-Riu.Sforza-

     En el mundo naciste, no a enmendarle, sino a vivirle, Clito, y padecerle; puedes, siendo prudente, conocerle; podrás, si fueres bueno, despreciarle.      Tú debes, como huésped, habitarle y para el otro mundo disponerle; enemigo de l'alma, has de temerle, y, patria de tu cuerpo, tolerarle.      Vives mal presumidas y ambiciosas horas, inútil número del suelo, atento a sus quimeras engañosas;      pues, ocupado en un mordaz desvelo, a ti no quieres enmendarte, y osas enmendar en el mundo tierra y cielo.

Hoy he llegado de repente a una sensación absurda y justa. Me he dado cuenta, en un relámpago íntimo, de que no soy nadie. Cuando brilló el relámpago, aquello donde había supuesto una ciudad era una llanura desierta, y la luz siniestra que me mostró a mí no reveló un cielo encima de ella. Me han robado el poder de ser antes de que el mundo fuese. Soy los alrededores de una ciudad que no existe, el comentario prolijo a un libro que no se ha escrito, no soy nadie, nadie, no sé sentir, no sé pensar, no sé querer. Mi alma es un maëlstrom negro: vasto vértigo alrededor del vacío, movimiento de un océano infinito en torno a un agujero de nada. Y en las aguas que son más giro que agua boyan todas las imágenes de lo que he visto y oído en el mundo: van casas, caras, cajones, rastros de música y sílabas de voces en un remolino siniestro y sin fondo. Y yo, verdaderamente yo, soy el centro que no existe en esto sino mediante una geometría del abismo. Soy la nada en torno a la cual gira este movimiento, sin que ese centro exista sino porque todo círculo lo tiene.

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, Our presence automatically liberates others.”

"Mariana in the Moated Grange" (Shakespeare, Measure for Measure) With blackest moss the flower-plots Were thickly crusted, one and all: The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the pear to the gable-wall. The broken sheds look'd sad and strange: Unlifted was the clinking latch; Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!" Her tears fell with the dews at even; Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; She could not look on the sweet heaven, Either at morn or eventide. After the flitting of the bats, When thickest dark did trance the sky, She drew her casement-curtain by, And glanced athwart the glooming flats. She only said, "The night is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!" Upon the middle of the night, Waking she heard the night-fowl crow: The cock sung out an hour ere light: From the dark fen the oxen's low Came to her: without hope of change, In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn, Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn About the lonely moated grange. She only said, "The day is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!" About a stone-cast from the wall A sluice with blacken'd waters slept, And o'er it many, round and small, The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. Hard by a poplar shook alway, All silver-green with gnarled bark: For leagues no other tree did mark The level waste, the rounding gray. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said "I am aweary, aweary I would that I were dead!" And ever when the moon was low, And the shrill winds were up and away, In the white curtain, to and fro, She saw the gusty shadow sway. But when the moon was very low And wild winds bound within their cell, The shadow of the poplar fell Upon her bed, across her brow. She only said, "The night is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!" All day within the dreamy house, The doors upon their hinges creak'd; The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd, Or from the crevice peer'd about. Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors Old footsteps trod the upper floors, Old voices called her from without. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!" The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, The slow clock ticking, and the sound Which to the wooing wind aloof The poplar made, did all confound Her sense; but most she loathed the hour When the thick-moted sunbeam lay Athwart the chambers, and the day Was sloping toward his western bower. Then said she, "I am very dreary, He will not come," she said; She wept, "I am aweary, aweary, Oh God, that I were dead!"