S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Oct 26, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1849994478855258373?t=Bs7OOhsl3iYXkFGQqZFepg&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1679
Oct 26, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1849994478855258373?t=Bs7OOhsl3iYXkFGQqZFepg&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1679
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Oct 25, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1849850723019915434?t=H4WRXil-xzAOvN5lQj6VtA&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1680
Oct 25, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1849850723019915434?t=H4WRXil-xzAOvN5lQj6VtA&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1680
The greatest lie ever told to our students is that they are powerless, shackled by an amorphous "system" that dictates the course of their lives. This insidious narrative of victimhood, propagated by the very institutions that claim to nurture minds, is a theft far greater than mere material possessions. It is the theft of agency, of the individual's rightful ownership over their fate. And this theft is carried out under the guise of concern, under the pretense of shielding them from disappointment. But what these so-called protectors fail to see is that they are not building resilience; they are dismantling the foundation of individual greatness.
When you tell a young mind that they are oppressed by a system too vast to overcome, what you are truly doing is absolving them of responsibility, planting in them a seed of dependency. You are saying, "Do not strive, for it is futile." In this, you are the thief, stealing from them the courage to face the world on their terms, to see themselves as the architects of their own destiny.
But the truth, the undeniable, irrefutable truth, is that nothing can stop them. No system, no bureaucracy, no vague construct of oppression can stand in the way of a mind that sees its own potential, that recognizes its own power. Greatness is not a gift bestowed by society, it is a flame that burns within, fueled by vision, by hard work, and by the relentless pursuit of one's values. And yet, the educators, the thought leaders of our time, have made it their mission to smother this flame before it has a chance to ignite.
Our students need not be coddled. They need not be told that the world is too cruel, too unjust for their efforts to matter. What they need is the truth—unvarnished and unapologetic. They need to hear that the path to greatness is open to all who dare to walk it, that there is no force on this earth that can deny the will of a person determined to succeed.
But let us be clear: success is not handed out like candy. It is not a participation trophy. Success must be earned. And herein lies the rub—those who speak of oppression, those who bemoan the system, are the very ones who fear effort. They fear the stark reality that greatness is the result of struggle, of sacrifice, and of relentless pursuit. They wish to convince our students that striving is futile because it is easier to surrender to mediocrity than to rise to the challenge of excellence.
But surrender is a choice. And so is victory.
Tell our students that they are destined for greatness, not because it is easy, but because nothing worthwhile is ever easy. Tell them that they are the creators of their futures, that no one—no government, no institution, no system—can stand in the way of a mind driven by purpose. Tell them that they are not victims but victors in waiting.
There is no nobility in teaching helplessness. There is no virtue in surrendering agency. What our students need is not shelter from the storm; they need to be shown that they are the storm, a force of nature, capable of shaping the world as they see fit.
The moment we stop pretending that the system is the enemy, and instead teach our students that they are the masters of their own fate, we will see a generation rise to levels of greatness this world has yet to imagine.
And that is a future worth fighting for.
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Oct 25, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1849850723019915434?t=H4WRXil-xzAOvN5lQj6VtA&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1680
When you tell a young mind that they are oppressed by a system too vast to overcome, what you are truly doing is absolving them of responsibility, planting in them a seed of dependency. You are saying, "Do not strive, for it is futile." In this, you are the thief, stealing from them the courage to face the world on their terms, to see themselves as the architects of their own destiny.
But the truth, the undeniable, irrefutable truth, is that nothing can stop them. No system, no bureaucracy, no vague construct of oppression can stand in the way of a mind that sees its own potential, that recognizes its own power. Greatness is not a gift bestowed by society, it is a flame that burns within, fueled by vision, by hard work, and by the relentless pursuit of one's values. And yet, the educators, the thought leaders of our time, have made it their mission to smother this flame before it has a chance to ignite.
Our students need not be coddled. They need not be told that the world is too cruel, too unjust for their efforts to matter. What they need is the truth—unvarnished and unapologetic. They need to hear that the path to greatness is open to all who dare to walk it, that there is no force on this earth that can deny the will of a person determined to succeed.
But let us be clear: success is not handed out like candy. It is not a participation trophy. Success must be earned. And herein lies the rub—those who speak of oppression, those who bemoan the system, are the very ones who fear effort. They fear the stark reality that greatness is the result of struggle, of sacrifice, and of relentless pursuit. They wish to convince our students that striving is futile because it is easier to surrender to mediocrity than to rise to the challenge of excellence.
But surrender is a choice. And so is victory.
Tell our students that they are destined for greatness, not because it is easy, but because nothing worthwhile is ever easy. Tell them that they are the creators of their futures, that no one—no government, no institution, no system—can stand in the way of a mind driven by purpose. Tell them that they are not victims but victors in waiting.
There is no nobility in teaching helplessness. There is no virtue in surrendering agency. What our students need is not shelter from the storm; they need to be shown that they are the storm, a force of nature, capable of shaping the world as they see fit.
The moment we stop pretending that the system is the enemy, and instead teach our students that they are the masters of their own fate, we will see a generation rise to levels of greatness this world has yet to imagine.
And that is a future worth fighting for.
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Oct 25, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1849850723019915434?t=H4WRXil-xzAOvN5lQj6VtA&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1680
X (formerly Twitter)
S Tominaga (@CsTominaga) on X
The greatest lie ever told to our students is that they are powerless, shackled by an amorphous "system" that dictates the course of their lives. This insidious narrative of victimhood, propagated by the very institutions that claim to nurture minds, is a…
La mayor mentira que se les ha dicho a nuestros estudiantes es que son impotentes, que están encadenados a un "sistema" amorfo que dicta el curso de sus vidas. Esta insidiosa narrativa de victimización, propagada por las mismas instituciones que afirman formar mentes, es un robo mucho mayor que las meras posesiones materiales. Es el robo de la capacidad de acción, de la legítima propiedad del individuo sobre su destino. Y este robo se lleva a cabo bajo la apariencia de preocupación, con el pretexto de protegerlos de la decepción. Pero lo que estos supuestos protectores no ven es que no están construyendo resiliencia, sino que están desmantelando los cimientos de la grandeza individual.
Cuando le dices a una mente joven que está oprimida por un sistema demasiado vasto para superarlo, lo que en realidad estás haciendo es absolverla de responsabilidad, plantando en ella una semilla de dependencia. Le estás diciendo: "No te esfuerces, porque es inútil". En esto, usted es el ladrón, robándoles el coraje de enfrentar al mundo en sus propios términos, de verse a sí mismos como los arquitectos de su propio destino.
