THE SHADOW OF THE KEY

I have a strange relationship with doors. I never lock them. Rather I approach them. It’s a flaw, I think. Lack of courage, perhaps. But I happen to not close the doors. I let events do it. After all, who am I to determine who has to get out of my life forever? Generally, those who take another path do it alone. Very quietly. A step at a time. One choice after another. So, I leave it open. Because you never know. Maybe one day whoever had gone out, shows up in front of that door, and finding it open, sits down for a coffee. And if enough time has passed, enough pride, and enough pain, I’ll ask – How much sugar? –
My dear friend clear your mind of all “can’t”. This sentence was said by a stranger, but I think it was the sentence that had the most impact on me. It is not a very compressed aphorism, it highlights a truth without too many words. All the “I can’t / I can’t / I can’t” are just walls that we build and that don’t allow us to succeed. Success is not necessarily being rich it sucks to be successful is something easier and more beautiful, success is in the little things. We must be happy with ourselves when we set ourselves a goal and we manage to achieve it, the key is precisely this, to complete not having reached perfection.
If only I could walk
between the chiaroscuro of your irises,
light up my days with the lights of your every memory,
if only I had the key of that French garden
which makes the contours of your face guiding breath for each completed painting;
if only i could stay there,
stop, waiting for your name,
your veins like purple wisteria,
your skin like peony petals,
and listen to the rhythm of your beats
touch the shores of the lake
and make them tremble in the reflection of the other half of the sky.

ARTEMIS

Young princess
Child now grown up
You play being a wife
satisfied lady.

The rooms of your home
Polished dwelling-
They might satisfy
Your thirst for tea
friends accommodated
For years to come,
For years.

Your wise husband
accomplished master
He does not feel the pains
Ignore the paleness.

Behind a door
Your pain is hidden
Locked in
Golden lock.

You were free in the woods, with your bow and your knife, true warrior, and now only daughter-in-law.

In twelve months you look at the moon, dreaming of that life in a sylvan abode, you wait to be sure that the wind will come back and take away your days.

MY SMALL LOVE

I told you you’re little tonight, you were like that in my head. But it was just that little one that I imagined you were walking on your brain. In short, yes, I mean small to stay inside and get to who knows where. Think of an internal exploration of my body. I who do not understand anything I’m here talking about it, so I might as well shoot bullshit if I continue. (That is, if I let you know how I imagined you wandering inside me, with no double meanings eh, that’s not my intention.) It is really strange this thing, you will be confused reading it as soon as I wake up almost as much as I am writing it and I still do not find a sense. Meanwhile, you have reached the rib cage and are trying to enter. What then is the word “cage” so strange, sure you want to enter there? And what if you can’t get out anymore? That is, I know that you have already opened this door, indeed you have opened it wide and you have closed your whole world outside. I helped you or maybe forced you because it’s a part of me that is being talked about and I never told you to evict. You’re hopping on the ribs, be careful we get hurt. You are so delicate and I want to protect you, from me and you and from others who get in your way and from the roads that separate us and from everything that goes against us. My fault I would say, totally. So then go ahead, hurt me that if you fall you are still safe inside me. I won’t let you hurt yourself, not you. My eyes close and you continue to walk without stopping, I can’t control your every step but I feel you walking in every part that composes me. I feel you in every inch of me. You walk and then you run and then you stop. You seem to go who knows where but you stay here, inside me. Continue the journey.

MY FATHER AND A PEN

My father, from when he got up to when he went to bed, only opened his mouth to say nice things to someone, something and to the whole universe. If a pen dropped from his hands he was unable to get angry but it was said that it was necessary. I am giving this example because the majority of people today are not at this point. They are like immature and grumpy parrots, they keep repeating how the world is falling apart and do not understand that they are supporting it as well. All they do is talk, shout, feed and get angry. If you know chronically irrecoverable people and can’t get away from their shit, look for any solution to recharge yourself. It is no longer time to reach out to them with empathy and understanding. What hangs over everyone’s heads is a much heavier test than the shit that others drag around and continually throw up on others. Today we need the utmost clarity and inner consistency to face the game. Remain silent and reflect on your situation. Do something but no need to scream. Doing something for others is a silent and beautiful action. These angry people suck the lifeblood no matter if they are aware of it or not. Raising the defenses, not just immunity, is a sacrosanct right that belongs to you and which you must take note of. Anger is contagious and therefore we must detach ourselves from those people who have hatred for everyone and everything. (I am referring to the anger of the dull, not to a physiologically normal emotion)

