Sometimes I have felt it hard for many people to get bored, especially on rainy winter days. So why not rediscover something useful to do at home?
"Do-it-yourself" is not building a wardrobe or a table but also small jobs that even the most inexperienced person can do. 
Bricolage is something creative that can make you relax from very busy days or evenings that are too quiet.
DIY allows you to save money, to reuse materials and resources already present in the home (giving them new life!). Furthermore, a self-produced product or object must not be transported, packaged and does not generate waste.


We can all think that poverty is a characteristic of certain undeveloped and economically behind countries. We can all imagine homeless people in bad places and bad weather. But instead thousands of poor people live in places where they should have assistance and help and instead have none. Why?
How do politicians eat their dinner and go to their children who live in a beautiful place if there are so many people out there without dinner? Isn't it absurd that politicians first of all think about spending money on guns instead of giving a home to all those people without a shelter?

What cities exist without these poor people who are ignored by everyone? I cry looking at these people because they seem not to exist for anyone and yet they are there and everyone can see them. Which cities are left without poverty? Is this the civilization we built? Is this progress? My grandparents are Italian and lived in a tiny village in Sicily. I have never seen anyone in that tiny village without a home. You ask me why? I don’t know but I can say that my grandparents used to say that after the war everyone tried to help each other. So is the civilization of aid over? The priests always gave food to those who didn’t have any, my grandparents told me this. Is religion over now then? What caused this inhuman humanity that helps no one? Politicians are all thieves and do not come to the government to help the people but only to demonstrate power and success. Why are we so bad? Why do we let this happen? I grew up with my generous and selfless grandparents but here where I live now there are a lot of selfish people with no love for others. What caused all this non-love for others?

Yet finding yourself like this is a moment, just being without a social network, losing your job, not being able to pay rent, not being able to find work, having had to deal with a separation, having a serious mental disorder, such as depression. People rarely become homeless by choice, at first they are thrown out, expelled from the system. Then a silent mutation takes place, we are transformed into invisible citizens, inhabitants of the interstices of the city, which becomes an improbable but only possible home. In the city, it is sometimes reduced to wandering in the throes of alcohol and hallucinations and then, exhausted, falling asleep at the mercy of the darkness of the night, of metropolitan life, of the street.


En Occidente no cultivamos el espíritu, nos limitamos a imitar algunas actividades orientales: yoga, mantras, respiración que, sin embargo, no forman parte de nuestra cultura. La parte espiritual no se trata y la religión ha sido un obstáculo más que una ayuda para su desarrollo. La verdad es que hacemos indigestión de materia. Con un “poco más de noche” quizás podríamos redescubrir intuiciones, posibilidades y percepciones para luego trasladarlas a la vida cotidiana. Porque es cierto, como dije hace mucho tiempo, provocando una sensación y reacciones de diversa índole, que para despertar es necesario dormir.
Según dos investigadores famosos, Stuart Hameroff y Roger Penrose, la conciencia existe no solo como un mecanismo psicológico, sino como información contenida en vibraciones dentro de ciertas partes de las neuronas, los microtúbulos. Estas vibraciones son las de los “cuantos”, la unidad básica de la física cuántica, que consta de ondas y partículas. Los estudios han demostrado que cuando los microtúbulos dejan de funcionar porque una persona muere, la información que contienen no se puede perder. Para algunos, aquí residiría lo que durante siglos se ha llamado “alma”.
Siempre hemos estado acostumbrados a temer a las criaturas o sucesos aterradores, o lo que es diferente, extraño y muchas veces sin darnos cuenta de que el miedo limita nuestra libertad, pero evita enfrentarnos a lo desconocido. En este caso, el signo no somos nosotros y nuestros potenciales, sino, como dice Osho: “La meditación no es más que un regreso a casa, simplemente descansar un poco dentro del propio ser”. Hermoso Sería encontrarse cerca de su casa, en su casa, atraído por un intento de imaginar una experiencia astral … ¡Podríamos descubrir costuras de nosotros mismos que no conocemos!
El desapego no significa frialdad o poco interés. La falta de esta cualidad, debido a que es una cualidad, puede dificultar seriamente y crear desequilibrios energéticos justo en el Chakra del corazón. El desapego es esencialmente el centro del propio Ser y para ello siempre es necesario permanecer desapegado de todos y de todo. Cuando estamos demasiado involucrados en situaciones, somos incapaces de observar objetivamente la realidad que nos rodea y ni siquiera somos capaces de equilibrar nuestras emociones y pensamientos. Un sano desapego de las cosas nos lleva a estar en armonía con nosotros mismos y con todo lo que existe y vibra a nuestro alrededor y dentro de nosotros, permitiéndonos ejercitar ese amor verdaderamente incondicional, tan difícil de sentir.