Pero la verdad, la verdad innegable e irrefutable, es que nada puede detenerlos. Ningún sistema, ninguna burocracia, ninguna vaga construcción de opresión puede interponerse en el camino de una mente que ve su propio potencial, que reconoce su propio poder. La grandeza no es un don otorgado por la sociedad, es una llama que arde en el interior, alimentada por la visión, el trabajo duro y la búsqueda incansable de los propios valores. Y, sin embargo, los educadores, los líderes de pensamiento de nuestro tiempo, se han propuesto sofocar esta llama antes de que tenga la oportunidad de encenderse.
No es necesario mimar a nuestros estudiantes. No es necesario que se les diga que el mundo es demasiado cruel, demasiado injusto para que sus esfuerzos importen. Lo que necesitan es la verdad, sin adornos ni disculpas. Necesitan oír que el camino a la grandeza está abierto a todos los que se atreven a recorrerlo, que no hay fuerza en esta tierra que pueda negar la voluntad de una persona decidida a triunfar.
Pero seamos claros: el éxito no se reparte como si fuera un caramelo. No es un trofeo por participar. El éxito hay que ganárselo. Y ahí está el quid de la cuestión: quienes hablan de opresión, quienes se quejan del sistema, son los mismos que temen al esfuerzo. Temen la cruda realidad de que la grandeza es el resultado de la lucha, del sacrificio y de una búsqueda incesante. Quieren convencer a nuestros estudiantes de que esforzarse es inútil porque es más fácil rendirse a la mediocridad que estar a la altura del desafío de la excelencia.
Pero la rendición es una elección. Y también lo es la victoria.
Dígales a nuestros estudiantes que están destinados a la grandeza, no porque sea fácil, sino porque nada que valga la pena es fácil. Dígales que son los creadores de su futuro, que nadie —ningún gobierno, ninguna institución, ningún sistema— puede interponerse en el camino de una mente impulsada por un propósito. Dígales que no son víctimas, sino vencedores en espera.
No hay nobleza en enseñar la impotencia. No hay virtud en renunciar a la autonomía. Lo que nuestros estudiantes necesitan no es un refugio frente a la tormenta; necesitan que se les muestre que ellos son la tormenta, una fuerza de la naturaleza, capaz de moldear el mundo como mejor les parezca.
En el momento en que dejemos de fingir que el sistema es el enemigo y, en cambio, enseñemos a nuestros estudiantes que son los dueños de su propio destino, veremos a una generación ascender a niveles de grandeza que este mundo aún no ha imaginado.
Y ese es un futuro por el que vale la pena luchar.
S. Tominaga, también conocido como CSW
25 de octubre de 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1849850723019915434?t=H4WRXil-xzAOvN5lQj6VtA&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1680
Cuando le dices a una mente joven que está oprimida por un sistema demasiado vasto para superarlo, lo que en realidad estás haciendo es absolverla de responsabilidad, plantando en ella una semilla de dependencia. Le estás diciendo: "No te esfuerces, porque es inútil". En esto, usted es el ladrón, robándoles el coraje de enfrentar al mundo en sus propios términos, de verse a sí mismos como los arquitectos de su propio destino.
Pero la verdad, la verdad innegable e irrefutable, es que nada puede detenerlos. Ningún sistema, ninguna burocracia, ninguna vaga construcción de opresión puede interponerse en el camino de una mente que ve su propio potencial, que reconoce su propio poder. La grandeza no es un don otorgado por la sociedad, es una llama que arde en el interior, alimentada por la visión, el trabajo duro y la búsqueda incansable de los propios valores. Y, sin embargo, los educadores, los líderes de pensamiento de nuestro tiempo, se han propuesto sofocar esta llama antes de que tenga la oportunidad de encenderse.
No es necesario mimar a nuestros estudiantes. No es necesario que se les diga que el mundo es demasiado cruel, demasiado injusto para que sus esfuerzos importen. Lo que necesitan es la verdad, sin adornos ni disculpas. Necesitan oír que el camino a la grandeza está abierto a todos los que se atreven a recorrerlo, que no hay fuerza en esta tierra que pueda negar la voluntad de una persona decidida a triunfar.
Pero seamos claros: el éxito no se reparte como si fuera un caramelo. No es un trofeo por participar. El éxito hay que ganárselo. Y ahí está el quid de la cuestión: quienes hablan de opresión, quienes se quejan del sistema, son los mismos que temen al esfuerzo. Temen la cruda realidad de que la grandeza es el resultado de la lucha, del sacrificio y de una búsqueda incesante. Quieren convencer a nuestros estudiantes de que esforzarse es inútil porque es más fácil rendirse a la mediocridad que estar a la altura del desafío de la excelencia.
Pero la rendición es una elección. Y también lo es la victoria.
Dígales a nuestros estudiantes que están destinados a la grandeza, no porque sea fácil, sino porque nada que valga la pena es fácil. Dígales que son los creadores de su futuro, que nadie —ningún gobierno, ninguna institución, ningún sistema— puede interponerse en el camino de una mente impulsada por un propósito. Dígales que no son víctimas, sino vencedores en espera.
No hay nobleza en enseñar la impotencia. No hay virtud en renunciar a la autonomía. Lo que nuestros estudiantes necesitan no es un refugio frente a la tormenta; necesitan que se les muestre que ellos son la tormenta, una fuerza de la naturaleza, capaz de moldear el mundo como mejor les parezca.
En el momento en que dejemos de fingir que el sistema es el enemigo y, en cambio, enseñemos a nuestros estudiantes que son los dueños de su propio destino, veremos a una generación ascender a niveles de grandeza que este mundo aún no ha imaginado.
Y ese es un futuro por el que vale la pena luchar.
S. Tominaga, también conocido como CSW
25 de octubre de 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1849850723019915434?t=H4WRXil-xzAOvN5lQj6VtA&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1680
X (formerly Twitter)
S Tominaga (@CsTominaga) on X
The greatest lie ever told to our students is that they are powerless, shackled by an amorphous "system" that dictates the course of their lives. This insidious narrative of victimhood, propagated by the very institutions that claim to nurture minds, is a…
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Oct 25, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1849753104197316988?t=TLYBrq3mSmM-uOeUBrxGVA&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1684
Oct 25, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1849753104197316988?t=TLYBrq3mSmM-uOeUBrxGVA&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1684
The tide pulls gently,
its rhythm a pulse beneath the surface,
lapping at the rocks,
edges smooth from centuries of motion,
where barnacles cling, stubborn,
to the dark, wet stone.
Three figures stand,
their feet sinking into the soft, gritty floor,
water wrapping around their ankles,
lapping at their calves.
One wears a shirt that clings to his back,
the sweat mixing with the salty air,
beads of water slipping down his neck.
They are fishermen,
but not with rods or reels;
no boats cast into the horizon here.
