WE’RE INFINITY

We wrote, sang and danced
and the inevitability of the black future was tangible.
We looked too far away. We didn’t touch a drop,
no substance
but our minds were so full of things that we were unstoppable and unstoppable.
At night we wandered into philosophical discussions
and our intent was not to explain things but to express our experiences.
We went to the most unknown alleys of Palermo,
wandering in search of wonderfully unknown corners.
We sighed l
How can we expect a future that was invisible to us?
We were our infinity.
Have you ever been dead?
Have you ever been alive?
You have to take a tour of both worlds to choose one.
And let it be the right one.
Objectively it is not that that of the LIFE is much but since we are not given to know the other we are forced to stay in this.
In fact, free will does not exist.
It would exist if they showed us both worlds,
like the red pill and the blue pill, and then they told us
“ok now you can choose”.
But if you don’t know the other side of life how do you choose?
It is truly absurd to hear about choice and free will.
No choice has ever been put before us but we have been forced to give the first wail to navigate this world called Earth
And I don’t think many of us are happy with this unchosen coming into the world.

ALL THINGS ABOUT LOVE WE KNOW

Some time ago I was in my room and among other things I was reflecting on love, or rather on how we expect romantic love to be, on how they told us it should be and on how it really is. Ever since we are little they tell us more or less implicitly that love coincides with falling in love; the irrepressible physical attraction, the pupils that dilate, I want us to do bullshit after bullshit on bullshit to show our feeling to the person we are falling in love with. All these things in the collective imagination are love, then everything is seasoned with the idea that in the universe there is a person who completes us and with whom things are easy. Still, the more you grow up, the more shit is not true. The fact is that after a certain number of relationships, more or less adult, more or less lasting, you realize that it does not work according to that implicit idea you had of love, which in fact coincides with passion, with infatuation, and above all that that first year, those first years when everything is easy, do not last; and when that feeling of lightness and fluffiness disappear, we all find ourselves disoriented like ‘but is it really all over?’. Whether it happens after a couple of months or after a couple of years, the result is always the same. Suddenly all the excitement that enveloped the relationship with the other disappears and in its place there is an emptiness that then and then also seems worrying and that we believe is also for this reason that when we think about our past relationships, many times we fail to explain them. How many people have wondered ‘how did I manage to be with that person? What did I find in that person? ‘ The fact is that we are still pushed to throw ourselves into relationships to chase that dream there, the one where all things stop being monotonous out of the blue. We fall in love and the routine no longer seems heavy, the world seems to have secrets that we did not know before; but is love really that thing there?
Not that it is absolutely wrong to look for butterflies in the stomach, but I think it is better to confuse butterflies with what in reality is love, which we fear is much more like a deep friendship rather than a situation of perennial chemistry to celebrate. altered. Several years ago, when I was 16, I was talking to a 40-year-old writer who had just broken up with his partner after a dozen years of engagement, and I asked him if falling in love had lasted so long; I mean, 12 years is an eternity of time to be in love. And he looked at me for a moment and replied ‘absolutely not. I began to love this person the moment I stopped being in love with him. For the first time in my life after that moment, I seemed to be able to really see her, to spend time with her without being distracted by the irrationality of falling in love ‘. At the time I didn’t understand it very well, in fact it seemed like a phrase from my grandmother, and I said ‘fuck but how is it possible, what is another reason that can push two people to be together besides the romantic urgency?’ The fact is that in my opinion, after a bit of experience, this writer I had talked to was right. Infatuation can be felt towards 1000 different people, people who at some point will turn out to be wrong, not because they are absolutely wrong but maybe because they are wrong for us. Maybe the life they live is not really the one that goes well with ours. Maybe over time it turns out that worldviews are too different and so on. The infatuation in all of this has a time that can be more or less short but that surely ends at some point. So when I was in my room and I was thinking about this thing, I came to the conclusion that infatuation is cool, but that it also has very little to do with love. Love is perhaps just that feeling that one also feels towards friends or family, that kind of low and loving hum that pervades the time you spend with someone, the beauty of being in silence while being together, accompanying each other while doing the shopping, accompanying each other to do boring things without expecting fun, but with the sole purpose of taking care, sometimes, even with the ability to get bored together.
I was thinking about how important and useful it would be to have a slightly deeper vision of love and therefore to see life in a less distressing way. Infatuation is beautiful, but with the expectations and promises it brings with it it becomes distressing, premises like the idea that the desire lasts forever, that the other person is always perfect, that being together will never be disappointing, making long-term plans and so on. If you confuse infatuation with love, then you experience the infatuation itself badly which by its nature should be kept light and shiny; ‘What if the other leaves us, if all of a sudden he changes his mind, if at a certain point he doesn’t love us anymore?’. The fact is that infatuation does not necessarily imply love, unconditional affection, complete acceptance: love, familiarity and affection do. And if that kind of intimacy has developed between two people, it will certainly not be discovered in the first months, in the first years, and that writer is probably right; it turns out that you love and only when you stop being in love.