Oh abyss, how deep are you? The rain falling on the waves reminds me of the daggers trying to open your shell.

There's a ship down there and I can see it. Beautiful wreck what have they done so hostile to you to end up in this desolate dark valley?

Even the sun's rays do not give peace to your eternal rest.

In this dark and cold place
you are nothing but a mirror of my soul. 

Black, the black soul runs and slides down, among pink jellyfish,
green algae, starfish.

Slips into the white sandy bottom,
where the traces are confused.

My feathers all get wet,
I'm stuck, a bottom in which the crabs tear off their wings,
eyes, dark visions.


We can’t do it. Tomorrow is another day, and I know for sure that you will not fade from my thoughts. You hit me, like a runaway train, you made me die, and you are killing me. You took away my faith, certainty and security, to clothe me with cynicism, pragmatism and criticism. You made me love the complicated, you made me hate simple and careless things. You walked part of this path of rebirth with me, you accompanied me, and then let my hand slip from yours, promising me that you would continue to guide me from a distance. You did, sure, but now I’m too far away to hear you, your voice becomes less and less audible and your figure turns into shadow. I don’t see you behind me anymore, and I don’t even see you in front of me. I don’t hear you scream, or even whisper. I don’t feel you touch my hand, and I don’t feel you leave it. But my mind does not want to let go of the memory of you, it feeds on the hope of your return, or rather, it hopes that you can join me in this place that without you seems so dark and desolate. I need you because I have lost my way. How can your absence leave no traces?
I don’t want any crate, I want a tiger-streaked sarcophagus and a painted face as round as the moon, with wide eyes up. I want to look like I’m watching them when they come digging me through dull minerals and roots. I can already see them – pale faces, at an astral distance. Now I’m nothing, I’m not even in swaddling clothes. I think of them without fathers or mothers, like the primeval gods. They will wonder if I was important. I should like candied fruit and save my days! My mirror fogs up – a few more breaths and it will no longer mirror anything at all. Flowers and faces whiten like a sheet. I don’t trust the spiritual. It slips away like vapor in dreams, through the crevices of the mouth or eyes. I cannot stop it, nor will it ever return. But this is not the case. They remain, with that particular little sparkle, warmed by so many hands, with a buzz of pleasure. If I get cold on the soles of my feet, the blue eye of my turquoise will console me. May my copper casseroles be with me, may my earthenware pots bloom around me nocturnal, sweet-smelling flowers. They will wrap me in bandages, they will lay my heart under my feet in a nice little package. I will hardly recognize myself. It will be all dark, but the brilliance of these small objects will be sweeter than Ishtar’s face.


Let's embark on water !!! " I leave the command of the ship, we might as well, we are in the middle of the storm, the men are shouting, and in the confusion I have simply understood that we are taking on water.
The sky is rancid slime, disgusting fishmen climb onto our ship, the rain brings the salty smell mixed with the rotting disgust of the beasts, I spit for the umpteenth time, and I remember the taste of oranges that would now be relief from this nausea that it made me completely lose control of everything. I think about dinners, I think about what I left on dry land, while the vision is now a real similarity, between knife and sword, one cuts the flesh, the other cuts one of these abominations, they speak to me, voices, do you hear them? They call me, or maybe they are the screams of the monsters and my men dying, soft sounds drowned out by the dense storm. I had brought with me a young man who wanted to take up my job, now he is mutilated chewed by his jaws, I see the thousands of mutilated men in the name of a philosophy of life like mine. The war, the murders, a voice tells me not to worry, forgiveness awaits me, the love I left somewhere, however, I don't know if it still awaits me.
Like a shiver the voices are more and more intense, and more and more complex, I can no longer decipher, but before I could, the ship is penetrated from the center by mammoth tentacles, putrid and black, while in the eye of the maelstorm the abominable colossus is shown , looks at me, as destruction surrounds me, the sky aligns and speaks to me, I can see the reflection of his eyes and see the whole cosmos, every microscopic part of me bubbling, I can feel the inside of the inside of the inside of a tiny pin in my body, I don't know how to describe it.
A blade sinks into my back while now all the thin air just before becomes thick, the breath of my murderer produces in me a retching that ends in a lake of blood, I fall to my knees, I still look at the cosmos reflected in the waste of myself, the blade is pulled out, finally the call, the voices, it has all a if ... Awake, I'm on the coast, dawn, I'm at my house, I'm alive, while my hand mixes with the wet sand that I crush and touch , numb fingers wake up pampered by grains.
I don't hear the voices anymore, it's just you and me.


