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The imperfection is the identity of the beings, and (after all) their beauty



The natural colors of the city. The line and the light. The details. The dirt poetry, with its core drenched in humanity. The alive niff of the colors. That which is alive spreads a natural niff that in any sense is deeply beautiful, and we can't trap this beauty. This beauty is invisible when the aseptic minds watch it.
The light, the orderliness and the chaos. The beauty of the alive imperfection. If we look at all the dead things of the world, it turns out that only the lovely imperfect things are alive. The imperfection is the identity of the beings, and (after all) their beauty. The chaos is the main performer of the beauty every time it destroys the dead perfection of the utilitarianist obsession of the Homo sapiens. The chaos save us from the ugliness of the status quo, and it beautifies the humdrum perfection of the orderliness, the humdrum perfection of that which is only valued for its utility.

We need shadows, cracks, moistures, dirtiness, astringency... and an entropy that be constantly creating an inimitable freedom. We need minds that open as the flowers do when the sun lights them up, and be able to see the beauty of the imperfection; the imperfection as a motor of the creation and the beauty; mistery of the instant; natural and astonishing drive that compels us towards the random. Once the random created us as a surprise, as an imbalance of the placid nothingness; and then, the chaos and the beauty appeared.














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