THE LADY’S PERVERTION

It was dark outside. I was getting changed to go out for dinner. I was almost in front of the window, because the mirror was between the two windows. Suddenly a red light out there grabs my attention. He is standing in the middle of the trees. I remain motionless. I know he is watching. He doesn’t want me to forget what happened, our years together, our perverse bond. He doesn’t want me to forget anything like he does. But he does it in a manic way. He keeps the memories of every second, every minute and every hour of his life in his inner filing cabinet. I rearrange my dress. I know he wants to see me shaken but I have to act like he’s not there. His love was not. It was control. I had the power but he wanted to control me from below. He now wants to see if I live happy. But he knows that I cannot be happy neither with him nor without him. The razor’s edge of our story was metal and dangerous. But he couldn’t imagine that I was really different from the others. What was dark in me he hadn’t seen well. This had been his failure. A Dark Lady is not that easy to spot and he hadn’t been able to grasp the details. When he realized he had lost the future with me it was already too late, I had decided his destiny and I had closed my heart forever. I was there, in my house, ate, went out, smiled and lived. He was there in the dark, without money and without a life. He was trying to still exist, to exist for me. Instead I existed for myself and I had broken his game. I had discovered his bluff. He no longer ate, no longer had a home, no longer had friends. He only had me. He lived only for me. Every night he stood there in that darkness that had created between us. And he saw me living without him. Sometimes I left the window closed. Sometimes I opened the curtains. I knew that his only life was there in my daily nothingness. His goal had always been to destroy me inside. Destroy my vital spark. But he couldn’t know about my destroying Demon. His was a fiction. But mine was real. By the time he realized the power of my mind, everything had already vanished from his hands.

ARCNOPHONIA

Death is like a spider, every now and then it comes out and weaves its web inside AMLETA’s heart. He tries to poison her but she manages to free herself in the end, at least so far she has succeeded. Who knows for how long. Death punches her as she dances the challenge, even! He tries to push her back into her dark corner, to keep her still a little harmless. He feeds her white flies, his favorite souls, the ones that end up burning themselves. Death is a good friend of hers whose name she does not yet know, crushes her heart and then leaves without even a greeting. Hamlet is the unfortunate butterfly that has fallen into his web. He dies to live.
There was that beautiful sea. An infinite coast.
Fine sand. Shells and dried seaweed on the shore.
I was a child and I looked at the horizon and I believed that beyond that line there was my beautiful future.
Instead, now that I am here and I live or my future I can say that it is sad, empty, tasteless.
No company. Just cats, birds, flowers and plants.
I should be happy with so much nature but this nature intrigues me even more.
I have an abyss with every little step.
An innocent look. And people understand that and it hits.
I have a body they desire and they make me feel ashamed of pleasure.
I don’t want to know the passion of your dreams. I don’t want to feel your hands.
But I couldn’t resist the breath of your desire. And I have no peace inside my guts.
And I have no peace inside my heavenly flesh.
I am not only a body and there is not only passion.
Don’t write on my skin. I remain pure.
Imagine a lit match
Who can’t light the candle.
And turn on another one
But the result is the same. And you ask yourself:
Maybe the candle is fake? Is it certified plastic?
Or is the flame too small? Take a good look at the candle,
You turn it over and over.
Scratch with your fingernail hoping to find the mystery.
But she remains intact.
And the flame stays out.
The room in the dark.
You are not afraid.
Look out at that huge lamppost
And you lie down with the divine light on your face.

