her gathered veils, and felt something of her boundless shape. Dawn and the child fell to the forest floor. It was noon when I awoke.”

- Arthur Rimbaud ୨ৎ

📹: I hear the birds on the summer breeze, I drive fast / I am alone in midnight / Been trying hard not to get into trouble, but I / I’ve got a war in my mind / So, I just ride, just ride / I just ride, I just ride / I’m tired of feeling like I’m fucking crazy / I’m tired of driving ‘till I see stars in my eyes / It's all I've got to keep myself sane, baby / So I just ride, I just ride / I hear the birds on the summer breeze, I drive fast / I am alone in midnight / Been trying hard not to get into trouble, but I / I’ve got a war in my mind / So, I just ride / I just ride / I just ride, I just ride

- Ride, Lana Del Rey  

📹: Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup / They slither while they pass, they slip away across the universe / Pools of sorrow, waves of joy are drifting through my opened mind / Possessing and caressing me / Jai guru de va om / Nothing's gonna change my world / Nothing's gonna change my world / Nothing's gonna change my world / Nothing's gonna change my world / Images of broken light, which dance before me like a million eyes / They call me on and on, across the universe / Thoughts meander like a restless wind inside a letter box / They tumble blindly as they make their way across the universe / Jai guru deva om

- Across The Universe, Fiona Apple (yeah the fucking version of fiona apple)  

Ocean Feeling written by pablo  

🐚: Immense sea, what do you offer me? Gold, moss or the infinite desire to pierce you? My skin insists on touching the bottom, but as the matter that you are, you only manage to make me the fixed point between the living slope and where I wish to crush my body. Swimming is the same as walking, but without being a god or a nymph, I can understand the mystery that pierces your tiles. With wet fingers, rubbing my forehead would be the whereabouts of my search, where the little bit of tranquility is found like the fatuous fire locked in its cage, that is, inside you. I would like to dig, but my hands insist on being the foreigner whose goal is to live in the condensation of silence.

🐚: In a 1927 letter to Sigmund Freud, Romain Rolland, Coined the phrase "oceanic feeling" to refer to "a sensation of eternity", a feeling of "being one with the eternal world as a whole", inspired by the example of Ramakrishna, among other mystics.

According to Rolland, this feeling is the source of all the religious energy that permeates in various religious systems, and one may justifiably call oneself religious on the basis of this oceanic feeling alone, even if one renounces very belief and every illusion. Freud discusses the feeling in his Civilization and Its Discontents (1929). There he deems it a fragmentary vestige of a kind of consciousness possessed by an infant who has not yet differentiaed itself from other people and things.

- Wikipedia

The Drunken Boat written by Rimbaud 

As I was going down impassive Rivers,

I no longer felt myself guided by haulers:

Yelping redskins had taken them as targets

And had nailed them naked to colored stakes.

I was indifferent to all crews,

The bearer of Flemish wheat or English cottons

When with my haulers this uproar stopped

The Rivers let me go where I wanted.

Into the furious lashing of the tides

More heedless than children's brains the other winter

I ran! And loosened Peninsulas

Have not undergone a more triumphant hubbub

The storm blessed my sea vigils

Lighter than a cork I danced on the waves

That are called eternal rollers of victims,

Ten nights, without missing the stupid eye of the lighthouses!

Sweeter than the flesh of hard apples is to children

The green water penetrated my hull of fir

And washed me of spots of blue wine

And vomit, scattering rudder and grappling-hook

And from then on I bathed in the Poem

Of the Sea, infused with stars and lactescent,

Devouring the azure verses; where, like a pale elated

Piece of flotsam, a pensive drowned figure sometimes sinks;

Where, suddenly dyeing the blueness, delirium

And slow rhythms under the streaking of daylight,

Stronger than alcohol, vaster than our lyres,

The bitter redness of love ferments! ...

Limbo's Music  

📹: Come as you are, as you were / As I want you to be / As a friend, as a friend / As an old enemy / Take your time, hurry up / Choice is yours, don't be late / Take a rest, as a friend / As an old memory, yeah / Memory, yeah / Memory, yeah / Memory, yeah / Come doused in mud, soaked in bleach / As I want you to be / As a trend, as a friend / As an old memory, yeah / Memory, yeah / Memory, yeah / Memory, yeah

- Come As You Are, Nirvana   

📹: There's a lie that I told to you / That now I can't tell the truth / And it ate me inside, so one soft drunken night / I slept with a man you knew / And in the morning, I walked home alone / And the businessmen saw my bones / With my skirt in their eyes, they remembered the nights / When they were that man you knew / You told me once / You were happy to have me / But I never gave me away / There's a lie that I told to you

- Circle, Mitski   

📹: I grew up in the shoes they told me I could fill / Shoes that were not made for running up that hill / And I need to run up that hill / I need to run up that hill, I will, I will, I will, I will, I will / Fetch the bolt cutters, I've been in here too long / Fetch the bolt cutters, whatever happens, whatever happens / Fetch the bolt cutters, I've been in here too long / Fetch the bolt cutters, whatever happens, whatever happens / Fetch the bolt cutters, whatever happens, whatever happens / Fetch the bolt cutters, fetch the bolt cutters / I will, I will, fetch the bolt cutters / Fetch the bolt cutters, fetch the bolt cutters 

- Fetch The Bolt Cutters, Fiona Apple   

📹: It was a drive-by Sunday night / Most of us were in bed alright / I turned down the light / Then I heard the sirens interrupt the silence / Is this what you wished? / To commit a crime? / Is this what you wished? / To commit a crime? / Is this what you wished? / To commit a crime, commit a crime, commit a crime? / He was a nice guy, really bright / Making money is hard to do right / Guilty! Was his plight / Now he's in a jail cell for some 30 years now / Is this what you wished? / To be serving time? / Is this what you wished? / To be serving time? / Is this what you wished? / To be serving time, serving time, serving time?

- For K Part I, May Jailer   

🐚: "My album its called Extraordinary Machine. Because that was kind of like, give me anything. Be mean to me. Do whatever. Anything. Life hit me with whatever. And it'll go through me and it'll come out something nice."

This Is The End (literally)

🐚: Who belonged to no one, who belonged to everyone. Who had nothing, who wanted everything. With a fire for every experience. And an obsession for freedom. That terrified me to the point that I couldn't even talk about And pushed me to a nomadic point of madness. That both dazzled and dizzied me ...

Live fast, Die young, Be wild And have fun. I believe in the country America used to be. I believe in. the person I want to become. I believe in the freedom of the open road. And my motto is the same as ever. I believe in the kindness of strangers. And when I'm at war with myself. I ride, I just ride. 

- North Chameleon Soul, Lana Del Rey

What a confusion not to decide the different dishes that life offers, some more delicious than others, while you don't know which one to choose. Because if you decide one, the rest will taste like nothing, pure disgust. But I, who still have eyes belonging to the youthful summer, bite my nails for the powerful heat that anguish emanates, where I do not decide to which enigma to belong. And even if I believe in the infinite road, the daily potholes, will grow by the stay of the empty squares of existence. The holy abbey of freedom, is the only feeling that I love and the one that knows my needs. With that plate is the one I stay with, with the one that carries the panoramic view that desires more without any scar and the one that can stand on its own without having a hand to hold.

-The Taste Of The Thunder, Pablo

THE END

I must emphasize giving credit to all cameramen whose artistic

 Hands brought their works to my Pinterest algorithm, and

 We also cannot forget all the poets and writters whose ideas

 Have a Place in mine.