How are you intelligent?
The right question to ask is the one above. The difference in these questions is profound. The first suggests that there's a finite way of gauging intelligence and that one can reduce the value of each individual's intelligence to a figure or quotient of some sort. The latter suggests a truth that we somehow don't acknowledge as much as we should - that there are a variety of ways to express intelligence, and that no one scale could ever measure this."
... fears, frustrations and the utter feeling of hopelessness...
He lived on a mountain and had many friends. He had long conversations with the trees about the meaning of life and engaged in long discussions with clouds about the shadows cast on the forest floor. He spoke out clearly and could scream from the top of his lungs, by the edge of a cliff, calling out faraway winds or constellations (even though he never did). He slept on a bed of leaves and woke every morning with the sun on his face. If the going got tough, he didn’t get going. He faced the trouble head on and lived to tell the story (which he wrote down not even bothering to change the names).
His days were full and he hardly ever had to take refuge in dark places. He smiled, and joked and made funny remarks. And everyone loved him and no one saw him cry. Above all, he never let his guard down and, though it didn’t seem like it, he never let anyone in.
Once upon a time there was a girl.
She lived in the bottom of the ocean and had very little friends. She had long conversations with the passing currents and the giants of the deep. She never engaged in discussions and hardly ever spoke about how she truly felt. She often felt like screaming, from the top of her lungs, but every time she did, all it came out was silence and loneliness. She dreamt of stars and constellations, of feeling the wind on her face, of climbing up a mountain to stand on the edge of a cliff. She fell asleep and woke every morning surrounded by darkness but tried her very best to see light in everything (like the hidden treasures only she knew existed, or the way she could see beauty in everything). The going was always tough and the scars were there to prove it (which she didn’t even try to disguise).
Her days were full with the vastness of the ocean and she kept taking shelter in dark places. She smiled a lot (imagine that!) but cried even more. Above all, she never let her guard down and despite everything she never let anyone in.
And one day…all of this changed. And that’s how the (real) story goes.
The way of life can be free and beautiful. But we have lost the way.
Greed has poisoned men's souls, has barricaded the world with hate; has goose-stepped us into misery and bloodshed.
We have developed speed but we have shut ourselves in machinery that gives abundance has left us in want. Our knowledge has made us cynical, our cleverness hard and unkind.
We think too much and feel too little:
More than machinery we need humanity;
More than cleverness we need kindness and gentleness.
Without these qualities, life will be violent and all will be lost.
The misery that is now upon us is but the passing of greed, the bitterness of men who fear the way of human progress: the hate of men will pass and dictators die and the power they took from the people, will return to the people and so long as men die [now] liberty will never perish. . .
Soldiers: don't give yourselves to brutes, men who despise you and enslave you, who regiment your lives, tell you what to do, what to think and what to feel, who drill you, diet you, treat you as cattle, as cannon fodder. Don't give yourselves to these unnatural men, machine men, with machine minds and machine hearts. You are not machines. You are not cattle. You are men. You have the love of humanity in your hearts. You don't hate, only the unloved hate. Only the unloved and the unnatural. Soldiers: don't fight for slavery, fight for liberty.
Look up! Look up! The clouds are lifting, the sun is breaking through. We are coming out of the darkness into the light. We are coming into a new world. A kind new world where men will rise above their hate and brutality.
The soul of man has been given wings, and at last he is beginning to fly. He is flying into the rainbow, into the light of hope, into the future, that glorious future that belongs to you, to me and to all of us. Look up.Look up.
as que sei como se usam,
as que não sei usar,
as que dobro,
as que deixei de dobrar,
as que foram princípios,
as que foram finais,
as que me deram vida,
as que foram mortais.
Encurralado na indecisão do presente, tão palpável que conseguia tocá-la, sentou-se a analisar as hipóteses, as possibilidades. The worst case scenario.
De forma fria, calculista, procurou perceber os porquês, pôr os pontos nos i’s, ler nas entrelinhas. Mas à razão sobrepunha-se, de forma impune, a emoção que tão depressa lhe acelerava o pulso, a respiração, os certos e os errados.
Queria gritar, queria explodir, queria retorquir na mesma moeda. Ser igual aos sacanas de merda que se lhe apresentavam à frente, todos os dias, que se passeavam impunes, bem à frente do seu nariz. Mandar passear os conceitos, as teorias elaboradas, os pressupostos, as desculpas esfarrapadas e as falsas modéstias. Dizer-lhes na cara que as frases feitas e os clichés já enjoam e que não faz bem a ninguém viver escondido das palavras e dos confrontos.
Divagou nisto até que reparou que lá fora era noite, que todas as luzes do escritório estavam acesas e que, uma vez mais, ele era o único ali.