Instead, they bend, hands reaching,
gripping the taut edge of the net,
spreading it wide across the surface,
its fibers delicate, but strong,
woven with the precision
that only years of practice can craft.
A plastic bag in hand,
its sides bulging with the day’s catch,
held tightly by one of the men,
whose brow furrows in concentration
as his fingers brush the edge of the net,
pulling it with practiced care.
The others mirror his movements,
synchronized by necessity,
as the net descends into the water,
where fish dart between rocks,
silver flashes in the sunlight.
The sea here is shallow,
clear to the bed,
its sand pale,
dappled with shadows from palm trees
that stand just beyond the water’s reach.
A single coconut tree leans over the shore,
its leaves rustling faintly,
watching the scene unfold,
its roots long buried in the sand.
The men move slowly,
their feet stirring the sand,
dark clouds puffing up,
momentarily blurring the view beneath.
The net, heavy now,
gathers what the water offers:
small fish, shells,
perhaps the glint of a lost coin,
forgotten by time and tide.
One of the men,
his hair slick with sweat and sea,
pauses, adjusting his grip,
the net heavy in his hands.
He glances at the sky,
its tropical hue softened by the late afternoon light,
clouds gathering on the horizon
like silent witnesses.
With a heave,
they lift the net,
water cascading from its sides,
the weight of their labor tangible,
pulling against their hands,
as if the sea is reluctant to surrender its bounty.
A low murmur passes between them,
voices carried by the wind,
their words simple, unhurried,
woven into the cadence of the waves.
They pause,
for a moment,
their figures etched against the sea,
the horizon stretching endlessly behind them,
a reminder of the vast world just beyond their reach,
where boats drift far off,
unseen but present,
and the world continues its quiet turn.
The palm tree sways,
its leaves catching the breeze,
casting brief, fleeting shadows
over the water,
and the men move again,
pulling in the last of the net,
their work done for now,
their feet wet,
their hands calloused,
and the sea,
still whispering its secrets,
recedes once more.
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Oct 25, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1849753104197316988?t=TLYBrq3mSmM-uOeUBrxGVA&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1684
its rhythm a pulse beneath the surface,
lapping at the rocks,
edges smooth from centuries of motion,
where barnacles cling, stubborn,
to the dark, wet stone.
Three figures stand,
their feet sinking into the soft, gritty floor,
water wrapping around their ankles,
lapping at their calves.
One wears a shirt that clings to his back,
the sweat mixing with the salty air,
beads of water slipping down his neck.
They are fishermen,
but not with rods or reels;
no boats cast into the horizon here.
Instead, they bend, hands reaching,
gripping the taut edge of the net,
spreading it wide across the surface,
its fibers delicate, but strong,
woven with the precision
that only years of practice can craft.
A plastic bag in hand,
its sides bulging with the day’s catch,
held tightly by one of the men,
whose brow furrows in concentration
as his fingers brush the edge of the net,
pulling it with practiced care.
The others mirror his movements,
synchronized by necessity,
as the net descends into the water,
where fish dart between rocks,
silver flashes in the sunlight.
The sea here is shallow,
clear to the bed,
its sand pale,
dappled with shadows from palm trees
that stand just beyond the water’s reach.
A single coconut tree leans over the shore,
its leaves rustling faintly,
watching the scene unfold,
its roots long buried in the sand.
The men move slowly,
their feet stirring the sand,
dark clouds puffing up,
momentarily blurring the view beneath.
The net, heavy now,
gathers what the water offers:
small fish, shells,
perhaps the glint of a lost coin,
forgotten by time and tide.
One of the men,
his hair slick with sweat and sea,
pauses, adjusting his grip,
the net heavy in his hands.
He glances at the sky,
its tropical hue softened by the late afternoon light,
clouds gathering on the horizon
like silent witnesses.
With a heave,
they lift the net,
water cascading from its sides,
the weight of their labor tangible,
pulling against their hands,
as if the sea is reluctant to surrender its bounty.
A low murmur passes between them,
voices carried by the wind,
their words simple, unhurried,
woven into the cadence of the waves.
They pause,
for a moment,
their figures etched against the sea,
the horizon stretching endlessly behind them,
a reminder of the vast world just beyond their reach,
where boats drift far off,
unseen but present,
and the world continues its quiet turn.
The palm tree sways,
its leaves catching the breeze,
casting brief, fleeting shadows
over the water,
and the men move again,
pulling in the last of the net,
their work done for now,
their feet wet,
their hands calloused,
and the sea,
still whispering its secrets,
recedes once more.
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Oct 25, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1849753104197316988?t=TLYBrq3mSmM-uOeUBrxGVA&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1684
X (formerly Twitter)
S Tominaga (@CsTominaga) on X
The tide pulls gently,
its rhythm a pulse beneath the surface,
lapping at the rocks,
edges smooth from centuries of motion,
where barnacles cling, stubborn,
to the dark, wet stone.
Three figures stand,
their feet sinking into the soft, gritty floor,
water…
its rhythm a pulse beneath the surface,
lapping at the rocks,
edges smooth from centuries of motion,
where barnacles cling, stubborn,
to the dark, wet stone.
Three figures stand,
their feet sinking into the soft, gritty floor,
water…
La marea tira suavemente,
su ritmo es un pulso bajo la superficie,
lamiendo las rocas,
bordes lisos por siglos de movimiento,
donde los percebes se aferran, obstinados,
a la piedra oscura y húmeda.
Tres figuras están de pie,
sus pies se hunden en el suelo blando y arenoso,
el agua se envuelve alrededor de sus tobillos,
lamiendo sus pantorrillas.
Uno lleva una camisa que se le pega a la espalda,
el sudor se mezcla con el aire salado,
gotas de agua resbalan por su cuello.
Son pescadores,
pero no con cañas ni carretes;
no hay barcos lanzados al horizonte aquí.
En cambio, se inclinan, las manos se extienden,
agarrando el borde tenso de la red,
extendiéndola a lo ancho de la superficie,
sus fibras delicadas, pero fuertes,
tejidas con la precisión
que solo años de práctica pueden crear.
Una bolsa de plástico en la mano,
con los costados abultados con la pesca del día,
sostenida con fuerza por uno de los hombres,
cuyo ceño se frunce en concentración
mientras sus dedos rozan el borde de la red,
tirando de ella con cuidado experto.
Los demás imitan sus movimientos,
sincronizados por la necesidad,
mientras la red desciende al agua,
donde los peces se lanzan entre las rocas,
la plata brilla a la luz del sol.
El mar aquí es poco profundo,
claro hasta el fondo,
su arena pálida,
salpicada por las sombras de las palmeras
que se encuentran justo fuera del alcance del agua.
