My Gaze Is A Silent Language Of The Soul
The will to endure in the eyes of the world gives the shape that your inner meaning gives to life.
The only truth I really know is that I am haunted by people. For years I looked at them with heavenly eyes, through the mirror of an infinite number of reflections, wandering their thoughts and feeling the deep, mysterious sigh of long silences, of unexpressed joys, of unspoken feelings. What happens in their lives, what they reveal in difficult moments, in those moments of maximum tension when the vulnerability of the masks drops to zero, and the barometer of discernment whose needle moves from "subdued" to "free", remains for me an eye-opening experience and a soulful memory.
Nobody knows who I really am, but I've seen everybody. Nothing escaped my keen eyes in my travels through the world. Mysterious, fast, invigorating, my passages are evaluated through the prism of what I discovered: everything is compensated, everything is done first with the heart, and then with the mind. In the end, the biggest secret is to live an amazing story, and then write it so beautifully that I feel the need to re-read it even after thousands of years.
A certain event, a gesture of affection or a sustained action of some solitary hero, make him guilty of the objective, certain and inviolable ordering of the world. Everything is filmed, recorded with selective eyes that, like selectively colored lenses, see only what the soul is prepared to understand. Before people's eyes go out for good, according to the heavenly clock, I have a simple word to say to them: "Life is short, love one another."
Leadership: Can you face the idea that the persistence to become what you want is a catalyst for deep introspection that takes the form of an archive of memories difficult to share with future generations?
In my little passage through the world, during the war, I met some eyes that painted hope on the canvas of despair. Other eyes, as in a swallow's nest, hid their tears under trembling lids. And there were those twinkling, lively eyes of the shaggy-haired boy, Rudy, who, in a moment of intoxicating reverie, painted himself black in an attempt to imitate a world champion athlete.
He desperately wanted to become the fastest runner in the world, a dream for which he trained daily on the wet edges of the streets. On winding roads, just like many people's lives. He seemed permeated by that serene tension of the soul in which life, with its contradictions, appears full of meaning and worth living. Make him an inner Don Quixote, tell him a word about success, "Xegerolo" , and you will find the will to believe in the eternity of the world. His persistence to see himself as invincible became a necessity for his deed to acquire the greatness of the fight for a principle, for truth, for good, for love.
After all, the sign of true existence is the despair that generates spiritual action, from which the heroic hope to move mountains is born.
After a while, however, the roads became entangled and no guide seemed to guide them, except the feeling of nostalgia for the untouched road. Freedom, if there was such a thing, could only be supported by small moments of joy, which I sometimes remember. Just sometimes. As for an artist with grace, he hears the passing noises of the day, but he experiences them intensely as if he were feeling the major vibrations of the universe.
Leadership: Do you realize how life's wounds can become a catalyst for looking beyond appearances, leading to deep introspection that redefines your perception of reality?
My eyes could not overlook the sound of the accordion springing, as if from an enchanted portal, from the hands of an old man whose soul breathed art. Hans was the angel of solace in the dark bunker, his accordion symbolizing hope in dark times. All the things that had passed through his soul were dear to him, otherwise he would not have painted them so well in musical notes. For some of them, he nurtured more than a feeling of love, but also a feeling of gratitude, a special tenderness that could be seen in the way he lit up the spirit of those who listened to him. It is always the depth of the soul that transforms suffering into beauty.
There were those black angry eyes of Rosa, a woman wrapped in thunder, but who hid the purest tenderness in her. Only the tears hidden in moments of solitude could reveal that sentimental delicacy that characterizes those with a pure heart. The wounds of life do not take on a clinical aspect for those who have learned to look beyond appearances. After all, experiencing reality as a dream comes as a kind of justification for the existence of the conscious spirit that it belongs to a gaze that does not serve life, but eternity beyond death.
Anchoring in the ephemeral is the result of a short-sighted ambition. However, this is not the case with Liesel, who, in a place called Strada Raiului, opened her eyes to things that I did not see so well before, and I discovered in her the soul of a believer who searches the secret word: "life". Max, her friend, taught her that every living thing, every leaf, every bird, is alive because they have inside them the secret word for life. That's the only difference between us and a lump of clay. A word. Words are life, Liesel. All those blank pages...are there for you to fill. With life.
Leadership: Can the memories you weave into your life story become a lesson in determination that turns the ephemeral into the eternal, influencing how future generations will shape their own destinies?
"I have seen so many great things. I have participated in the world's greatest disasters and worked for the greatest evildoers. And I have seen the greatest miracles. But, everything remains as I said at the beginning. No one lives forever. When I finally came after Liesel... I felt a selfish pleasure, knowing that she lived her 90 years so thoughtfully. During this time, her stories reached many souls. Some of them I found out in passing Max, whose friendship lasted almost as long as Liesel's life... Almost...
In her last thoughts, Liesel reviewed the long list of those who had merged their lives with hers. The three children... the grandchildren... her husband. Among them, burning like candles, were Hans and Rosa, her brother... and the boy always with lemon-colored hair. I wanted to tell the book thief that he was one of the few souls who made me curious about what it's like to live. But in the end, there were no more words. Just peace...
The only truth I really know is that I'm haunted by people."
George Calinescu said it well: "A true artist knows how to extract from what he experienced, what belongs to everyone and above all to give his experiences the broad scope of the lives of his peers. He knows how to live on behalf of his contemporaries and through them, of man universal."
My gaze is a silent language of the soul when it secretly embraces the hidden beauty of the world. I'm not sure what the point of all this is. But I took in everything with my gaze, not missing anything, not even a sound of an accordion, not even a lively word, not even a hidden tear, not even a passing thought. In the same way, I will capture with my gaze every gesture, every moment that builds a story worth remembering in many, many, many years.
I would like to know your story too, but first I want you to make your life a real masterpiece, a priority for Me. I would like you to be one of the few souls who make me curious about what it's like to live.
