He who becomes the slave of habit,
who follows the same routes every day,
who never changes pace,
who does not risk and change the color
of his clothes,
who does not speak and does not
experience,
dies slowly.
He or she who shuns passion,
who prefers black on white,
dotting ones "it’s" rather
than a bundle of emotions, the kind that make your eyes glimmer,
that turn a yawn into a smile,
that make the heart pound in the face of
mistakes and feelings,
dies slowly.
He or she who does not turn things
topsy-turvy,
who is unhappy at work,
who does not risk certainty for
uncertainty,
to thus follow a dream,
those who do not forego sound advice at
least once in their lives,
die slowly.
He who does not travel, who does not
read,
who does not listen to music,
who does not find grace in himself,
she who does not find grace in herself,
dies slowly.
He who slowly destroys his own
self-esteem,
who does not allow himself to be helped,
who spends days on end complaining about
his own bad luck, about the rain that never stops,
dies slowly.
He or she who abandon a project before
starting it,
who fail to ask questions on subjects he
doesn't know,
he or she who don't reply when they are
asked something they do know,
die slowly.
Let's try and avoid death in small
doses,
reminding oneself that being alive
requires an effort far greater than the simple fact of breathing.
Only a burning patience will lead
to
the attainment of a splendid happiness.
Brazilian
poet Martha Medeiros
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