Un solo cocotero se inclina sobre la orilla,
sus hojas susurran débilmente,
observando cómo se desarrolla la escena,
sus raíces enterradas desde hace mucho tiempo en la arena.
Los hombres se mueven lentamente,
sus pies revuelven la arena,
las nubes oscuras se hinchan,
borrando momentáneamente la vista de abajo. La red, ahora pesada,
recoge lo que el agua ofrece:
peces pequeños, conchas,
quizás el brillo de una moneda perdida,
olvidada por el tiempo y la marea.
Uno de los hombres,
con el pelo resbaladizo por el sudor y el mar,
se detiene, ajustando su agarre,
con la red pesada en sus manos.
Mira el cielo,
su tono tropical suavizado por la luz del atardecer,
las nubes se acumulan en el horizonte
como testigos silenciosos.
Con un tirón,
levantan la red,
el agua cae en cascada por sus costados,
el peso de su trabajo tangible,
tirando contra sus manos,
como si el mar se resistiera a entregar su botín.
Un murmullo bajo pasa entre ellos,
voces llevadas por el viento,
sus palabras simples, sin prisa,
entretejidas con la cadencia de las olas.
Se detienen,
por un momento,
sus figuras se recortan contra el mar,
el horizonte se extiende sin fin detrás de ellos,
un recordatorio del vasto mundo que está justo más allá de su alcance,
donde los barcos se desplazan lejos,
invisibles pero presentes,
y el mundo continúa su tranquilo giro.
La palmera se balancea,
sus hojas atrapan la brisa,
proyectando sombras breves y fugaces
sobre el agua,
y los hombres se mueven de nuevo,
tirando de la última red,
su trabajo está hecho por ahora,
sus pies mojados,
sus manos callosas,
y el mar,
aún susurrando sus secretos,
retrocede una vez más.
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
25 de octubre de 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1849753104197316988?t=TLYBrq3mSmM-uOeUBrxGVA&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1684
su ritmo es un pulso bajo la superficie,
lamiendo las rocas,
bordes lisos por siglos de movimiento,
donde los percebes se aferran, obstinados,
a la piedra oscura y húmeda.
Tres figuras están de pie,
sus pies se hunden en el suelo blando y arenoso,
el agua se envuelve alrededor de sus tobillos,
lamiendo sus pantorrillas.
Uno lleva una camisa que se le pega a la espalda,
el sudor se mezcla con el aire salado,
gotas de agua resbalan por su cuello.
Son pescadores,
pero no con cañas ni carretes;
no hay barcos lanzados al horizonte aquí.
En cambio, se inclinan, las manos se extienden,
agarrando el borde tenso de la red,
extendiéndola a lo ancho de la superficie,
sus fibras delicadas, pero fuertes,
tejidas con la precisión
que solo años de práctica pueden crear.
Una bolsa de plástico en la mano,
con los costados abultados con la pesca del día,
sostenida con fuerza por uno de los hombres,
cuyo ceño se frunce en concentración
mientras sus dedos rozan el borde de la red,
tirando de ella con cuidado experto.
Los demás imitan sus movimientos,
sincronizados por la necesidad,
mientras la red desciende al agua,
donde los peces se lanzan entre las rocas,
la plata brilla a la luz del sol.
El mar aquí es poco profundo,
claro hasta el fondo,
su arena pálida,
salpicada por las sombras de las palmeras
que se encuentran justo fuera del alcance del agua.
Un solo cocotero se inclina sobre la orilla,
sus hojas susurran débilmente,
observando cómo se desarrolla la escena,
sus raíces enterradas desde hace mucho tiempo en la arena.
Los hombres se mueven lentamente,
sus pies revuelven la arena,
las nubes oscuras se hinchan,
borrando momentáneamente la vista de abajo. La red, ahora pesada,
recoge lo que el agua ofrece:
peces pequeños, conchas,
quizás el brillo de una moneda perdida,
olvidada por el tiempo y la marea.
Uno de los hombres,
con el pelo resbaladizo por el sudor y el mar,
se detiene, ajustando su agarre,
con la red pesada en sus manos.
Mira el cielo,
su tono tropical suavizado por la luz del atardecer,
las nubes se acumulan en el horizonte
como testigos silenciosos.
Con un tirón,
levantan la red,
el agua cae en cascada por sus costados,
el peso de su trabajo tangible,
tirando contra sus manos,
como si el mar se resistiera a entregar su botín.
Un murmullo bajo pasa entre ellos,
voces llevadas por el viento,
sus palabras simples, sin prisa,
entretejidas con la cadencia de las olas.
Se detienen,
por un momento,
sus figuras se recortan contra el mar,
el horizonte se extiende sin fin detrás de ellos,
un recordatorio del vasto mundo que está justo más allá de su alcance,
donde los barcos se desplazan lejos,
invisibles pero presentes,
y el mundo continúa su tranquilo giro.
La palmera se balancea,
sus hojas atrapan la brisa,
proyectando sombras breves y fugaces
sobre el agua,
y los hombres se mueven de nuevo,
tirando de la última red,
su trabajo está hecho por ahora,
sus pies mojados,
sus manos callosas,
y el mar,
aún susurrando sus secretos,
retrocede una vez más.
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
25 de octubre de 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1849753104197316988?t=TLYBrq3mSmM-uOeUBrxGVA&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1684
X (formerly Twitter)
S Tominaga (@CsTominaga) on X
The tide pulls gently,
its rhythm a pulse beneath the surface,
lapping at the rocks,
edges smooth from centuries of motion,
where barnacles cling, stubborn,
to the dark, wet stone.
Three figures stand,
their feet sinking into the soft, gritty floor,
water…
its rhythm a pulse beneath the surface,
lapping at the rocks,
edges smooth from centuries of motion,
where barnacles cling, stubborn,
to the dark, wet stone.
Three figures stand,
their feet sinking into the soft, gritty floor,
water…
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Oct 24, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1849334223070806192?t=caUiWf18iWUeNvtmn--f9A&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1687
Oct 24, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1849334223070806192?t=caUiWf18iWUeNvtmn--f9A&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1687
Public commentary on legal matters is not an act of intimidation; it is the articulation of principles. To suggest that sharing an analysis of the legal framework in which I operate is coercive or threatening is a fundamental misrepresentation of reality.
The truth is clear: when I speak of the laws governing my champagne passing-off claim, I do so to protect the integrity of Bitcoin’s original design. This is not about ownership or identity; it is about safeguarding the public from deception.
@Copa and @btccore want to silence and sense of people who point out the changes they've been making.
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Oct 24, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1849334223070806192?t=caUiWf18iWUeNvtmn--f9A&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1687
The truth is clear: when I speak of the laws governing my champagne passing-off claim, I do so to protect the integrity of Bitcoin’s original design. This is not about ownership or identity; it is about safeguarding the public from deception.
