My mother was a fashion designer and always wanted to work but she lived in a country where men didn't want her to work. Men thought her fantasy was evil. 
he wanted to dress black women in a country where they always wore dark colors and black. She fought to bring color to a sad country full of people who always judged her. 
But she continued to create, she was always there for all those women who wanted to be not only dressed but also listened to. But men judged her badly because she put strange ideas of freedom to those women who were often treated badly by their husbands. I'm talking about a small town that wasn't as modern as it is today. 
Those were bad times for women, and men expected women to all stay home and have children. 
My mother had received the gift of creativity and she would design her own dress patterns in order to bring some happiness into the lives of those sad people. 
But everyone made war on her and so when she met my father she was forced to leave her country because she understood that it was very difficult to destroy a tradition that had been going on for many years. 
She was sad about her choice, which my father had requested, but she always went back to her country and took an interest in those women. She was a kind of fairy who wore beautiful things, who listened, who did magic with clothes and everyone loved her. 
She passed on this creativity to me but I live in a country now where women only think about money, where they never smile and where they only think about buying dark and black clothes and I can't do anything because I'm judged and criticized and I feel very uncomfortable because i don't do the same things they do and i don't have any friends and i only listen to my cats. 
What is the use of so much imagination if you can't give it to anyone? What is the use of creating so many things if I then have to keep them locked up in the attic?


It's all strange yet I feel like living MY life. I am living. I don't know how to explain it, it's a very strong feeling I have when I look at the days that go by and they're flying away from me and I don't feel like I'm wasting any of them. It seems to me that I have wasted so many years in vain, letting myself survive and undergo life, mostly happy to pass it serenely, albeit passively. To this day I see that it wasn't my life, it wasn't me. I'm the one who ends up spending the evenings on the sofa watching TV or reading, I don't have great pretensions to "go crazy", I'm calm. But I choose it, nobody imposes it on me.
I really don't know how to explain this overwhelming feeling I have of feeling like I'm living my life first hand. Earlier this year I remember being overexcited, in a constant state of elation, and it was beautiful. Today I'm calmer and sometimes I have a few moments where I feel discouraged (especially if there are significant hitches like two weeks ago in Desenzano…), but generally I'm SATISFIED. Not elated, not maddeningly happy, not skyrocketing. I am down to earth and look around and feel good. Aware that everything isn't rosy, that life is shit, that there are messes all the time.
And that in light of all the bad things, even more so, I want to treasure all the moments in which I can feel calm and satisfied, in my little days, in what has been and in what will be, looking at the end of this 2022 with a small smile, maybe a slightly mischievous smile. 


Sometimes I try not to remember how my father died. Sometimes, however, I hear his voice that still asks me how I am. My father always asked me how I was. 
My mother never asked me, on the contrary she told me that I should have died and not my father. Sometimes I try to forget certain bad words from my mother. 
I light a candle, light incense, pretend he's home and wait to celebrate something with me. I miss him very much. 
My mother was always there to draw fashion sketches, perhaps for this reason I don't like fashion. My father had a passion for watches in his spare time.
He liked to fix broken mechanisms, stood with the magnifying glass and tried to fix them. It was good to see those miracles and after all they were ticking again.
It was magic and I was a child and I looked at him as if he were a magician.


Dreams in the drawer, underwear on the bed, doubts come out of the closet. Yet it always takes me twenty minutes to choose the shoes. 
I open the shutters, another rainy day. The neighbor yells at her little girl, she doesn't know how lucky she is to have her.
 Maybe we never realize the little miracles that happen in our life, for one reason or another, we are too worried about what doesn't happen. 
I think another day has passed, even at 8 in the morning. I don't have time to start that has already passed. 
Like sand from your hands, you would like it to gush out of your palms to the bitter end. I am hungry for life, I need air, I want to hug everyone before being a memory.
To slide.
The sensation of entering the skin of the train.
I walk away, the body following the thought.
I'm not here, I'm elsewhere.
They are not my feet anchored to the shiny, dirty floor.
It is not my eyes that see the reflection of these buildings that alter with uncultivated trees and abandoned cars.
This whole periphery is not mine, the strength that abandons me, the memory that presses to get out of my head.
It is forbidden to cross the tracks.
Forbidden to leave thoughts.
I wait for them to leave me.
How I abandoned you.


