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What is truth? Time

Ask for the truth. Reckless proposal. The precious mineral is hidden in the veins of our interior, in the citadel of the soul. The most intimate and impregnable walls of our endless thirst defend the shrine secret elixir of dream, deep and vivid taste of life essence, distilled, pure. Or that other

true mendicant, who knows a profound humanity, but extends its flight elusive, continuous, mysterious, skin of all things, barely seen in the perfume of matter that surrounds us and which we are also manufactured. The truth is born to be a true picture of what exists in consciousness, even knowing that the mirror distorting our knowledge is changing, as the model drawn on the glass today will happen tomorrow other different degustation, new clothes ... and unpredictable offspring.

What really matters most? The interior road tempts us to find the trace of our true self, if there is such a thing, under the deceptive steps of each act more or less futile and accidental. The grandeur of the universe, however, seems to call to the banquet of superior knowledge, absolutely sumptuous. We are seduced by the promise of a full decryption born pride, gluttony extensive knowledge that so often separates us from the intensity with which we want to be really accurate and simple who ultimately proves to be.

In philosophy, two truths go hand in hand. Not just think about what we are in the world that we envision know, but what makes us be who we are, as well as being made of matter, subject, feel the imperative of action, the need to fill our time moral acts are setting the layers of the subjective self. And to think the two truths ordained weave the tapestry of our human dimension.

Are we as far as we know, or rather we know what we are to really be us? Installed away from the identity in the placid world of nature, apart from the security of innocence, our mind always built a life that is manufactured fought ignorance, brujulea in nonsense, map puzzles while navigating at the same time therefore constantly corrects the way to the troubled soul and a pilgrim.

What is truth? The question resonates through time. Written on the lips of the Roman procurator, fly like a bird without a nest to settle forever in every heart, every person capable of asking and looking, again and again, answer.