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.


We all know history. A young, sweet and pure, prisoner in the body of a swan, desires freedom, but only true love will break the spell. Her dream is about to come true thanks to a prince. But … before he declares his love for her, the envious twin, the black swan, deceives and seduces him. Devastated, the white swan throws itself off a cliff and kills itself and in death finds freedom.


What do you know of the sacrifices I have made, of how much I have given up

How much life has taken and how little it has given me

How many times I've fallen, how many fucking doors have I knocked

Without anyone ever being there, nobody on the other side

On my side I survived and you must remain silent.
One thing that I often do and that I love to do is rethink the past. I know, on the one hand, that it’s wrong and that I should probably just be thinking about the present moment and trying to do something about the future, but I can’t. I like to see how things change and how I adapt to them too. In the last year, above all, I don’t think there has been a single person who has remained the same. It’s nice to compare the old me with the new one and the reactions I would have had in a given situation totally change; Little remains of that person and one feels a little freer and slightly lost. I did things I swore to myself not to and fell deeper than I thought I was going, only to feel better than I ever was and more aware of change, which is so hard to accept.


Success is not walking the red carpet and having paparazzi always around your neck, success is a past participle, it is a verb that simply tells you: it happened! Something happened. It’s possible! It is the demonstration that it is possible to make things happen, to make life go where you want. Success can also be just being able to cultivate a beautiful vegetable garden, or painting the house the color you want, or being able to travel around Europe on foot. Success is just and only making things happen.
We define every relationship as “love”, without realizing that they are actually just teenage crushes. True love is something else. Love is coming to the end with skinned knees, with a face streaked with tears, with a few scratches on the heart, love is coming to the end and saying “despite everything, I chose you and I fought for you, I hurt. Despite the difficulties, we have come this far ”. Because love is rolling up your sleeves and fighting, fighting until you succeed.
I don’t like spitting on the plate where I ate, but I admit that I threw up some dishes afterwards. I mean, take a nice looking dish and taste it, convinced it’s good, but soon after you start feeling sick with your stomach. You start saying “that sucks!” because it wasn’t that good, in fact it was disgusting. It also happens with people: you know one, it looks good, you start to like it but then you realize that, in reality, it is rotten inside, you realize that it is not what it seemed. That all that good looks was just fiction. And then you start to be disgusted by it, but it does not mean that you are hypocritical because you are spitting on the plate where you ate, it is as if you had swallowed something that then made you gag. Something that has disturbed the regular functioning of the intestinal flora inside. In other words, some people make you want to throw up, but you only notice it later.


“Put up with the hole, I repeat: when too bad things happen we take a while to accept them, so much so that at first they don’t even seem real. And, while the head takes time to understand them, the heart becomes a piece of gruyere. So don’t hate your hole, stroke it every now and then, but don’t get too attached to it. Otherwise it will never pass. ” “In fact it’s so. He will never go through this hole, because it is TOO, too big. ” “Ugh. For the last time, Little Princess: if you leave the hole alone and accept it without many squawking, you will see that within a year it will shrink by itself and even become something precious to have inside you, like … like a secret passage, there. And then maybe it will widen again and it will shrink again, because the holes in our hearts do that. But everything passes, little girl. Everything passes. And now let me go back to the things I have not to do and get out of my way, thank you. “
I don't know if you can see it all the way inside.


Not body.

Within her there is only pure chaos.

There are thoughts upon thoughts,

fears and fears that have buried her and only her.

You know it from his eyes.

Big eyes that seek hope and spit pain.

Empty eyes that laugh so as not to have to cry.

Transparent eyes in which you can see all the doubts and twisted reflections that hide an entire world.

And the words are a sweet melody,

she repeats them so as not to feel alone.

Dream little girl, dream, don't stop doing it.