@Copa and @btccore want to silence and sense of people who point out the changes they've been making.
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Oct 24, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1849334223070806192?t=caUiWf18iWUeNvtmn--f9A&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1687
X (formerly Twitter)
S Tominaga (@CsTominaga) on X
Public commentary on legal matters is not an act of intimidation; it is the articulation of principles. To suggest that sharing an analysis of the legal framework in which I operate is coercive or threatening is a fundamental misrepresentation of reality.…
Los comentarios públicos sobre cuestiones legales no son un acto de intimidación, sino la articulación de principios. Sugerir que compartir un análisis del marco legal en el que opero es coercitivo o amenazante es una tergiversación fundamental de la realidad.
La verdad es clara: cuando hablo de las leyes que rigen mi reclamación por falsificación de champán, lo hago para proteger la integridad del diseño original de Bitcoin. No se trata de propiedad o identidad, se trata de salvaguardar al público del engaño.
@Copa y @btccore quieren silenciar y hacer sentir a las personas que señalan los cambios que han estado haciendo.
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
24 de octubre de 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1849334223070806192?t=caUiWf18iWUeNvtmn--f9A&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1687
La verdad es clara: cuando hablo de las leyes que rigen mi reclamación por falsificación de champán, lo hago para proteger la integridad del diseño original de Bitcoin. No se trata de propiedad o identidad, se trata de salvaguardar al público del engaño.
@Copa y @btccore quieren silenciar y hacer sentir a las personas que señalan los cambios que han estado haciendo.
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
24 de octubre de 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1849334223070806192?t=caUiWf18iWUeNvtmn--f9A&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1687
X (formerly Twitter)
S Tominaga (@CsTominaga) on X
Public commentary on legal matters is not an act of intimidation; it is the articulation of principles. To suggest that sharing an analysis of the legal framework in which I operate is coercive or threatening is a fundamental misrepresentation of reality.…
👍1
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Oct 27, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1850464486345638350?t=vXqUvHSlw2i9dU-AFafimw&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1690
Oct 27, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1850464486345638350?t=vXqUvHSlw2i9dU-AFafimw&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1690
Dawn’s Pale Breath
Dawn’s light seeps through cedar and pine,
casting shadows on the forest floor,
where life stirs in leaf and fur.
A silver blade, quiet in hand,
flashes in mist, a hunter’s craft,
time held still in dew and dust.
Earth smells rich, damp and raw,
and blood joins morning’s chill.
With each breath taken, each life forsaken,
I feel the weight of this ancient rite,
a pact as old as bone and bark—
the give and take, the circle stark.
Eyes meet mine in final rest,
strength given as shadows blend,
their pulse now folded into my own,
bound in silence, shadow to light,
life given, life reclaimed,
and dawn glints on the silver blade once more.
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Oct 27, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1850464486345638350?t=vXqUvHSlw2i9dU-AFafimw&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1690
Dawn’s light seeps through cedar and pine,
casting shadows on the forest floor,
where life stirs in leaf and fur.
A silver blade, quiet in hand,
flashes in mist, a hunter’s craft,
time held still in dew and dust.
Earth smells rich, damp and raw,
and blood joins morning’s chill.
With each breath taken, each life forsaken,
I feel the weight of this ancient rite,
a pact as old as bone and bark—
the give and take, the circle stark.
Eyes meet mine in final rest,
strength given as shadows blend,
their pulse now folded into my own,
bound in silence, shadow to light,
life given, life reclaimed,
and dawn glints on the silver blade once more.
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Oct 27, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1850464486345638350?t=vXqUvHSlw2i9dU-AFafimw&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1690
El pálido aliento del amanecer
La luz del amanecer se filtra a través del cedro y el pino,
proyectando sombras en el suelo del bosque,
donde la vida se agita en las hojas y el pelaje.
Una espada plateada, silenciosa en la mano,
brilla en la niebla, la artesanía de un cazador,
el tiempo detenido en el rocío y el polvo.
La tierra huele rica, húmeda y cruda,
y la sangre se une al frío de la mañana.
Con cada respiración tomada, cada vida abandonada,
siento el peso de este antiguo rito,
un pacto tan viejo como el hueso y la corteza:
el dar y recibir, el círculo rígido.
Mis ojos se encuentran con los míos en el descanso final,
la fuerza dada mientras las sombras se fusionan,
su pulso ahora doblado al mío,
unido en silencio, sombra a luz,
vida dada, vida recuperada,
y el amanecer brilla en la espada plateada una vez más.
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
27 de octubre de 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1850464486345638350?t=vXqUvHSlw2i9dU-AFafimw&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1690
La luz del amanecer se filtra a través del cedro y el pino,
proyectando sombras en el suelo del bosque,
donde la vida se agita en las hojas y el pelaje.
Una espada plateada, silenciosa en la mano,
brilla en la niebla, la artesanía de un cazador,
el tiempo detenido en el rocío y el polvo.
La tierra huele rica, húmeda y cruda,
y la sangre se une al frío de la mañana.
Con cada respiración tomada, cada vida abandonada,
siento el peso de este antiguo rito,
un pacto tan viejo como el hueso y la corteza:
el dar y recibir, el círculo rígido.
Mis ojos se encuentran con los míos en el descanso final,
la fuerza dada mientras las sombras se fusionan,
su pulso ahora doblado al mío,
unido en silencio, sombra a luz,
vida dada, vida recuperada,
y el amanecer brilla en la espada plateada una vez más.
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
27 de octubre de 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1850464486345638350?t=vXqUvHSlw2i9dU-AFafimw&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1690
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Oct 27, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1850460879776837742?t=XmGvkePzLqgEIqD1ZVuRYA&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1693
Oct 27, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1850460879776837742?t=XmGvkePzLqgEIqD1ZVuRYA&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1693
In Halls of Jade
In halls of jade, where shadows cling and silence breathes,
katana gleam, their polished steel reflecting battles past.
Heads are bowed like willow branches weeping in the rain,
each burdened soul a silent atlas of sorrows unconfessed.
Not merely flesh, but battlegrounds where duty wars with dreams,
they bear the lacquered mask, a fragile, painted shell.
Each night it cracks beneath the strain,
and with each dawn, they paint it back to hide the hell.
Voices sharp as shattered glass, yet masked with whispers of the breeze,
echo down the corridor of flickering lamplight.
In silence, loyalty becomes a cage,
its iron rusted, yet still it binds the song.
The moon wanes pale, its cold flame strains against the dark,
casting light like the touch of a forgotten hand.
It is not death but duty they revere,
as masks wear thin with each passing stand.
They move like statues carved in jade, yet hearts within them rage and burn,
a longing for release from honour’s chains.
