I exist beyond you, beyond us, beyond our silent bubble.
Without you, I don't lie, I'm fine.
I don't need you to smile, to feel good about myself and even less to draw courage from your hands. I was born a woman but life has made me rock hard and impenetrable, I don't need you to test my softness of mind, my sensuality or even my sexuality. I do without you, of us, of the world: to give me strength I'm enough, I don't need someone to pull up my four battered bones after a battle gone bad. All I need to do is count to ten, mentally heal the wounds of my soul and return to the field more combative than before. I don't need you to protect myself, I was born a woman but not weak needy constantly looking for someone to save her.
You will wonder why I wrote these words - apparently harsh - perhaps to belittle you? Absolutely not.
Without you I'm fine, but I'm not happy. There is a thin veil that divides well-being and the partial or total state of happiness. I don't need you to be saved, relieved or defended from physical and mental pain: you are not my doctor, my psychologist and even less my psychoanalyst as a soldier. You are the person with whom I have chosen to share the time that has been made available to me and I have no intention of throwing weights around your neck that I should wear, letting you fight my battles and making sure that your body is invaded by my scars . I have my story, you have yours. I don't need to be defended, picked or medicated, I'm not a flower. I choose you not as my gardener, but as a silent listener, who in the darkest evenings of others, in the rainiest and hailest days, in the most distressing sadness experienced so far, grants me the art of being fragile.
I'm hard, I'm stone, I'm ice. But some nights, some nights, I choose you. The stone is wrapped in the paper of your sighs. The hardness is softened by the impact with your flesh. The ice melts with the fire you inject into my veins. Without you I would also be fine, but I would be ignorant with every shiver of happiness.
I would like to take advantage of spring to be reborn too, imitate the flowers that patiently leave frost, cold, short days and persistent rains behind and forget how far away the time when they could have shown themselves seemed.
I would like to dress myself in color and beauty, to be like a sunny day that everyone greets with a smile, sinking my eyes into an intense blue sky, without borders.
I would like to strip myself of the gray afternoons, of the dark thoughts, of the shortcomings that have clouded my heart and take back the life I deserve, to sprout like an insignificant blade of grass, to break the monotony like a poppy in a cornfield, spontaneous and impertinent, lonely yet so essential.
I would like to be waited for and welcomed, like a sunny spring, like a season that instinctively makes one think of the beauty of simple things, of daisies, of perfume... of life.
The truth is that spring doesn't care. He doesn't care if you're sad.
It flaunts all its colors in front of you, its perfumes, and the first warm rays of the sun catapult upon you... whether you're ready or not.
Spring can be very indelicate with those who are sad. It flaunts its laughing beauty, as if to make fun of those who still have snow on their hearts. Indeed, to those people who linger in the winters of the soul, he seems to say: "I made it and you didn't.", "The whole world goes on. While you stay behind".
Whoever is sad is sadder in spring.
Because spring is like this, intrusive and pretentious. He knows how to give you everything he has, but in return he wants absolute devotion.
She is an aware woman, a refined lover, who however demands attention and admiration.
It is an opportunity to choose. An opportunity to be seized.
Spring is not waiting for you. She passes you suddenly, and wants to be chased.
It looks like happiness. It looks like love.
The truth is, spring doesn't care if you're sad. She arrives. It comes anyway.
And you just have to choose it.
Because it's not a right moment, but the right decision to make at all times.
We find ourselves immersed in this sound, like bodies suspended within a landscape full of imaginaries, in the penumbra of an interregnum, in that portion of space where the old dies and the new cannot yet be born, in that portion of time in which which the most varied morbid phenomena occur.
We must be realistic says an imperative of our time. It is necessary to avoid escapes from reality, which means: to suffer reality in its opaque and gree thickness. And so, in the flow of daily life, a rigid rational economy takes us apart from the many relationships of experience to which we would have access if we just broke reality, its heavy and full thickness, and followed those lines of flight which could be taken if we treated reality as a transparent veil, which allows the gaze to pass through it in the direction of the unreal and the hyper-real.
Giving voice to this body language and knowing how to recognize the meanings, is an extremely important exercise in the existence of the contemporary individual dissected by the profound anthropological mutation underway, it is the invitation to ask ourselves intimately what moves us, what forces or devices generate the choreographies of our bodies and in the daily life of our lives. I started out as a young self-taught tightrope walker, to dream not so much of conquering the universe, but as a poet, conquering wonderful sceneries. Rebellion must be exercised. Denying adherence to the rules, denying one’s success, denying repetition of oneself, seeing every day, every year, every idea as a real challenge. Then you will live your life on a tightrope.