Take me away from here, away from these faces so false and these empty words. Take me to the mountains, away from the whole world. Take me where there is nothing but our breaths, where there is no other love but nature. 
Take me to an abandoned house, let's look at the dry leaves through that broken window. Take me among the trees that prevent the sun from illuminating my face, which with their branches form a roof made of time and our sylvan past. 
Take me to the sea, yes, to the sea. Here we go. Take me to the seashore when the weather is bad, when the waves are stronger than the heartbeat. You know that I also like the sea in winter, the clouds, the foam and the shells piled up. 
Take me to the sea to watch the waves that end up on the shore, and start again from further away. Listening to the wind that speaks and the sand that listens. 
Then let me look at the horizon, let me think that you need a different life, that there is no need to change places but that everything happens inside me because the forest, the sea, nature and all this exist inside my soul for always.


I'm afraid of my frustration.

It is an evil that I have always fought against. I'm afraid to show it, to know what people think of it. I'm afraid it could hurt others, me, strangers and even more so the people closest to me.

I try to know it, to touch it, to approach it, to act it when I think it is appropriate to do so and to sublimate it when I think it is too much, in every sense. Then I think of those who, even for the breath of wind, would mount one of those Macedonian armies organized in such a way as to defend themselves from every attack, every possible counter-move.

These are people I know, with whom unfortunately I have to deal with, I have to work with, people with whom I should find common sense, some form of compromise but who instead because of frustration, repressed anger and unresolved issues , they only know how to argue, forcing themselves to always show their teeth.

These are people from whom I promised myself to stay away, because their self-esteem, their devaluation is what they think others are trampling on, not imagining that for the other (in this case me) only their work counts, the their own growth and that their existence is what it is.

What a pain these people do to me. What a pity they make me. To smile at others, to be kind to others but to feel an evil grow within oneself, a confusion that makes one perceive everything bad, everything against the self, everything against an evil done personally to them, exclusively them.


It is a small discomfort that comes when you realize that the world is not quite what we imagined as children. The world is false, mean, selfish, too big perhaps. You have to have the guts to get up in the morning and face it. Too many bad people, too many strangers ready to criticize you, too many people who pretend to know you and don't know you at all, but above all too many friends who stab in the back and few sincere people around. We must have courage to chase a dream with the fear that those who have more "chance" than us will steal it from us; and by possibility we mean neither mental nor physical, nor anything that has a positive meaning. It takes courage to just live in this world. With these people. There are few things that allow us to stay alive, to move, walk, dream .. and perhaps the very meaning of life is not so much to be fulfilled, as to find a stimulus every day to face the world .. and it is already a lot .


Who I am? I have been struggling to answer this question lately. I happen to hang out with different people and be a different person every time, but it's not really me. Sometimes I find it hard to understand how I have to act, what to do for my life, for my future. I thought it would be enough to have at least an idea of ​​what to do, but that's not enough. I find myself trapped again in a vicious circle of things I hate, people I can barely stand, an uncertain future. Yet when I happen to hang out with other people, I realize how much other people see me in a much, much better way than I do. They praise my actions almost as if I were some kind of hero, while I would like to say "Hey, look, I just don't understand what is special about me!". But these are only the worst times. There are others where I find myself giving an account of my life and I find myself being incredibly proud of myself. I am happy with myself. I'm having the courage to live as I want, to have experiences, to live as I say, and not as others want, as society wants. Often someone makes irony about my height (or rather, my baseness), calling me "darling", "little girl", then they are surprised when they learn that this little girl had the courage to travel alone around the world. My strength is an inner strength, the courage to look one's enormous difficulties in the face, to give a kick in the ass to that shyness that sometimes paralyzes me, the courage to dare always and in any case. Who am I? Maybe I will never really understand it fully, but for now I feel satisfied with what I see in the mirror.


I am sitting outside, the last glow of the sun on my face. It's cold, but I don't want to go back inside for a sweater. seeing goosebumps is comforting, it makes you feel that something can touch me and I am not indifferent to it. Today I tidied up, dusted off, wrote an important chapter in my life. I took care of myself calmly, here the time seems to be less and less. There are those who think of me, I don't know what to think. I smile at a friendship that blossoms despite the ashes left around and I tell myself that it is not true that the conclusions are the end. I can say with confidence now: I'm fine and I don't hold a grudge. I am so proud of myself that I would hug myself tightly. perhaps it can be a remedy for the cold.


I love my madness

My ways

How I grew up

How I fought the bad times

How I got up despite the blows

The hard blows, divorce and bereavement

I am proud to be who I am

With people

With my family

Each of us should find his peace

Being satisfied and finding goals

Fighting life every day

With the shield on his chest and the sword of values

Dare to win

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