A treasure

There is a hunger that not even the most abundant of feasts will satiate; a thirst that no beverage shall quench. It is the most precious of treasures. Thousands of maps point at its scattered pieces. Those who don't seek it live ignorant lives. Those whose greed for it grows out of proportion are driven to madness by its pursuit. How not to become mad, when a thousand maps point nowhere, but to themselves?
Men can never accumulate too much of it. They cannot buy its exclusivity. They cannot own it, only borrow it, and be stewards to it, like a gardener is to a frail flower that will surrender to the sands of time.
Some do not understand it, while, in the meditative words of Sir Francis Bacon, only a few grasp the essence of its divine power.
No division is necessary to share it, nor does the person who offer it lose it. Those who gain it might never use it. Some might boast about it or let the cobwebs build a barricade around it. Even then, while its containers erode, degrade and disappear, its essence remains pure, untouched and everlasting.

A tribute to writers

A writer is not just a person who has been gifted with the talent of words. A writer is a web of experiences, a conundrum of emotions that, somehow, find a way to touch an impatient piece of paper and turn it into love. A writer does not know what love is, but creates it.
A writer has the power to build and to annihilate by joining a couple of words, and sometimes by using none. In the ordinary a writer finds inspiration. Where a gardener sees a flower, a writer sees the lips of a woman. Where a sculptor sees his finished masterpiece, a writer sees the beauty of the rock yet to be carved. And where everybody sees the approaching storm, a writer sees a rain of hope.

The All-consuming

Source of light, source of heat, source of power and misery in reality and myth. I can feel you burn so close to me, like Prometheus, friend of man, must have once felt the beak of that cruel eagle which tortured his liver day after day.

I feel you, like the caveman, discovering for the first time that necessary comfort to call his cave a home. I can see you rise, making shadows on a moonless night with a backdrop of forests and animals, overlooking tribal dances and worship. I can see you destroy dreams, castles, cities.

You have the power to burn ideas, to bring civilizations to their rise and demise, to erase history…to make it. You warm families and forge the weapons which will later destroy them.

Fire, all-purifying one, without you we would be nothing, but are we really anything?