Yet they march forward, step by step, in trance,
bound not by freedom, but by quiet flame.
The scent of incense masks the metallic tang of fear,
as irony weaves through silken care, a shadow unseen.
They ache for life, yet cannot stray—
each act a piece of self unpinned, a sliver lost.
For strength lies not in lifted sword or spear,
but in a gaze that sees beyond the gilded veil,
a warrior’s longing hidden deep within,
for peace not found in war’s iron rail.
And in the end, when lacquered masks dissolve,
and voices cease to whisper oaths in vain,
they’ll rest beneath the quiet willow trees,
the branches weep for masks they could not keep.
In Halls of Jade
In halls of jade, shadows cling,
polished steel recalls past wars.
Willow branches, weeping low,
bow as souls bear unseen weight.
Flesh is battleground and bond,
mask a shell, fragile and worn.
Nighttime cracks, dawn paints again,
strength to hide the hell within.
Shattered glass in whispers speaks,
down the halls of flickered light.
Iron cages, silken threads—
loyalty’s rusted chain remains.
Pale moon strains, a silent hand,
as honour weighs on fragile face.
Statues burn beneath their masks,
chained by vows, though flames may rise.
Incense clouds, yet fear persists,
sword-bound spirits ache for life.
Duty wars with dreams unbound,
each act strips a sliver bare.
Strength is found beyond the blade,
gaze that sees the hidden truth.
Peace evades in war’s embrace,
but calm awaits in willow shade.
When at last masks fade away,
oaths are whispers on the breeze.
Willows weep for lost disguise,
souls released, and shadows lift.
In Halls of Jade III
In halls of jade, shadows cling,
polished steel recalls past wars.
Willow branches, weeping low,
bow as souls bear unseen weight.
Flesh is battleground and bond,
mask a shell, fragile and worn.
Nighttime cracks, dawn paints again,
strength to hide the hell within.
Shattered glass in whispers speaks,
down the halls of flickered light.
Iron cages, silken threads—
loyalty’s rusted chain remains.
Pale moon strains, a silent hand,
as honour weighs on fragile face.
Statues burn beneath their masks,
chained by vows, though flames may rise.
Incense clouds, yet fear persists,
sword-bound spirits ache for life.
Duty wars with dreams unbound,
each act strips a sliver bare.
Strength is found beyond the blade,
gaze that sees the hidden truth.
Peace evades in war’s embrace,
but calm awaits in willow shade.
When at last masks fade away,
oaths are whispers on the breeze.
Willows weep for lost disguise,
souls released, and shadows lift.
1/2
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Oct 27, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1850460879776837742?t=XmGvkePzLqgEIqD1ZVuRYA&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1693
In halls of jade, where shadows cling and silence breathes,
katana gleam, their polished steel reflecting battles past.
Heads are bowed like willow branches weeping in the rain,
each burdened soul a silent atlas of sorrows unconfessed.
Not merely flesh, but battlegrounds where duty wars with dreams,
they bear the lacquered mask, a fragile, painted shell.
Each night it cracks beneath the strain,
and with each dawn, they paint it back to hide the hell.
Voices sharp as shattered glass, yet masked with whispers of the breeze,
echo down the corridor of flickering lamplight.
In silence, loyalty becomes a cage,
its iron rusted, yet still it binds the song.
The moon wanes pale, its cold flame strains against the dark,
casting light like the touch of a forgotten hand.
It is not death but duty they revere,
as masks wear thin with each passing stand.
They move like statues carved in jade, yet hearts within them rage and burn,
a longing for release from honour’s chains.
Yet they march forward, step by step, in trance,
bound not by freedom, but by quiet flame.
The scent of incense masks the metallic tang of fear,
as irony weaves through silken care, a shadow unseen.
They ache for life, yet cannot stray—
each act a piece of self unpinned, a sliver lost.
For strength lies not in lifted sword or spear,
but in a gaze that sees beyond the gilded veil,
a warrior’s longing hidden deep within,
for peace not found in war’s iron rail.
And in the end, when lacquered masks dissolve,
and voices cease to whisper oaths in vain,
they’ll rest beneath the quiet willow trees,
the branches weep for masks they could not keep.
In Halls of Jade
In halls of jade, shadows cling,
polished steel recalls past wars.
Willow branches, weeping low,
bow as souls bear unseen weight.
Flesh is battleground and bond,
mask a shell, fragile and worn.
Nighttime cracks, dawn paints again,
strength to hide the hell within.
Shattered glass in whispers speaks,
down the halls of flickered light.
Iron cages, silken threads—
loyalty’s rusted chain remains.
Pale moon strains, a silent hand,
as honour weighs on fragile face.
Statues burn beneath their masks,
chained by vows, though flames may rise.
Incense clouds, yet fear persists,
sword-bound spirits ache for life.
Duty wars with dreams unbound,
each act strips a sliver bare.
Strength is found beyond the blade,
gaze that sees the hidden truth.
Peace evades in war’s embrace,
but calm awaits in willow shade.
When at last masks fade away,
oaths are whispers on the breeze.
Willows weep for lost disguise,
souls released, and shadows lift.
In Halls of Jade III
In halls of jade, shadows cling,
polished steel recalls past wars.
Willow branches, weeping low,
bow as souls bear unseen weight.
Flesh is battleground and bond,
mask a shell, fragile and worn.
Nighttime cracks, dawn paints again,
strength to hide the hell within.
Shattered glass in whispers speaks,
down the halls of flickered light.
Iron cages, silken threads—
loyalty’s rusted chain remains.
Pale moon strains, a silent hand,
as honour weighs on fragile face.
Statues burn beneath their masks,
chained by vows, though flames may rise.
Incense clouds, yet fear persists,
sword-bound spirits ache for life.
Duty wars with dreams unbound,
each act strips a sliver bare.
Strength is found beyond the blade,
gaze that sees the hidden truth.
Peace evades in war’s embrace,
but calm awaits in willow shade.
When at last masks fade away,
oaths are whispers on the breeze.
Willows weep for lost disguise,
souls released, and shadows lift.
1/2
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Oct 27, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1850460879776837742?t=XmGvkePzLqgEIqD1ZVuRYA&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1693
In halls jade and still,
willow branches bow in rain,
masks hide souls within.
Shadows linger soft,
iron binds where honour breathes,
pale moon lights the halls.
Katana gleams cold,
whispers sharp as shattered glass,
silent rage burns deep.
Faces carved in stone,
incense hides the scent of fear,
duty wars with dreams.
In flickered dawn’s light,
the lacquered mask wears thin lines,
willows weep alone.
In the jade hall’s quiet shadow, where masks crack beneath the weight of night, the willow bows to honour’s cold grip—faces turned toward silence, their whispered vows drifting like smoke beneath the pale light.