Seduction is always on the alert, ready to destroy every divine order, even that of production and desire. For all orthodoxies, seduction continues to represent evil and artifice, a black magic that perverts all truths, a conspiracy of signs. All discourse is threatened by this sudden reversibility or absorption in its own signs, without a trace of meaning. This is why all the disciplines, whose axiom is constituted by the coherence and purpose of their own discourse, can only exorcise it.
Men should never marry because I hear a lot about husbands and they all complain about wives. Wives talk too much, buy too much, talk and talk, are too lively, or too sulky.
All husbands speak ill of their wives. According to them they don't do enough, they talk too much and they talk too much.
Every husband is in love at the beginning of the relationship and then starts to see flaws and everything that is wrong with his woman. The woman is disappointed by this unexpected attitude but tries to continue the relationship because she loves him. Oh yes, women have a disproportionate love, more towards others than towards themselves and sometimes, indeed often, they cry secretly, they wait, they try to understand, they become hysterical or depressed.
Men should never marry because if they need a maid they can pay for it. So they avoid making their wives feel bad and always complaining about them. They should always give them flowers and chocolates and say nice things. Instead, love becomes a nuisance for them and they prefer to be with colleagues and friends, they prefer to go out for a beer or wine, and they go to play football but they never play with their children. Husbands would like all their wives dead but then if they die they feel lost and yet soon after they take a young girl and the wife is all but forgotten. Then let them get a girlfriend instead of a wife. But then the girlfriend also starts talking too much and making too many demands. The girlfriend spends too much and they start complaining about her too. Men should stay alone and never have children or wives.
Today I dedicated some hours to art. I painted some rocks with a background on which I will then draw the Viking runes, which I like so much, and then put the colored rocks on the large rectangular vases in front of my house, which are the only ones not dug up by my dogs. It's nice to paint rocks because each of them has a different porosity and each one absorbs the colour, enhances it or dampens it. However today is a sunny day and I put all my rocks out in the open to dry.
When we talk about rock art, we are talking about an ancient art born from cave painting and as the name suggests, it involves the creation of designs and shapes on stones. Drawing on stone, in prehistoric times, was a way of expressing oneself even before the invention of writing. Today, coloring pictures on stones has taken on a whole new aspect, becoming a fun hobby for enthusiasts, a group activity, a job for artists but also an original experience for young children and teenagers.
I still marvel at how much superficiality, wickedness and selfishness some people are capable of..
Wake up, by god! that the world doesn't revolve around you, only you don't exist, you don't have the fucking problems, only you! stop belittling anyone with those fucking phrases like "eh, so what should I say / do?!".
You're just a selfish, spoiled, rude person who claims to justify their shitty behavior with the usual excuse of a difficult experience. but go fuck yourself.
How much wickedness you have in your body, mamma mia.
You have to get them out, let them go.
Family, friends, exes, relatives, partners, colleagues, near and far, anyone. To break free. To come back to life.
To respect each other.
It takes balance to stand still, not to fall apart.
Let's join hands and take us where reality doesn't touch us.
Where being sick is useless, the only requisite necessary for living is lightness, light-heartedness.
Far from the problems that grip the mind, free from the weight of life that crushes us to the ground and prevents us from breathing clean air deeply.
Let's take the happy soul and go back to living. let's go back to dreaming, that I don't know how to do it anymore.
I had a panic attack on Friday. They hadn't come to visit me for a while, overbearing and unexpected.. and it showed.. but above all we heard everything! it was hard to handle, heavy to bear with the aftermath I've been dragging around all day. the tiredness that left me was disarming. And I'm not just referring to physics.
I took it "easy" by staying home for two days from work and now I have to go back.. a little scared, I admit it! what if it happens again? What if I didn't -again- have the strength to control it, and control myself?
I feel a considerable load of stress on me that I cannot relieve. I would like to turn off my brain for a while and escape responsibilities, duties. go back to breathing deeply, have clear ideas about who I am, how much I'm worth, what I want from life but I don't know where to start!
I need a moment of time..
The heart of feelings,
far down there.
Fish catch it as a ready-made bait for them.
In a vacuum of thought the aquatic currents collide.
And me?
I'm heavily overwhelmed,
I don't let go,
I have no destination, I look at the horizon, I wander in my spring.
Lightness must be pulled out, fished out, with a thicker net.
An imaginary of particular gestures that cannot be seen.
I look at the sea, I belong to the water that deforms me, transforms me into an earthly being.
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 