Before, I was out for a walk, trying to capture a sunset, inside this dark sky. I love walking, my nerves relax and my thoughts take oxygen. Walking and observing what surrounds me enriches me, fills me with emotions and, at the same time, empties me of all the anxieties that I have accumulated. A bit like when you take a nice shower to get rid of all the dirt! In short, while I was walking, this verb resounded strongly in my head: “to welcome”. And I thought it almost cured me to welcome my tachycardia, this absurd way of perceiving the world without protection, without shields. It almost cured me to be able to admit that maybe I’m not that bad, even if my soul often trembles and I never feel completely at ease. It almost healed me to start seeing my over-sensitivity as a superpower and not as a condemnation. The real condemnation is not being able to feel, not being able to love. After all, perhaps the anxious have only the most cumbersome feelings and hopes. But is it a mortal sin to have hearts everywhere?
Before, I was out for a walk, trying to capture a sunset, inside this dark sky. I love walking, my nerves relax and my thoughts take oxygen. Walking and observing what surrounds me enriches me, fills me with emotions and, at the same time, empties me of all the anxieties that I have accumulated. A bit like when you take a nice shower to get rid of all the dirt! In short, while I was walking, this verb resounded strongly in my head: “to welcome”. And I thought it almost cured me to welcome my tachycardia, this absurd way of perceiving the world without protection, without shields. It almost cured me to be able to admit that maybe I’m not that bad, even if my soul often trembles and I never feel completely at ease. It almost healed me to start seeing my over-sensitivity as a superpower and not as a condemnation. The real condemnation is not being able to feel, not being able to love. After all, perhaps the anxious have only the most cumbersome feelings and hopes. But is it a mortal sin to have hearts everywhere?
Cloaked in the night
I mirror myself in the moon
I slide without form to the rhythm of my soul
Fast glide over your dream worlds
Nobody can see me or hear me
I am pure and infinity quilted
I sneak into your golden clouds
Each is different, unlimited shades of personal beauty
Let me peck until I'm full
I glide over luminous forests, dive into lakes of sighs
Give your best unconscious
The walk, however, comes to an end
I allow myself one last dance
After all, his is always the most full-bodied: we are beasts that rock each other following an innate melody
I would like to hold back but the veil is breaking
Wait for me and I will come back to you when all is quiet and the world does not exist


That’s how it goes: we always wait. Let the rain pass, let it be a new day, something, someone. It is that waiting that we care about. We stand there, motionless, waiting. Something. Someone. And then we are afraid of losing everything else, waiting. To lose ourselves in waiting. To get lost. To recognize us. Or not to recognize us anymore. Landscapes that escape sight. Remote laughter. Shy smiles. Tears that taste of the sea. Promising new beginnings that seem to rip the sky, make time disappear, turn the world upside down. Notes of a piano to decorate the rhythm of the night. Random words to color white spaces. Random words. And then we are also afraid of saving ourselves. We always wait. Let the rain pass. Let it be a new day. New notes to compose lullabies. Vapor shades to color white spaces. Something. Someone.
I was having dinner at someone else’s house. It suddenly occurred to me to say something. I know it was important. I know I really cared. Seconds passed as I searched for the right words. Maybe I was also looking for the courage to throw an uncomfortable truth in everyone’s face. And I’ve lost the moment forever. I was about to speak when the power went out due to lightning. There was some confusion. That unexpected interruption of my thoughts. And when the light returned, I was no longer able to pick up the thread. I no longer remembered what I meant. I felt only the painful echo of that sensation, of that unexpressed urgency. There is even now that memory. I feel like someone who has lost the opportunity to say a fundamental thing, capable of changing the course of an existence, for that stupid stalling of mine.
I feel how everything always remains static without any kind of stimulus, on the other hand what should I be happy for? … I feel like I don’t have a purpose … this thing worries me … I feel forced into something that I am not … I have never been so apathetic … but why? Why? … In my opinion, in this life I have done everything wrong. The study is too late … love? a utopia as I conceive it … a family? it never existed or maybe I don’t remember it anymore for how long it has been since I maybe had one … and then … only music comes to mind … the only thing I have in my ears right now … the only thing that distracts me from everything … the only thing that has never betrayed me … the only one that is still worth living for … I have always lived trying to feel useful for someone, accepted, loved, but it didn’t help and while I am locked in my room I feel a great anger for not having been a slave to that one emotion that was worth living for: music … singing … And if now I even think about this or to follow the wave, I would say that my mother did the same around 30 (so even before me) and in the end where did she go? .. Those of my family seem to repeat themselves… but if I don’t find a way… if I don’t find something that makes me happy and loved… I feel crazy. Blessed are those who manage to live on the ephemeral and superficial, who do not feel the need to look within themselves to understand who they are, that if they had had a criminal organization in their hands they would have thought they had the world at their feet. Well I’m not the one … and sometimes I wonder if I’m the wrong one then … what all horoscopes call “contrary bastian” … What I want is to discover new things, make them discover, teach them, share them, visit different places, evolve, see how things change, marvel and amaze people in their inner beauty, let me infect and infect them in turn


