The little spirits of the night grow as the night fall deep in the darkness – as we die in the little things of every day –. I wonder if, in the end, there is something to die in us and if we die for anything or if we simply die without «wondering». The little things, the nothings, grow each day that pass by, they multiply themselves as we touch and feel the world; and they disappear as we get along the way without missing them: we die to be in the little things, they die in us to become what they must be. Each day I see it, each day I’m closer and closer, each day I’m fuller of death than of life: what must be is the «must» of becoming without choice, but with purity of freedom unchosen.
the little things can be so little that you can forget that they are there. others become so big inside that they become poison, they become pain. little things can kill you...slowly...so slowly...maybe we'll just die without wondering because we most certainly don't die for nothing at all when we end up dying for all the stupid things of the everyday life.
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