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.
This was a real pleasure. Thank you.
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