Masks hide silent wars,
in jade halls where shadows cling,
willows weep alone.
2/2
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Oct 27, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1850460879776837742?t=XmGvkePzLqgEIqD1ZVuRYA&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1693
willow branches bow in rain,
masks hide souls within.
Shadows linger soft,
iron binds where honour breathes,
pale moon lights the halls.
Katana gleams cold,
whispers sharp as shattered glass,
silent rage burns deep.
Faces carved in stone,
incense hides the scent of fear,
duty wars with dreams.
In flickered dawn’s light,
the lacquered mask wears thin lines,
willows weep alone.
In the jade hall’s quiet shadow, where masks crack beneath the weight of night, the willow bows to honour’s cold grip—faces turned toward silence, their whispered vows drifting like smoke beneath the pale light.
Masks hide silent wars,
in jade halls where shadows cling,
willows weep alone.
2/2
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Oct 27, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1850460879776837742?t=XmGvkePzLqgEIqD1ZVuRYA&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1693
Shackles of State: Individual Rights and the Dangers of a Bill of Rights in Australian Law
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Oct 27, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1850488502913511767?t=iTiXf9xAI_mzQUNcVZuecg&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1696
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Oct 27, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1850488502913511767?t=iTiXf9xAI_mzQUNcVZuecg&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1696
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Oct 26, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1850008287057699114?t=0Go_GcVdAH_NTt9N3beJ3A&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1697
Oct 26, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1850008287057699114?t=0Go_GcVdAH_NTt9N3beJ3A&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1697
The Flame Within
The greatest theft is not of things,
but of the fire that fuels our wings.
To tell a mind it’s bound, restrained,
is to bleed its courage, leave it chained.
They swaddle them in cotton wool and lies,
a shroud of care where greatness dies.
"You're trapped," they say, "the world’s too vast,
a force too cruel, your dreams outcast."
But under all their soft concern,
they quench the spark before it burns.
What harm they do, these voices meek,
who whisper comfort, render weak.
They steal the power to believe,
to shape the world, to dare, to leave.
A mind set free needs no disguise,
no tales of doom, no safety lies.
No weight of "system" can suppress
a soul that sees its own success.
Greatness is not a gift or prize—
it burns strong, in truth and pain,
in work and will, like tempered flame.
Tell them they are not cogs, but kings,
not bound by chains, but by their wings,
the architects of their own fate.
No trophies given for ease or grace,
no comfort here in second place.
But glory waits for those who strive,
who push through dark to come alive.
They are the storm, the rising tide,
the flame that no false care can hide.
Teach them that they are free, unbound,
that strength is in the fight they’ve found.
For victory is a choice, as is defeat,
and futures wait at striving’s feet.
No system vast, no shadowed hand,
can stand before a will that stands.
So tell them true, the path is clear,
the world is theirs, no force to fear.
A generation, fierce, untamed,
the fire of greatness yet unnamed.
Beyond the Veil
If we are spirits, not just flesh and bone,
then this world is but the shadow cast
by something greater, vaster, unknown—
a slant of light, a glimpse of past.
Our lives are threads in a hidden weave,
woven tight in a tapestry unseen.
We drift through dreams, what we believe,
guided by realms behind the screen.
We’re drawn like tides to an ancient place,
a world that hums in quiet song—
not bound by time, nor bound by space,
but vast and near, where we belong.
We grasp at whispers, at voices low,
echoes of something whole and clear.
Beyond this life, beyond our woe,
we sense the pulse, the truth we hear.
A language felt, yet deeply known—
a truth that speaks in dreams, in signs.
If we are spirits, we’re not alone,
we touch the Beyond through secret lines.
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Oct 26, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1850008287057699114?t=0Go_GcVdAH_NTt9N3beJ3A&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1697
The greatest theft is not of things,
but of the fire that fuels our wings.
To tell a mind it’s bound, restrained,
is to bleed its courage, leave it chained.
They swaddle them in cotton wool and lies,
a shroud of care where greatness dies.
"You're trapped," they say, "the world’s too vast,
a force too cruel, your dreams outcast."
But under all their soft concern,
they quench the spark before it burns.
What harm they do, these voices meek,
who whisper comfort, render weak.
They steal the power to believe,
to shape the world, to dare, to leave.
A mind set free needs no disguise,
no tales of doom, no safety lies.
No weight of "system" can suppress
a soul that sees its own success.
Greatness is not a gift or prize—
it burns strong, in truth and pain,
in work and will, like tempered flame.
Tell them they are not cogs, but kings,
not bound by chains, but by their wings,
the architects of their own fate.
No trophies given for ease or grace,
no comfort here in second place.
But glory waits for those who strive,
who push through dark to come alive.
They are the storm, the rising tide,
the flame that no false care can hide.
Teach them that they are free, unbound,
that strength is in the fight they’ve found.
For victory is a choice, as is defeat,
and futures wait at striving’s feet.
No system vast, no shadowed hand,
can stand before a will that stands.
So tell them true, the path is clear,
the world is theirs, no force to fear.
A generation, fierce, untamed,
the fire of greatness yet unnamed.
Beyond the Veil
If we are spirits, not just flesh and bone,
then this world is but the shadow cast
by something greater, vaster, unknown—
a slant of light, a glimpse of past.
Our lives are threads in a hidden weave,
woven tight in a tapestry unseen.
We drift through dreams, what we believe,
guided by realms behind the screen.
We’re drawn like tides to an ancient place,
a world that hums in quiet song—
not bound by time, nor bound by space,
but vast and near, where we belong.
We grasp at whispers, at voices low,
echoes of something whole and clear.
Beyond this life, beyond our woe,
we sense the pulse, the truth we hear.
A language felt, yet deeply known—
a truth that speaks in dreams, in signs.
If we are spirits, we’re not alone,
we touch the Beyond through secret lines.
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Oct 26, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1850008287057699114?t=0Go_GcVdAH_NTt9N3beJ3A&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1697
X (formerly Twitter)
S Tominaga (@CsTominaga) on X
The Flame Within
The greatest theft is not of things,
but of the fire that fuels our wings.
To tell a mind it’s bound, restrained,
is to bleed its courage, leave it chained.
They swaddle them in cotton wool and lies,
a shroud of care where greatness…
The greatest theft is not of things,
but of the fire that fuels our wings.
To tell a mind it’s bound, restrained,
is to bleed its courage, leave it chained.
They swaddle them in cotton wool and lies,
a shroud of care where greatness…
🔥1
La llama interior
El mayor robo no es el de las cosas, sino el del fuego que alimenta nuestras alas.
Decirle a una mente que está atada, restringida, es sangrar su coraje, dejarla encadenada.
