Being through the other

 




I am, and that's something for me. Being through the other. To be someone is yet perfect. It is the passport to existence. A life to share with others so that I can say hello and hear another hello, too.

The discovery of the other comes like a gift that shows us life. In loneliness, we are not nothing. All things moving in our minds come from living beings, especially mankind. Our memory is a daily construction from these others that live in our lives, feelings, expressions, and words.

The reason for life is to learn to search for the better for all. This 'all people' is the totality without a parcel, part, or piece. It is an all-in-all that we can learn now. Not one of us dropped out of that table or crossed the empty. It is the playing that none who takes the win must forget, like leaving us behind the rest of us. We are together.

We are the winners and are equally responsible for who wins. When someone takes the prize because it makes something absurd or magnificent, we say it is essential and fundamental to our existence.

The winner is the conjugation of all in a singularity.

I write to share, to be who I can be through from the other.

I am like a teeny idea, like dust from thoughts that create dunes,  volumes of creations in movement. I am who I want to be and think I am, and I need you to live.

We need each one, for we are humanity.


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Pedro's Books








I am someone who came from a place that never was. River water, calm lakes, waterfalls, edges where bushes and trees grow, the open field, the sky reflected in my hands in the trembling mirror of the river, the waits I am, this man lying in the river in the middle of autumn of my existence, loves his children, he likes to be alone, and he has a great company. I leave out the conceptual groups that put their finger on the face and follow fashion. I try not to be like that. In this boat, I am also the water where I sail. I take the sky with me, the fields, the flowers, and the fragrant herbs all my mornings. I am a being of the dawn. The scandal of nature in the voice of a bird, the incessant hum of the bells that insects make. I look like it, but I am not afraid of anything. I do not think I ever was. Indeed, my father, especially my mother, sweetly led me to read and write. I am always primary; I am still learning to read and write, row, and let the boat go safely. pmnt

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