Die slowly

by Pablo Neruda

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 "i'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.