HOLY DAWN IN A TRAIN STATION

Sometimes you realize that time passes and so do people, friends and years. Friends can be compared to a train, the train passes you went on it until your stop arrives and you get off and you are sure that one day you will never get on it again, then there are the trains that you miss those trains that could have made you different life, even just for a day or even for an hour, they get lost like a lighter, a hat, a photo or even like losing sleep, but sooner or later another train passes, you buy another lighter, buy another hat, and take another photo, even if you are aware that it will never be like the one before, people leave lagoons, memories, moments, unanswered questions, emotions.

Sometimes you just want to be hugged and reminded that you're not alone, but you've become so good at hiding your feelings that by now you don't understand what you really feel, hate?, resentment?, happiness?

The human mind is sensational all those various nuances, that way of seeing through things, those various memories stuck together as if they were a puzzle, the various memories you carry inside, broken hearts, emotions never felt, people never faced.

There are moments that grow and together with them you grow too, you learn to be arrogant and without a heart, then they ask you why and why you've reduced yourself to all this, but you know it's useless to try to explain it would be just words thrown away case because I can't find a logical thread either, so you keep smiling and repeat: "everything is fine, don't worry"

COMET

I fought white ghosts to come and find you, Jesus, 
I crossed my inner deserts and all fears, 
to come and discover you, and I'm tired, 
I walked too much, 
I broke many shoes and lost a lot of water on the long journey. 
And I didn't know where to go, I'm a homeless girl, 
with a star on my forehead, 
and they call me Comet, 
and I don't know where to go anymore 
and I follow your star because Christmas will come 
but I will die in a dumpster or maybe at the sea, 
maybe not you will see me among the sheep and the shepherds, 
perhaps I will be elsewhere and I will finally have found the end of my pain.
Dear Jesus, here I am, I'm a girl destroyed by life, 
and I'm not a beautiful presence in your crib and I won't be able 
to stay there or will you welcome me anyway?
They say you were a friend of the poor 
nd I have nothing to give you, and my heart is tired, 
and I'm tired, 
and the journey is over and still deserted inside me, 
no plants, no flowers, I woke up this morning moody.
The sky is gray inside me and I have only one thought 
and will that star shine for me too that night? 
It will probably be the last thing I will see in this life.

CHILDREN FREEZING

Alarm!
Alarm!
An umbrella can't stop the rain,
two umbrellas can't stop the rain, 
three umbrellas break, bombs explode, 
metal rain is not angelic, 
bombs are not divine, 
this sugar candy won't change a thing.
Every bitter bite is a child's breath.
Every death is the end of the future of all the children of the world.
I look at the sky and the dark clouds have arrived and the winter is freezing.
The animals inside get warm 
but there are many victims out there in the cold 
and I can't sleep thinking about them.
Alarm!
Alarm!
Children don't deserve this pain.
Who are you who have no feelings?
Who are you who live without thinking?
Will this war be the last?
This pain will be there last.
My bed has no peace, 
it moves under the bombs, 
I hear them coming and I think of those missing children,
to mothers who try to put them to sleep.
How did Jesus sleep when it was cold? 
How can he remain silent in the face of this disaster?
My food turns bitter because I cry,
this war does not end, I cry, I pray, but human beings are deaf, 
they have become inhuman,
total alienation of armies and young boys.
I pray for Ukrainian and Russian children.
I make no difference, 
I understand everyone's pain but where is God? 
What are you doing? Please call God!

DRACONIS

Black butterflies in the stomach,
blue feelings up and down,
they go somewhere in the purple.
Shades that come from wings that don't fly,
emotions stagnate,
psychological distortions,
mental allusions,
immortal threads.
Do you know that the flames sleep inside the dark ash 
that paints the bodies that dance in the Sufi circle?
Return to Draconian breath, 
remember what can be fragmented without breaking.
Volcanoes are already breaking up the lands,
already the dance of the heart becomes a quantitative science.
I have opened an electromagnetic field, 
you can become a tiny boson to open yourself to dust wings.
A drop of light advances in the hourglass of time,
like a tiny dust fills the horizon, 
I walk and I'm barefoot in the sea, 
together with my black butterflies.
I'm inside your room, I see the thread of dreams that pervades you, 
I'm barefoot and I'm starting to tremble, 
I'm starting to fade into the pixels of your mind.
I feel the heat, the pain, 
the wings growing too big to stand still, 
I abandon all footing, 
I can't get dark again.