MY GARDEN WITH HOLES

My garden is full of puddles, holes made by dogs, pieces of branches flown in the storm, bare trees and no flowers because the mice have eaten the bulbs. And I'm very sad that I can't have a nice garden but the weather is awful here. It is very cold and there is already snow on the mountains and yesterday it was only 4 degrees. The house is very humid and even if we heat it later it becomes cold again, it does not keep the heat, it is an old house and it is a torment. Here in my area life is very sad now, especially for me because I don't have the green pass and I can no longer go to the gym, to the theater, to the cinema. I always have to stay at home. Our Italian government has taken away all freedom from us and people like me, who cannot get the vaccine, are limited in everything in life. I am getting depressed and I can't stand this deprivation of freedom. Now in Italy there is this dictatorship that is destroying the country's economy and the people.

BLACK TEARS

We were lying in bed.
Like any other afternoon.
But this was no ordinary afternoon.
We were there under the covers.
Dressed but stripped of any pride.
You stroked my hair, playing with it.
I had my head hidden in your chest.
Up until half an hour ago, we had been sitting on that same bed.
You had tears in your eyes, you were holding your face in your hands, avoiding my gazes.
I used to cry with you, so vulnerable to see you sick.
You were trembling, sobbing.
"I can not lose you" you said to me in a faint voice.
"You don't love what I have become"
But at that moment I loved you even more.
We both got scared.
I am a mess, you know.
You feared for a moment that I was leaving and you freaked out.
A bit like I usually do, only more conspicuously.
I dried your tears and in the meantime I was making myself strong for both of them.
Because in the end the strength lies, if it comes to you.
Because if something scares both of you, I must always be there, to belittle it, to convince you that everything is fine.
You took me with all my problems, you picked me up and you decided to look after me, with all the patience and love of this world.
So when you go haywire, I'm there ready to play the part of the "healthy" and "reassuring" one, even if it doesn't suit me at all.
In the end we hugged tightly and pulled ourselves up;
not that we had eliminated all problems, in fact not at all.
But we were there for each other.
So once the thoughts died out, we remained embraced, with no words to say.
Only in a moment did you break the silence:
"Vanessa, I love you"
I said it all in one breath, as if it were the most important thing to say. Which, after all, it was like that.

YOU’RE FINE

You are fine alone, but alone you suffer a lot. You would never admit it, but it shows in how nice you are to anyone, even to those who don’t deserve it at all. You want people to love you, and however much you walk with the air of someone who doesn’t need anyone, you constantly need someone. Boundless fears and tiny feet that don’t allow you to escape far enough. You don’t know how to go far away, then you miss the air and you don’t know what to do, you like Italy, but it’s not Italy that you like, it’s those ten or eleven people in all, without whom you would not know how to go on, because it takes you years to become attached to someone, but then it’s forever. Or in short, almost. Like all beautiful things. You make me smile when you say you don’t believe in infinite loves and then I find you moved in front of a cartoon that should have made you laugh. You never cry because you are disappointed, when you are disappointed you scream. When you cry it’s because you hope, hope and don’t want to admit it. Hoping hurts you, somehow. You think it’s not like you, so you cry watching comedy movies and justify yourself by saying you don’t really know why, “it’s been happening to me since I was little.” And how are you now? Do you feel great? You like the night and you like songs that are no longer used and idioms that are no longer used. Everything about you is sincere, even the way you dress and say the words. Even the way you breathe. You don’t control yourself, you can’t and you think it’s bad, instead it’s wonderful, you are a wild flower, one of those flowers that cannot be picked but only looked at. You perfume a lot, if you were a memory you would be the smell of freshly washed sheets, if you were me you would love yourself as birds love to fly, with a necessary love. If you were me you would love yourself so as not to die. I am here looking at you, you look like a poem that no one will ever dedicate to me, one of those poems that when you read them you think it would be wonderful if someone saw you that way and loved you so much, instead nothing, but no less beautiful , not for this, ever.