INTO THE DARK SIDE

Its dark side always stands out. For Amleta it is a constant struggle. It sinks and resurfaces. You continue to breathe while remaining at the bottom of the sea. Submerged by torment, chained to the passion that takes away a piece of me every day, I fight an existence of continuous death. A black blood flows in his veins, he tried to purify it, eradicate it, erase it from every vein, from every cell of mine. But it always remained where it was, even when it seemed to disappear. Each time it takes over and holds me prisoner in its claws. The night is nothing, it is during the day that the atrocious suffering of being and not being at the same time begins. Like a crack in a well-programmed clock that has this little detail: it rides on the lost hours of its inhuman time and gets lost in the shadows that are drawn in its secret garden. A little girl comes out of the past, brings flowers to a grave, that of her grandmother, and says her name is Hamlet. That child was her, at the age of eight, when she was reciting death on the Persian carpet at home. Soon Hamlet appreciated the silence of certain places where the only living presence were the marble angels. The scent of rotten flowers followed her steps. She had never felt so happy as her first time in the cemetery. Was that the paradise everyone was talking about? There you could stay like that, just as you were. He didn’t have to talk to anyone, he could sit and stay for hours with them, the stone angels. They whispered sweet words to her in the wind among the cypresses and only she could hear them. The candles fascinated her, if she wanted to take them home, her mother scolded her, you can’t steal from the dead! He told her. She was upset, for her those were the flames of their vanished hearts and she wanted to keep them safe in her home. Then, when she was finally big, she bought as many as she wanted and her room glowed with flames. Those red flames were so happy for her! People did not understand the beauty of light, they believed them candles of the dead and that’s it. She misses the cemeteries. It has been a long time since he went and nowhere has he found that silence again. Perhaps one day not too far away, when this struggle of yours will also end, she too will be able to rest there and be only a stone angel.
I have lived half my life years now. I have traveled the world. Saw many good and bad things. Experienced with good and bad people. I was abused at 4 years old. But I was saved by art. I loved it very much. People and animals. So much so that I was able to save a lot of people except myself. I have always done everything following my heart but my heart has taken me to a country where I am dying out. I am dependent on vital drugs for me and I cannot marry from this damn nation. I hate being here. I hate my beating heart. I see too many people just looking for money. That’s why I’m alone here. Many have used and exploited me. But I said enough. I have given too much of myself. The world will perish and there is no Gandalf to screen Evil. No brave group to take out the orcs. We human beings are finished now. Machines own people. When I talk about real life and not virtual, they laugh in my face. All. It is normal for them to be on the web 24 hours a day. They consider me strange to me because I prefer to go out and live outside and not inside a screen. But unfortunately there are few left without cell in hand. We are just white flies. The trouble is this. See how life goes. You see that working does not bring happiness. Not even love gives happiness. Neither are friendships. And neither does the money. So what’s the use of all this play? Adaptation to society. From an early age they tell us that we are here and we must do as they tell us to do. And we all to obey. Whoever escapes is lost. Lost or free? Boh. Freedom always has a price. But in the meantime we are in a cage like lions and have to be content with this stupid survival? I am tired.
I’m remembering myself. I’m remembering who I am. Jasmine scent. Sometimes the neigh of a horse woke me up in the morning. The open cracks let the sun’s rays pass through and that dust looked like magic dust in the air. The voices of the neighbors, the morning television, the news. The heat already after the early hours of dawn. The scorching heat. The life that melted inside the water bottles. Ice cubes on your fingers. On the deck chair reading a book, chasing away ruinous flies. Then the dives in the sea, every day, every summer month, every year in the villa by the sea. I hated that season. I hated the heat and mosquitoes. In my literary solitude I felt detached from life outside. I didn’t know what human comedy was still like. I didn’t know sex and I didn’t even know love. Me on the deckchair, with my Flaubert and Miss Felicita and her parrot. My elementary teacher loved me. He gave me that book because I was good. I was always studying and always finishing my homework. I drew a lot. Notebooks full of drawings. Trees, flowers, animals, …. masks. That book stole my soul. That book stole my life: “A simple heart” was entitled. I didn’t even know who this Flaubert was. I also really liked the illustrations of that girl who lived alone with that bird. That girl who then died with a smile in her mouth. The smell of jasmine mixed with the scent of fried fish. The smell of jasmine that filled the summer nights. The sweat of being able to touch my pain made word. The pain that made me alone. I spoke English, nobody understood it. It was not modern English. It was the language of another life of mine. I’m remembering myself. About that little girl sitting in the deck chair. How I read that book without knowing who Flaubert was. I was only 11 years old and I didn’t know what love was. I didn’t know what life was. The pages were full of illustrations. Such beautiful designs!

WHEN I WAS ALIVE

As a young girl I imagined a different future and being an artist (I don’t get high nor smoke or drink, I’m an atypical artist I know) I thought that my skills, both artistic and intellectual (I always had excellent grades in school) would have me taken far, in every sense. I have always dreamed of a life off the cursed island, Sicily, because as soon as I grew up a little and became old enough to understand certain social dynamics, I felt suffocated in my aspirations. My parents wanted me to finish my studies, find a rich husband and get married and bake some grandchildren for them. Instead I didn’t do any of this. I have not followed any rules of social life that tradition imposed. Immediately after high school I went abroad to pursue my artistic dream but I was forced to return because my mother was sick and I took on my responsibilities as a daughter and still do it today and in return I do not receive than criticisms and always negative judgments. In part you are right, I have not been able to get even the minimum of what I aspired to in my artistic life but on the other hand I have a situation that everyone envies me.
Of course, after having understood how things are going, after having discovered that “either you follow the rules of the market or you stay out of every field”, the choice to continue on the difficult and fruitless path of art is truly crazy. But I can’t turn my back on myself and my fantasy, and especially in recent times if I hadn’t had all these dreams with me yet, I think I wouldn’t have been able to go on. Sometimes instead I say to myself, trying to convince myself, that it would have been better not to have these dreams at all and not to have all these creative abilities, since up to now they have not brought me anything concrete because I do not compromise for any reason and I do not I want to sleep with anyone to get credit. This crisis due to covid pays for itself first of all precisely those sectors of genres that are considered unnecessary, and art is one of them. Certainly having a nice painting hanging on the wall does not fill people’s stomachs so even I wouldn’t feel like persuading someone to buy a painting rather than buying groceries. First of all, I myself have had to give up those beautiful things that make life more pleasant (dinners out, accessories, hairdressers, cinema, theater, concerts, cosplay fairs, …) and so why shouldn’t others give it up too ?! The covid spared no one. So what’s the point of creating so many beautiful things if they have to remain closed in a box or drawer? Being an art therapist seems nonsense. Working with autistic children seems inconsistent. Yet it requires a lot of patience and a lot of control. But I never talk about my passion for saving children.

MY NAME IS AMLETA

Art is his need. An instinctive need to create. An instinctive need to be and communicate one’s being to others. Affirming its existence with the creative act is the only way for Hamlet to live. Feeling such a force within oneself, an energy, an immense explosion, a storm that never settles down. A sea that is always stormy to its depths. Being a river in flood, dangerous for others, not accustomed to strong liquid currents, but a natural and splendid element for her. Art is its power. The power to create from nothing. To give life to what has never existed, which has never been seen, which has never been read. A sublime, divine, most envied power. Art feeds on souls. Art is insatiable, it is its fierce demon, and it has been walking this path all its life looking for an escape. But you never get rid of art because only art makes it free and alive. It is like a second skin and if you take it off you become skinned and you cannot live anymore. Hamlet has art in every cell, like a deadly virus, which never becomes a disease but which accompanies her throughout her life as a faithful travel companion. Art grinds the flesh, the spirit, the whole life. He raises it into the highest sky, being able to see without eyes, hear without ears, draw without using his fingers; and then makes it descend into the most terrible depths of the human abyss. Art is a miracle of life and death. Whoever possesses the gift is condemned to a parallel life. Hamlet goes in and out as if from a window. It goes in and out of itself, feeds itself to the pigs, gives its vital breath, falls apart and then begins again. Who would ever want such a life? Yet many envy it and do not know what it means to have the fire of inspiration that consumes! Art is its condemnation.
She didn’t choose to start drawing, then painting, writing and playing at the same time. A dark force took his hands, and guided his dark energy. He was thus able to empty the pain he felt while living and to enclose it within his creations. Nothing remains of that period: everything burned. Unfortunately, something was saved from his subsequent dark periods, still not gone and up in smoke. Amleta was born on a cursed island, in a sick country, and soon she got rid of her life and the pain took her far away, where she continued to suffer and create, create and destroy, herself, paintings, installations, plays, notebooks, sculptures, … Amleta creates and destroys what he creates. Hamlet is and is not at the same time. He yearns for this perennial creation and has tried several times to free himself from his prison without success. This gift, this power, this torment of colors and words, is the nectar of his days. Everything else is just a bitter side dish.