GATES OF ASSYRIA

BOREDOM

No more repeating commitments. No more performance anxiety. We learn to get bored and enjoy the benefits of boredom. With some caveats
Boredom scares us. We perceive it as an inner malaise, a condition of discomfort, with which we find it difficult to live. Life becomes dark, in the dim light of a sense of emptiness and abandonment, and we end up in the vortex of anxiety, a compulsion to move, to do something. A real waste of energy and emotion. Boredom breaks through in the field of depression, and sometimes it represents only a daily mask, difficult to remove.
In literature, great writers (I mention one for all: Alberto Moravia) have recounted the man devoured by boredom, and I happened to meet accomplished, rich people with a good career in progress, however afflicted by the boredom virus. They are really difficult to date, they have no peace. They transmit anxiety, they always have the frenzy to change places and company. They do not enjoy the pleasure of any stable moment of the day. They can't draw a breath without turning it into a gasp of stress.
Long live boredom. Long live the rediscovery of something that we have lost in the era of haste, of performance anxiety, of wanting to do everything immediately, and of the times of super speed imposed by the technological domain. Long live boredom which relaxes, allows us to detach, helps us distance ourselves from anxiety and stress and accompanies us to a more sober and more serene lifestyle. A positive boredom, constructive and not demeaning and pessimistic. Long live boredom, for adults and children. For grandparents who experience the fatigue of aging and for children who are in a frenzy of growth. Many believe that inactivity is bad and can trigger the vicious cycle of laziness. In reality, idleness stimulates creativity. It reduces stress and tension and helps us cultivate new ideas. Does this mean we have to become idle? Absolutely not, rather let's re-evaluate the value and sense of boredom. Boredom obsesses us, it scares us, and we always feel it lurking. Sometimes we try to avoid it even by taking refuge in the virtual world, but in this case the remedy can be worse than the disease, because boredom is associated with a sense of loneliness. And we are even frightened by the risk that our children might get bored: a useless and wrong fear.

THEY KEEP DYING

I have known mothers who quit their jobs to raise their children.
I have known wives who have left their careers to look after a child.
I've known girls who dropped out of college to help their families.
I've known female students who stopped attending classes because their boyfriend was jealous.
I have known women who have always tried to protect their children and then died killed by their father.
I've known girls who can't go out at night without risking being chased and harassed.
I've known women who thought it was love and instead it was someone who wanted a personal slave.
Do women sacrifice too much for others?
Yes, they should learn to think more about themselves.
In 2021 in Italy a woman was killed every 72 hours.
In America, a woman is killed every 5 hours.
In Brazil, a woman is killed every 2 hours.
I know women who no longer want to be with anyone because they are afraid.
I know girls who no longer want to go out with anyone because they are afraid.
Do you know men who are afraid of fonts?
Do you know guys who can't go out at night?
Do you know men who sacrifice their careers to raise children?
We are in 2022.
Yes, it's 2022 and women continue to die killed by men.
And there is not only physical death but also psychological death.
Because there are women who become shadows, ghosts, ruins of themselves, with no more dreams or hopes.
And they keep dying.

CAPITALISM IS KILLING IMAGINATION

He who creates does not produce. Who creates is not seen. Everything that is not produced by companies goes unnoticed. What is created and is not a product of capitalism is as if they do not exist. And so in the same way creators are non-existent for society. They're on the sidelines. In their creative corners where they despair and cry. Their creations are not products and they are not existent. Capitalism has made them useless. In the past, creators such as Leonardo, Michelangelo and others were welcomed at court, well-liked and in demand. But today's creatives and artists stay out of every door, unless they produce something "salable". This dead company is based only on earnings and money is killing the imagination.

DIED SUDDENTLY

MY CREATIVE MOTHER

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?

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