STORY OF A LITTLE BLUE GIRL

Hey Blue what happened to you? I see you a little down. And I no longer see your beautiful hair that looked good with any color, where did your smiles and laughter go little Blue? What did all these people do to you to reduce you like this. Why are you crying? Indeed, the correct question is: why have you never stopped crying? Because you recognize yourself more when you suffer, instead of taking them and killing all those who trample you. Who don't know Blu what you felt, they don't know. They don't know what it's like to get up on your own. They don't know what it's like to be alone. You yes. And you are very good because with others you never collapse, you know how to console yourself and you know how to laugh alone. You are strong, and everyone tells you how strong you can be. They tell you this especially before they break you, but you never break. You just cry, and people often can't stand it, but you just want someone to stay there. Watch yourself and say nothing. But Blu is not easy. In this life no one has time for anyone anymore and you are tired of having a phone in your hand to be able to communicate with people. You want a real shoulder, you want someone to take your pain with their bare hands and throw it away. You are looking for love because you have never known it and you do not know what it really is like. All consequences of a tragic past that you don't even remember, if you knew maybe you wouldn't be like that. Maybe you would be like all 20-year-olds who go around the clubs to dance. But you don't dance, because whoever dances is happy, you just move your hip to provoke any man. You seek attention, you look for eyes that are always pointed towards you, but the eyes are not always the mirror of the heart. The bottle of vodka you are drinking no longer even has a taste for you, it doesn't taste like peach or mint or strawberry, it just tastes like a cage that for a few moments doesn't let out thoughts and doesn't make you feel sad. But I know the truth, I know you would tell your whole life if people asked you, but you never really do it. You don't do it for a good reason, people are too normal compared to you and you've been told too many times that you are weird, that you are wrong, that you are different. You are not and you would have tons

THE CAGE

I always keep myself so consistent with my words, too! As if my words were my thoughts, unique and immobile. It’s like saying things out loud, or writing them (to anyone), locks me in a cage. From that moment on, I can’t get rid of the terrible thought that by doing something that (even if only apparently) contradicts what I said, it makes me attackable, because I hate it, I mean being attacked, even if I knew how to defend myself, I avoid doing it, I don’t have I never stimulate him to do so, and so I let things slip away, I laugh, I always laugh. I’m starting to wonder if I’ve ever had a real laugh, but real seriously I mean! Laughing has become the alternative to everything: getting angry, screaming, talking, crying, and who knows how much else … The cage that I have now doesn’t let you see much light, it’s so thick and dark, ah, if at least it were colored! Instead it is black, very black. I am imprisoned with my words, which I have reserved for a few, but even those few should not have made me speak, because words do not bounce off certain people, but are absorbed by them, I cannot get this idea out of my head and tortures me. I don’t want to talk to anyone anymore, I don’t want to feel the need anymore, which is already a very small need, but I still often give in! If I really want freedom, I have to be alone with myself, I have to escape from anyone and anything, to find an isolated but beautiful place, all mine but nobody’s. And instead this miserable existence of mine will continue in the worst of the chessboards, and I will always be on the corner, ignored, but I will always feel in the center, derided and observed, unable to move, motionless and sad.

