They die slowly, those who don't turn the tables when they are unhappy at work, who don't risk the certain for the uncertain to run after a dream, who don't permit themselves, even just once in a lifetime, to run away from sensible advice.
They die slowly, those who don't turn the tables when they are unhappy at work, who don't risk the certain for the uncertain to run after a dream, who don't permit themselves, even just once in a lifetime, to run away from sensible advice.
They die slowly, those who don't travel, who don't read, who don't hear music, who don't find grace in themselves.
They die slowly those who destroy their own love, who won't accept help.
They die slowly, those who pass their days complaining about their bad luck or about the incessant rain.
They die slowly, those who abandon a project before starting it, never asking about a subject they are unfamiliar with, never responding when asked about something they know.
We avoid the smooth dues of death by always remembering that being alive demands an effort much more than the simple action of breathing.
That only through our most ardent patience will we conquer a splendid happiness.
Pablo Neruda, Translation: April Howard.
Living is a thing you do now or never. Take risks.