La envuelven en algodón y mentiras, un sudario de cuidado donde muere la grandeza.
"Estás atrapado", dicen, "el mundo es demasiado vasto, una fuerza demasiado cruel, tus sueños son parias".
Pero bajo toda su suave preocupación,
apagan la chispa antes de que arda.
Qué daño hacen, estas voces mansas,
que susurran consuelo, debilitan.
Roban el poder de creer, de dar forma al mundo, de atreverse, de partir.
Una mente liberada no necesita disfraz,
ni cuentos de fatalidad, ni mentiras de seguridad.
Ningún peso de "sistema" puede suprimir
un alma que ve su propio éxito. La grandeza no es un regalo ni un premio;
arde fuerte, en la verdad y el dolor,
en el trabajo y la voluntad, como una llama templada.
Dígales que no son engranajes, sino reyes,
no atados por cadenas, sino por sus alas,
los arquitectos de su propio destino.
No se dan trofeos por la facilidad o la gracia,
no hay consuelo aquí en segundo lugar.
Pero la gloria espera a los que se esfuerzan,
que se abren paso a través de la oscuridad para cobrar vida.
Son la tormenta, la marea creciente,
la llama que ninguna falsa preocupación puede ocultar.
Enséñeles que son libres, sin ataduras,
que la fuerza está en la lucha que han encontrado.
Porque la victoria es una elección, como lo es la derrota,
y el futuro espera a los pies del esfuerzo.
Ningún sistema vasto, ninguna mano sombría,
puede resistir ante una voluntad que se mantiene firme.
Así que dígales la verdad, el camino está claro,
el mundo es suyo, no hay fuerza que temer. Una generación feroz, indómita,
el fuego de la grandeza aún sin nombre.
Más allá del velo
Si somos espíritus, no solo carne y hueso,
entonces este mundo no es más que la sombra proyectada
por algo mayor, más vasto, desconocido:
un destello de luz, un atisbo del pasado.
Nuestras vidas son hilos de un tejido oculto,
tejidos firmemente en un tapiz invisible.
Vamos a la deriva a través de los sueños, lo que creemos,
guiados por reinos detrás de la pantalla.
Somos atraídos como mareas a un lugar antiguo,
un mundo que zumba en una canción tranquila,
no limitado por el tiempo ni por el espacio,
sino vasto y cercano, al que pertenecemos.
Nos aferramos a susurros, a voces bajas,
ecos de algo completo y claro.
Más allá de esta vida, más allá de nuestro dolor,
sentimos el pulso, la verdad que escuchamos.
Un lenguaje sentido, pero profundamente conocido:
una verdad que habla en sueños, en señales.
Si somos espíritus, no estamos solos,
contactamos el Más Allá a través de líneas secretas.
S. Tominaga, también conocido como CSW
26 de octubre de 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1850008287057699114?t=0Go_GcVdAH_NTt9N3beJ3A&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1697
El mayor robo no es el de las cosas, sino el del fuego que alimenta nuestras alas.
Decirle a una mente que está atada, restringida, es sangrar su coraje, dejarla encadenada.
La envuelven en algodón y mentiras, un sudario de cuidado donde muere la grandeza.
"Estás atrapado", dicen, "el mundo es demasiado vasto, una fuerza demasiado cruel, tus sueños son parias".
Pero bajo toda su suave preocupación,
apagan la chispa antes de que arda.
Qué daño hacen, estas voces mansas,
que susurran consuelo, debilitan.
Roban el poder de creer, de dar forma al mundo, de atreverse, de partir.
Una mente liberada no necesita disfraz,
ni cuentos de fatalidad, ni mentiras de seguridad.
Ningún peso de "sistema" puede suprimir
un alma que ve su propio éxito. La grandeza no es un regalo ni un premio;
arde fuerte, en la verdad y el dolor,
en el trabajo y la voluntad, como una llama templada.
Dígales que no son engranajes, sino reyes,
no atados por cadenas, sino por sus alas,
los arquitectos de su propio destino.
No se dan trofeos por la facilidad o la gracia,
no hay consuelo aquí en segundo lugar.
Pero la gloria espera a los que se esfuerzan,
que se abren paso a través de la oscuridad para cobrar vida.
Son la tormenta, la marea creciente,
la llama que ninguna falsa preocupación puede ocultar.
Enséñeles que son libres, sin ataduras,
que la fuerza está en la lucha que han encontrado.
Porque la victoria es una elección, como lo es la derrota,
y el futuro espera a los pies del esfuerzo.
Ningún sistema vasto, ninguna mano sombría,
puede resistir ante una voluntad que se mantiene firme.
Así que dígales la verdad, el camino está claro,
el mundo es suyo, no hay fuerza que temer. Una generación feroz, indómita,
el fuego de la grandeza aún sin nombre.
Más allá del velo
Si somos espíritus, no solo carne y hueso,
entonces este mundo no es más que la sombra proyectada
por algo mayor, más vasto, desconocido:
un destello de luz, un atisbo del pasado.
Nuestras vidas son hilos de un tejido oculto,
tejidos firmemente en un tapiz invisible.
Vamos a la deriva a través de los sueños, lo que creemos,
guiados por reinos detrás de la pantalla.
Somos atraídos como mareas a un lugar antiguo,
un mundo que zumba en una canción tranquila,
no limitado por el tiempo ni por el espacio,
sino vasto y cercano, al que pertenecemos.
Nos aferramos a susurros, a voces bajas,
ecos de algo completo y claro.
Más allá de esta vida, más allá de nuestro dolor,
sentimos el pulso, la verdad que escuchamos.
Un lenguaje sentido, pero profundamente conocido:
una verdad que habla en sueños, en señales.
Si somos espíritus, no estamos solos,
contactamos el Más Allá a través de líneas secretas.
S. Tominaga, también conocido como CSW
26 de octubre de 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1850008287057699114?t=0Go_GcVdAH_NTt9N3beJ3A&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1697
X (formerly Twitter)
S Tominaga (@CsTominaga) on X
The Flame Within
The greatest theft is not of things,
but of the fire that fuels our wings.
To tell a mind it’s bound, restrained,
is to bleed its courage, leave it chained.
They swaddle them in cotton wool and lies,
a shroud of care where greatness…
The greatest theft is not of things,
but of the fire that fuels our wings.
To tell a mind it’s bound, restrained,
is to bleed its courage, leave it chained.
They swaddle them in cotton wool and lies,
a shroud of care where greatness…
❤1
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Oct 27, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1850519137493348419?t=kmtCQ9FssKN0YBklEEL2gQ&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1700
Oct 27, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1850519137493348419?t=kmtCQ9FssKN0YBklEEL2gQ&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1700