SHIBUI: THE “WHITE” JAPANESE BEAUTY

Wabi-sabi (侘 寂) constitutes a Japanese worldview, or aesthetic, founded on the acceptance of the transience and imperfection of things. ... Its aesthetic characteristics include: asymmetry, harshness, simplicity, modesty, intimacy and suggestion of natural processes.
To understand what beauty is for Japanese women, one must think of Ikebana, the ancient art of flowers. A ritual, like calligraphy, the study of literary compositions and poetry, which the Zen masters have transfigured into a religious experience of reflection and illumination, in a way to guide the mind towards the absolute.
Precise and meticulous rituals: beauty must be regal, intense and shining because we already know that it will vanish and that we will vanish with it and is linked to the total acceptance of destiny, beyond good and evil, according to the aesthetic vision of " wabisabi ”, founded precisely on the transience of things. Therefore, the obsession with punctual and exasperated care has its roots steeped in a millenary and powerful spiritual tradition, in the philosophy and religious influences of Buddhism and Shintoism. Obsession of a people full of contradictions and contrasts, which combines devotion to the past with a vision that anticipates the future. Where manual treatments coexist with hyper-technological and sophisticated tools that try to reproduce, at home, the salon protocols. By transforming aesthetics, and the radiance of the face, from theory to practice. Like in an Ikebana, like in a Buddhist prayer. Into something sacred.
The attention of Japanese women to the care and maintenance of a complexion that is as ethereal as possible, flawless and white as snow, is a known fact. This obsession becomes very obvious by visiting any cosmetic shop, perfumery or even pharmacy in Japan: facial masks, creams, treatments of all kinds to whiten or "illuminate", as the Japanese say, the complexion and achieve the much desired aesthetic canon of bihaku (literally "white beauty", equivalent to the maximum level of beauty that a woman's skin can reach).
The appreciation of white skin as an aesthetic canon has very deep roots in Japan and dates back to about 1300 years ago, during the period between the Asuka (538 - 710 AD) and Nara (710 - 794 AD) eras when, at the same time to the massive import from China of Buddhist religious practices and technical knowledge in various fields, customs related to the aesthetics and fashion of the time began to appear on the shores of the Japan archipelago. Among these, the white color of the leather as a sign of elegance and value. The application of a whitish powder called oshiroi (literally "white powder") obtained from the crushing of rice or shells of shells practiced up to that moment in Japan, was gradually replaced by the much more effective technique introduced by the continent which consisted in the whitening of the skin by smearing a lead-based substance on it.
Thanks also to the admiration with which the aristocracy in Japan looked at the refinement of the sophisticated Chinese civilization of the time, the practice of whitening the skin with a state of lead-based oshiroi soon became a widespread fashion among the nobles of the Japanese court. . Not only women, but also men of the nobility used to apply a base of oshiroi to the face. Being an extremely expensive and precious cosmetic, the concept of aesthetic beauty was accompanied by the symbol of one's status in society at the same time. And so, from the spasmodic desire for beauty and elegance pursued by the refined court aristocracy, the aesthetic cult for a pale white complexion, of an absolute whiteness and free of imperfections, was consolidated in Japan.
Over the centuries, the custom of painting the face and neck with a layer of milky white oshiroi has given way to the much more sustainable concept of a skin tending to white in a "natural" way. Even if Japanese women no longer paint their faces, the value and quality of a white skin remains implicit in historical memory, an aesthetic canon handed down to the present day and of which all the shopping centers in Japan are unequivocal proof, for their offer in terms of cosmetics that enhances the whiteness of the skin as the value to aspire to.
After the World War, however, there was a reversal of the trend. The same Shiseido, giant of the Japanese cosmetics industry, launched in 1966 the promotional campaign for a summer line of cosmetics focused on the concept of the enjoyment of summer, whose slogan read "Let us love the Sun", and depicted (Japanese) models from golden skin in the rays of the sun. In those years it was customary for girls who could not get a natural tan on the beach to use foundation with warm bronze colors. But it was a fashion incompatible with tradition, and destined to soon evaporate from the collective imagination.

The development of scientific research, and with it the evidence that exposure to sunlight causes unpleasant consequences such as spots and wrinkles, as well as dangerous skin diseases, has favored a return to the ancient preference of Japanese women for a white and flawless complexion like a blanket of fresh snow. The candid beauty of white which, as the saying goes, has the intrinsic strength to condone other imperfections. It is the concept of bihaku, that is the aesthetic canon par excellence that has established the boundary between elegance and vulgarity in Japan for centuries.

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