Nevoeiro

Há dias de nevoeiro em que tudo é indefinido. Nós, o mundo. Enfim, tudo. Simplesmente, não nos apetece escrever, não nos apetece criar nada. Vivemos dos livros escritos pelos outros- histórias magníficas que se fossem nossas, não seriam tão encantadoras. E de músicas- o eterno milagre humano. Mas não são maus de todo estes dias de nevoeiro: são dias como outros quaisquer, se os soubermos aproveitar bem. Porque "Cada dia é uma pequena vida".E que temos nos, para alem de cada simples e solitário dia?

To someone too special..

Starry starry night..
Paint your palet blue and grey
look out on a summer's day
with eyes that know the darkness in my soul

Shadows on the hills
Sketch the trees and the daffodiles
catch the breeze and the winter chills
in colours on the snowy linen land
Now I understandwhat you tried to say to me
and how you suffered for your sanity
and how you tried to set them free
they would not listen they did not know how
perhaps they'll listen now.
[...]
Starry starry night
For they could not love you
but still your love was true
and when no hope was left inside
on that starry starry night
You took your life as lover's often do
But I could have told you,
Vincent,this world was never ment for one as beautiful as you
[...]
now I think I know
what you tried to say to meand how you suffered for your sanity
and how you tried to set them freethey would now listen
they're not listening still
Perhaps they never will

Vincent, Don Mclean