Feel the emptiness, the heavy one that you have always carried inside but that you are trying with all of yourself to fight. It’s one of the worst feelings because it’s like regressing, rewinding and going back years. Feeling swollen and heavy eyes from tears you can’t stop, no, you just can’t. Like a swollen river, they come copiously on your lips and feel the salt like that of the sea caressing your tongue. Then comes the headache. And you doze off lulled by the emptiness in your heart.
Even the last bit of certainty is broken.

So everything I believed in ceases to exist.

It's like building a person from scratch:

take the clay, shape it again, give it an identity.

The price to pay for abandoning one's childhood

to what was and I believed was forever.

My sky is constantly changing, I know all its shades.

Light peaks.

waves of pitch darkness.

If it is true that we are stardust,

I do not exist.
Every day looks the same.
Nothing has changed from south to north except the geographic coordinates.
The monotony that feeds on me,
the fear that paralyzes me, everything has remained the same.
Only the walls in which I live have changed,
the blankets that welcome my now tired body and my head now worn out by numerous thoughts.
Everything changes around but I can’t change myself, even if I try to save myself I always expect someone to do it for me.


My vaccine is writing. Throwing out everything I have inside makes me feel lighter, as if now it was no longer just part of me, as if writing means giving a part of my “evil of living” to something greater. I want to see my life go by, go on until the end of all this pain. Life is heavy, every day takes an eternity to get to the end and it is always a challenge to do everything in the best way. I can’t define my emotions. I always feel the worry and fear of losing the people I love, otherwise it is difficult to understand what I feel. I think my life is monotonous in all its facets. I think I will turn my life around as soon as I am certain that this dark period will finally be over. Sadness, fear and pain will leave room for happiness, hope and the will to live. I want to be reborn. I want to live. I am willing to accept my shortcomings, even if it won’t be easy. I want to be proud of myself and of what I have managed to do. I will be free. I want to keep writing even if no one will read what I write, because that’s my way of expressing myself. I want to do this every day. I want to make sense of my life.
Pain is fleeting like everything else

But what does it fade into?

Not in apathy, I don't want to; then deeper he must dig

Empty the bowels and infuse the vessels

Fill the gaps in the body

Poisoning the meat.

Maybe then you sweat slowly afterwards

Feverers in the fastigium

Splashes away in liquids.

I do not know if afterwards a quiet deaf walled alive with lime lurks in the bottom of the lungs

Growing up in weakness.

Now I would just like to calm down

but still the crest is far away and the wave has to rise.
I like rainy days, those where you are forced to stay at home but after a few hours I complain because I want to go out. I always try to give good advice to people but when it comes to me, I don’t want to hear from anyone, and I send away the people who would like to help me without giving too much weight to it because I think I am the one who feels bad, not the others who do me. they see suffering. I do things in a hurry, and I often do damage. If I have to cook, I’m in a hurry to finish that thing and I always find myself with dirty clothes and an entire kitchen to clean. I like to design things but not too much because then I get anxious. I don’t like to judge, I only judge my own life, doing it with that of others would be too tiring, and yes, I’m also a bit lazy


There was a bud that was struggling to open. It was hard, green and it seemed that it should never bloom. Then he said to the plant: suck the nourishment of the earth, so I can become fat. The plant sucked with all its roots and the bud got fat. but it remained green and hard. Then he said to the clouds: send down a drizzle, but not so hard, otherwise you will spoil me. The clouds sprinkled the Earth. Then the bud said to the sun: Please warm me with your rays, but don't burn me. The sun caressed him slowly with its warmth. Finally, one morning in April, the bud opened and a magnificent yellow flower that looked like silk came out. A butterfly saw it and said: Such a beautiful flower has never been seen in this garden! The earth, the clouds, the sun were very proud of it. The white bells, streaked with red, began to ring in celebration. Towards evening a child arrived. He saw the beautiful yellow flower and plucked it. Then he tore it up. The garden wept all night.

Previous Older Entries Next Newer Entries

%d bloggers like this: