Sometimes things don’t go our way. Sometimes the wind comes and makes the cards fly. And you start chasing them, you catch some of them, you lose sight of some, and you do with what you have left, lopsided castles, that nothing is enough to knock them down, and you are afraid even to breathe. Sometimes it’s the rain that gets your cards wet. It is a rain that fades. A cold rain, which enters the bones. There is no remedy. And you think back to when everything was warmer, to your mother holding you tight. Sometimes a compliment was enough to get blood to your face. And you felt your skin burn. To a kiss, but not just any kiss, to that kiss. On certain summer evenings that never ended. To a girl who is now fifty. And to the wind that has ruffled who knows how many castles. And she rebuilds them every time. With the cards that remain.
We are the descendants of the savage women you have forgotten. We are the stories you think would never be taught. They would have had to check the ashes of the women they buried alive so that a single ember was enough to bring an entire fire back to life. We don’t like to admit it, but the idea of ​​losing control is one of those that fascinates controlled people like us more than anything else. All truly civilized peoples – the ancients no less than us – have become civilized thanks to the voluntary repression of the original animal self. Are we really, in this room, very different from the Greeks or the Romans? Obsessed with duty, pietas, loyalty, sacrifice? All those things, in short, that impress moderns? And it is a temptation for any intelligent person, and especially for perfectionists like the ancients and us, to try to kill the primitive, emotional, animal ego. But it is a mistake. Because it is dangerous to ignore the existence of the irrational. The more civilized a person is, the more intelligent he is, the more he will be repressed: and the more he will need a system to channel the primitive impulses that have been so much studied to kill. Otherwise those powerful ancient forces will accumulate and become of such intensity as to be released violently, with greater violence due to the wait, and will often have such vigor as to completely wipe out the will.
When you take a wild horse from the herd, your every little movement takes on enormous significance for him, and if by chance his sensitivity is disturbed, he becomes skittish and unavailable … Here, this horse now feels at his own comfortable like this, it passes and leaves no trace, but you do …… you know how to approach him …. you know how to let him approach you because you are of the same substance and he knows it too …….. .you can caress his skin with your little hand, and he will not run away from you, but he will shake his head and happy mane, then he will resume running knowing that you will follow him with your eyes until he disappears on the horizon .. ..My hand is so little…

1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. Experience Film
    Sep 02, 2021 @ 20:24:05

    I love your poetry!


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