EVERYTHING N FIRE

It's true I often burned my paintings, notebooks, books, I burned to forget that I was an artist. To forget the power to create from nothing. It was exhilarating, demeaning, tiring, it was destructive to me too. But my life was fire, fire lit every day. Now there is not even the ash left. I have burned souls, I have burned whole nights, burned words and loves. All together incinerated in a moment of sublime beauty. The green fire.
My green fire guided me. It was night, it was day and for me it was always life. But it doesn't burn forever. Eventually we turn off.
Eventually the coal becomes blacker. Very black. You find it in the walls, inside your inner walls, and you always get dirty every color you try to trace on your door. But Black crosses the threshold, reaches you, takes everything, burns you completely.
She was the one in the photo, holding a bouquet of flowers and a red hen’s crest on her head. It was she who acted among the frightened girls. Hamlet hadn’t hesitated either in his gestures or in his voice. And she continued to play a role that was not hers: the good girl who goes out of her way to meet her father’s expectations. A studious pupil, a caring daughter. Never any drift or dangerous friendship. Never any friends who are too annoying or a boyfriend who is too jealous. Never any of that. Only music and art, mixed with the tears that often bathed his pillow. He loved his mom and dad. He went out of his way to make them happy. And her little sister also loved and often played with her and never teased her. Growing up he had kept that naive and innocent look, that beautiful vivacity of one who has not known evil. Yet Hamlet knew evil from an early age, when a man took her innocence. Her nightmares were frequent and she did not know who that man was and she could never see his face. Maybe it was the shadow that appeared in her paintings or maybe she lived next to it without knowing that her executioner was the one who fed her. The executioner was always present. The executioner who had destroyed her at the age of 4.
The needs of an artist are different from all those of others. Of course an artist eats, sleeps, goes to the bathroom. He may have things and people he cares a lot about. May have interests and hobbies. But one thing distinguishes him profoundly from all other people: the need for stimulation. An artist feeds his art from himself and from what he sees, knows and experiences. Visual, mental and empirical stimuli are deeply necessary for every artist because in the absence of these his creative lymph dries up. In fact, if an artist is not put in the conditions of being able to have these stimuli that satisfy his needs, he will slowly fade away. His imagination, not being nourished, will become dry and will find it difficult to give him the input for artistic creation. Just as an animal dies in its instincts if placed inside a cage, an artist dies in his creative life if he is put in conditions that are not favorable to the expression of his artistic talent. Fantasy is like a plant and must be fed with the water of stimuli. If these are lacking, the substance for dreams is missing. It lacks the energy itself to create other dreams and other works. So for this reason it is sometimes said that an artist cannot live life like the others and the same things that others are enough cannot be enough for him.

I WAS ON THE GROUND

The last trance was the last trance the one in which she had danced in the rain and in the wind. The storm was out. The storm was inside and the monster had water eyes and thunder arms. She had danced in the intercourse with the ferocious beast, the killer baby, a ferocious feline, a very fast condor had taken her and carried her up. All this and the rest, dispersed, in the raindrops. I had seen and said “follow me” and she had followed the force of the storm. No force was too strong for the challenge, no force was too strong for her liquid pleasure. Following the animal, into the forest, scrolling along the paths where you could not walk. The sound of the night was coming. She told him “save me” and he didn’t answer and hid. The beast came out instead and she took it in her hands and every vein was red and throbbing. She stood looking at him so full of pulsating veins and moving at the touch of his mouth. He told her “get out of me” and he didn’t but he flew up and fell on her and stayed on her back until the wings unfolded well. The wings were made of copper and carried energy. A blackout of harmonic kilowatts entered his ribcage. She stood still, let the transformation begin, what would become of her shell was not given to him to know. He wove heavier alloys on the outside of the wings, but platinum was his single-celled heart. He said “wait”. She felt the metal enter her ribs, enter her bones, come to life and breathe like a second soul. She remained dead. She remained dead. She remained dead. Lying in iron, in metal, in the world of her demon. He remained. It folded its wings and pierced the trees, the rocks, the waterfalls, the lights, the shadows. Everything stood in the way of his new wingspan. Everything was a hindrance to his body. He felt the heavy steel in his arteries. He couldn’t breathe. He told him “kiss me, give me air, I’ll suffocate”. He joined his thin hands and disappeared into the thunder. Anger took her. He threw himself away. It destroyed everything in its path. He pierced the storm itself and crashed into a mountain hidden by the fury of the hurricane. The wings were so heavy. The lungs were struggling. Steel was in every muscle. She got up. Moving his head he managed to swallow some air. He had re-entered her chest. He was breathing now. His demon had regained strength. He had it back. It covered her vital organs. He made her die to make her live better. His mind was ready. The crystals were reforming and in a few hours he would break all seals of piety and humanity. He shouted “leave me!” but he was more inward than ever. It had all its strength, it had its wings. He threw her across the seas like a bullet and she crossed the waves. It was ready. She had returned. The energy passed through her but the strength did not scare her. He closed his eyes. He saw her white eyes in her darkness. Who was? Who are you? Churches. Metal does not melt. The crystals flip over. Polarity swap places. And she became something else. She lay on the asphalt, dust in her mouth, as he screamed obscenities. She was just a victim and was crying. He couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t escape. He stayed on the asphalt and died inside himself.

THE SEED OF TRUTH

“How people change in front of the truth. Ad a smile that nails them. Ad a silence that strips them of their falsity. Parrot. Those of the nights spent chatting. The ones you trusted. I have trusted so many people. and for the sake of your eternal trust, you have lost important days. A few smiles went out. Some dreams have been lost. You have even come to lose yourself. Don’t worry, it happens. First disdain to select who deserves to be close to us and first disdain to love us. I have trusted so many people. And today you know that too many know how to make promises. But few people know I will keep it. There are those who stay close to you when you force it to zero. When you have nothing left to offer. Here it is. Who stays close to you in those moments. It is a safe haven for dark days. I have trusted so many people. Yours who have always loved him people who after a hug are emptied. Who have nothing more to say. Because that’s where you recognize yourself. Because it is when the silence begins that they begin to speak. This is why it is difficult for you to do it, and insists on the proximity and diffusion of those who have given your hello to greet you. There is a trust in so many people and now they will go back a few minutes to go back to the truth to access the truth. That sincerity does not reward. To be able to say less about others and more about yourself.
Parents who want from their children what they themselves are not and do not do. Teachers who demand from students what they themselves do not do and do not say. State that asks citizens what it does not demonstrate and does not act. This world is twisted because those who populate it look outside for everything they don’t know how to be inside. As long as we believe that reality is what manifests beyond ourselves, we are simply screwed.
This is the trouble, you closed your eyes, you blocked your ears, you lived as if only you were in the world. Then they are amazed when life finds them, takes them by the collar and puts them in front of the reality of civil coexistence. When troubles happen … “I was minding my own business”, and now so stay here: for a fact that you started with your eyes closed and now you have to finish it with your eyes open.
I have always argued that science fiction was just one of the many precursors to the new world, but the answer of many was that I was boasting bullshit or had smoked something. They are just movies they said. Many will turn off and have already started to turn off their consciousness, and this means that as soon as possible they will run to strengthen their neuro-muscular structures through digital implants. They will do it because they have already been disconnected from Being: they are not yet dead, but they have no relationship with their humanity. So it will be very easy to sell him the idea of ​​the superman. They are puppets unaware of themselves. In this way they will perceive that they have the world in their hands. They will be active, functional, fast. They will have a strengthened physical form and an encyclopedic memory. Just click on the wrist to install new features or get updates to previous ones. They will be computers convinced that they are living. The choice is always yours. However, one factor is important. They will sell something wonderful and they will know how to do it. They will tell you that you will feel something that no one has ever tried. That you will expand senses that you have never used. They will show you an instant paradise. A sex that until that day was confined to virtual reality. They will tell you that it will be normal to try it every day. They will sell you an easy life. Easy relationships. Easy wealth. Something you will want to try. Even just for fun. Even just once. And you will, you will do it because you have no idea what it means to live in resonance with your true Creation. For this you will look for an artificial one. How much you will like this perspective, or how much you already like it, depends on how far You are or are on your way to Being within your Life.

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