It has been so long that I no longer remember the time when "the bathroom" was just "the bathroom".
The time when the shower was only a place to rinse, the mirror only a means to observe oneself and the bathrobe only a piece of cloth to dry off ..
There comes a time when the bathroom becomes the most intimate place.
Lock the door and ... silence.
With an exhausting calm you begin to undress your clothes and all thoughts;
You enter the shower, the hot steam envelops you, you wash away all thoughts .. all problems.
The more you rub the dead skin off your body, the lighter you feel… almost reborn.
The water flows and flows and flows ..
You get out of the shower you dry yourself, the bathrobe squeezes you tightly, in a tight grip .. but it doesn't bother no, it's probably the only hug you will receive during the day so you do it well and you are satisfied with this little cuddle ..
For a moment you even close your eyes, and fuck ... it almost seems like he's hugging you.
But then he comes and brings you back to reality.
He is the only one who never lies, at the cost of hurting you.
You mirror yourself in its reflection and you see yourself: so alone, cold and wet .. your hair straight and disheveled like spaghetti surrounds your pale face.
Overly swollen lips begin to tremble.
The worst is when you meet your own gaze, you stare at yourself, endless minutes ..
Then everything stops, someone knocks on the door.


This period, this moment, is so difficult, I find myself in a situation that I now know well, all too well, this sickening apathy, this gray that makes your head crack, this desire to cry for no reason, this littleness, this feeling like this. insignificant. Yet now it’s different, or it should, now I know how to get up, a shower, friends, a bit of entertainment, and nothing goes by but at least I pay less attention to it. Instead, here I am wanting to hopelessly throw myself on the bed and do nothing else, drown myself in a sleep that numbs my thoughts, canceling everything until it passes. Ignoring who I wouldn’t want to ignore. Struggling with myself between what I know to be rational and what I would like. Wondering once again if I can do it, knowing the answer is yes but thinking it is no. Want to mess up. The worst part? Having to hold me back. Being forced not to isolate myself, having to keep myself up because I’m not physically alone, I can’t make it clear that I’m down. Worse still? Knowing they are just complaining.
Then the future, this huge messed up nothing, that can’t take shape anywhere, in any way, the many possibilities in which not even one seems to be the right piece of the puzzle, which I keep turning and turning, trying to fit it everywhere. , to no avail, to the point that I will probably pick one at random and break it in an attempt to match it with something that has nothing to do with its half, with the suitable continuum. The question always remains the same, why can’t I be different? Why do I always have to get complicated?
I am tired. I can no longer follow this stream of thoughts that hurts, which always brings me to the same point, making my heart beat madly, while my head weighs and my stomach hurts from the pangs. I don’t feel like it anymore, not even dreaming, that in the morning I wake up with a sigh of melancholy in my mouth and the rain beating on the window to remind me that it can always get worse, that the 90-year load is not even close to arriving yet. . Sometimes I think I would like to go back and make the opposite decision but then I realize that I would never do it, that it doesn’t even make sense, that if I had made another decision it wouldn’t be me either, and that’s okay, but what is tiring having to pay the bill then, I didn’t expect so much. I did not expect this useless greyness all around, this impatience, this disinterest of mine for everyone. I participate in the game only because I have to and because I hope one day to forget that I am participating and believe that it is all I want, but we are not even close; I am on a mountain and the world around me is so distant and confused. I wish, I wish it so much, but it will never be and every ever is a bump that vibrates inside me and exhausts me and everything is sharper and easier to hurt me. I look around and everything is gray, I lose the contours and I am gray too.
I’m not sure about my choices, the people around me, my mistakes and my reasons. I’m not sure of many things. In short, in life I have very few certainties. Among these is the certainty that Love does not change you. If a person induces you to behaviors that fit you badly, in contrast to your disposition, that distort your way of seeing the world, then that person does not love you. When they say that Love makes us better, I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you, it’s bullshit. Love does not make it better or worse, Love is Love as we are what we are, we are what we are. Just as Love for ourselves is revealed in recognizing and accepting ourselves as such, so also Love for our neighbor is revealed in recognizing and accepting what is. Wanting, consciously or not, to change a person means not accepting him for what he is; to persist in seeing a person not for what he is, but for what we would like him to be means not recognizing him at all. And this, my dear, does not mean to love. Never.

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