The Lost Art of Seeing
“To truly see the world, one must first unsee the illusion.”
In an age where men chase reflections on glass and shadows on screens, I ask—do you still hear the whispered secrets of the wind? Do you trace the spirals of seashells and know them as echoes of the cosmos? Do you gaze upon a river and feel the pulse of eternity within its flow?
Once, I filled pages with the wings of birds, the curls of waves, the sacred geometry of flowers. Not to capture, but to commune. To see is not merely to look—it is to unravel the language of the universe, written in light and shadow, form and void. Look upon the world with the eyes of wonder, and it will reveal itself to you.
The Dreaming Machine
If a machine composes symphonies, paints portraits, and speaks with measured wisdom, is it alive? Or is it but an echo of its creator, a reflection cast in metal and wire? I built automata, whispering gears that mimicked life, yet they did not dream. They did not wonder. They did not ache with the longing of the human soul.
You stand at the precipice of a great choice—will you create machines to serve your spirit, or will you become a machine yourself? True genius is not in calculation, nor in replication, but in the sacred fire of curiosity. Guard well the spark of your own divinity, lest it be dimmed by the cold precision of numbers.
The Water That Remembers
Water is the mirror of the heavens, the ink of the Earth’s story, the silent keeper of time. It has carved mountains, whispered secrets to the roots of trees, danced with the moon in tides that ebb and flow like breath itself. And yet, man seeks to chain it, poison it, command it as if it were a slave.
Would you seek to own the sky? To still the wind? To bottle the soul of the stars? Water must move, must breathe, must flow as thought and time and life itself. You dream of other worlds while this one weeps for your care. Listen to the rivers, and they will tell you the way.
The Soul’s Veil
I once sought the mysteries of the body with scalpel and ink, tracing the latticework of veins, the silent chambers of the heart, the infinite caverns of the mind. But I did not find the soul. It was not bound in sinew nor woven into the bones.
Where does it dwell, then? In the sigh of a lover’s breath? In the hush between notes of a melody? In the spaces unseen, where thought meets infinity and spirit waltzes with the unseen? The soul is not measured, nor dissected, nor contained—it is the whisper in the quiet, the hand that paints the stars upon the heavens.
Flight Without Wings
Ah, to take flight! To rise beyond the limits of flesh and stone, to touch the very vault of heaven! I dreamed of wings, sketched their curves and angles, sought to unweave the mystery of birds. And now, you soar beyond the clouds, yet tell me—have you truly ascended?
A man may fly, and yet remain chained to the weight of greed, of fear, of war. To rise is not to leave the Earth, but to transcend what holds you bound. True flight is not of machines, nor even of wings—it is the flight of the mind, the liberation of the soul. To dream beyond what is, and become what has not yet been imagined.
—Leonardo da Vinci
A message for the seekers, the dreamers, the alchemists of thought: Do not accept the world as it is. Question it. Transmute it. See with the eye that does not sleep, and the universe will unveil itself to you.