In this impeccably ordered space where I spend three quarters of my life, nothing can occur that isn’t strictly planned by languid humanities and blind collectivities. My time is a washed-out sum of trivialities that feign occupation, and as soon as I get paid, I dash to the shops in search of a bottled substitute for happiness.
I wish I could suddenly explode, but I know with horror that I am condemned.
Inside a room of justified and generously measured proportions, a silent stage for chimerical transcendences. A jug of water, a flower, a mahogany desk or its closest imitation. An ungrateful telephone. A pristine cell. There I suspect— and I’m not wrong— delirious poets have died, prominent writers: fallen musicians, magnanimous tales; the muses have been forced to personify themselves as surly secretaries. In the most frugal violence, noble souls perish daily and so horrifically; they are worn down with each call, each signature—and only from nine to nine with an hour for lunch. A weary body arrives every night to blame its misfortune on the shadows reflected by the television, but without desire, without true hate.
I find it hard to describe, partly because of my mediocre storytelling skills and also because what lingers from the dream after waking is a deep, contemplative feeling of loneliness, of helplessness.
It’s night, and it seems to have rained—the black asphalt has become a mirror, reflecting every light from the signs, the streetlamps, the throng of cars confined to the avenue, all desperate to go to the same place. The ground is an inert mirror.
And there’s the cold too, the icy wind trying to drive us back into our homes. The street is a terrible place, and the illuminated shop windows feel so comforting.
Everyone is barely a blur on the city’s mirror, and the city itself is enormous; the roar of engines deafens you. It’s absurd to think of oneself, and yet there I am, thinking of myself—terrified by loneliness and by freedom and by the insignificance of my reflection. I’m a child, and I’ve lost my parents in the crowd; there’s no hand to guide me and help me grasp my situation. I must choose a path, but I’m paralyzed—the possibilities are endless, and I can’t see a single one.
Loneliness is an icy stab that sometimes wakes me in the dead of night.
I will try to explain Dependency Injection, from the practical point of view of someone like me who has discovered software engineering concepts.
A dependency is an object and its resources such as functions, methods, definitions, etc. that are required in the current code; to give an example, a log system, a connection to a database, the current security context, etc.
Let's take the example of the connection to the database.
Unlike a classical approach where we create this connection in our class when we occupy it, we could "inject" this connection (or dependence) into the previously created class and our class could use this object within its context without worrying about creating it and perhaps destroying it.
We must clarify a detail, for differences the injection of simply passing parameters by reference is that in the injection of dependencies we pass an interface, an abstract definition of the object, in this way we abstract the implementation and creation of the object, we can in the future modify the implementation of that object in a simple way.
Returning to the example of the connection to the database, the consumer class only has one interface for the connection and should not worry for example in the initialization of the connection, it will be indifferent if for example we change from an instance of SQL server to one of Oracle.
Well, this is a new brand blog, so we need a start just now.
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The purpose of this blog is to share a little knowledge in techniques of design, development and deployment of software; if you are interested in my personal writings you can take a look at blogspot or check the personal section