MY DAYS

i spend my days waiting. waiting for the water to boil and my tea to be ready. for spring to come back. for more daylight. the oil in the pan to heat up. a “hey i miss you” or “can you help me out for a second?” or “you want to hang out?” text. for my phone to finish charging. for good news. flowers on the table. the next hug. “hey, you got the job!”. waiting for the sun. to set. to rise. to see both. for summer to be around the corner. a good song. a falling star. a text back. i spend my time waiting to be remembered. i spend my time repeating that tomorrow will be better. tomorrow will be better. i spend my days waiting and waiting and waiting. i spend my days waiting unbearably.

I tell you a mystery: It has been appointed to those who are born twice to die once, but by no means shall they die a second time. Yet those who do not come to Me in repentance shall be born once and die twice. Yet there are some among this generation who shall never taste death, having already passed from judgment into life. Thus to My chosen elect, there is a death of the body unto resurrection. Yet for those still living at My return, there is a death of another kind – the crucifying of your old man with his sinful ways, the putting on of the new man who is renewed in the knowledge of the Truth, restored in the image of Him who created him. Thus when one is born into this world, the child and the mother suffer the pangs of childbirth, until the birth is complete. In the same way, those born of the Spirit shall suffer travail. For they are not yet separated from their flesh or this world, in which they continually stumble.

That eye contact be like gazing into the depths of your soul like I am on the precipice of the void and I am about to fall in.. earth shattering heartbeats, don’t break the gaze. You have the most beautiful eyes, I find that I could look into them for days.. it’s as if our souls are touching intimately, through the looking glass as if we were looking into the future and the past. It’s the craziest feeling looking directly into another soul, I see you, you see me, bared and scared, at any second I could run away..

THE GOOD ANONS

ANCESTORS

May your neighbors respect you

may your troubles leave you

may the ancestors protect you and heaven welcome you.

May the luck of the Celtic Hills embrace you.

May the blessings of the Gods contemplate you.

May your pockets be heavy and your heart light.

May good luck follow you

every day and every night

a wall against the wind, a ceiling for the rain

an herbal tea by the fire

laughter that comforts those who are pure in spirit

and may your heart be filled with whatever you desire.

May the Gods be with you and bless you

that you see your children's children

may misfortune be brief for you and may it fill you with blessings.

May you know nothing but happiness from this day forward.

May fate grant you many years of life….

and may the flame of love be in your heart forever.

So it is every day, 

Every month

Every year …. in time .

DESTINY

A man's destiny depends on the passion that inhabits him. passion gives you a destiny and destiny gives you a road and the intimacy of the road brings relief from life's wounds.
a man's passion lives in the place and in the doing where he forgets himself. forgetting oneself means losing many rights that the image imposes on us. a wounded image will hardly let go and by not letting go it will not meet its passion.
It is a struggle between the wounds of one's story and the right of passion to dictate the path in which your destiny receives a true name.
Everyone puts a limitation on themselves, everyone has an unmentionable situation from which they flee out of fear or shame. 
In other words, each puts a reinforced concrete wall between himself and others so that others cannot approach beyond a certain distance, in order to protect himself from the fundamental trauma or wound of his psychology. 
This terrifying situation will always be avoided, even if unconsciously sought after, hindering full self-expression and therefore freedom; 
until something shocking appears capable for the first time of undermining fear from the top of the necessities, of breaking this form of self-defense which otherwise would always be re-enacted endlessly as an extreme act of survival. 
Giving up an act of survival is like dying, it's about assassinating one's old identity. From this point of view, the phrase that in order to be able to love one must be able to die many times, makes sense.
All things basic and natural get even the least reactive humans to get going. So love, eating and drinking are the three things your nature asks you to achieve.
The second two are necessary for one's livelihood, while the first is necessary for the continuation of the species.

STORY OF A DARK FOREST

Once upon a time there was a wonderful forest where every tree was not just a plant, but a living being. The trees themselves could not move, but offered their canopy as a home for the birds that flew among them. Mushrooms and fruits of every color were born among their roots and many animals found not only refuge, but an opportunity to have fun and play with each other. The men who visited this forest not only marveled, but considered the forest as a sacred place and respected the plants and all the beings that lived in it as divine creatures.
However, a black prince also had his home in this forest. He was an envious wizard and hated all light and color. He didn't like the joy of the woods, on the contrary, it really bothered him. And above all he was jealous of the respect that was expressed by men towards the plants of the wood and not towards him. The wizard cast a spell that made all faces and colors disappear and the woods became gray and shady.
For centuries the forest remained like this, an oak was only more of an oak, an ash an ash, there was no longer any trace of the wonderful life it once was. And the men avoided stopping in the dark of the woods, only a few criminals looking for a refuge hid in its gray shadow. The forest closed in more and more and finally became an impenetrable enemy of man, considered almost a dead and evil place.
One day, by chance, a fairy arrived from afar, from the world of light, with a group of elves – seeing the black and dead forest, she had compassion and wanted to wake him up. With the strength of her love she summoned a star from the sky that descended among the trees and transformed itself on earth into a marvelous pinwheel. Dancing around the luminous pinwheel, the fairy and the elves managed to awaken the soul of the forest and thus not only the faces and the joy of the plants returned, but also the respect of men for the value of life in the forest ...

THERE’S NO MORE TIME

But we, after all, are all works of art. We are art when we tie the long hair that covers our faces in a ponytail or when we listen to that song that makes our wrists tremble and makes our eyes water. We are art when we dance, alone, in an empty room, following a music that runs through our veins and makes us feel free. We are art when with our tears we write poems on our cheeks, on our arms. We are art when we fall asleep over our favorite book or stay awake, late into the night, with a thousand sighs stuck in our throats and open cuts on our skin that burn, lashed by the air, relieved only by the vision of the stars, which burn, in the freezing January sky and we, enraptured by their beauty, just want to shine with them, like them, away from that cold balcony where we stare at them. For us the universe is art. The planets are art. The stars are art. Not us. We who are scribbles, intricate, twisted tangles, made on dirty and damaged sheets. Yet if only we could see each other when we talk about who or what we love. Our eyes shine with a light identical to that which the stars give off. And it is not a reflection, it is not external to us, but internal, it is hidden in our heart. Because we are nothing but simple fragments of fallen stars that have never lost the strength to shine. We are art.

EVADING

In that space where the dimension of human fragility lives - which constitutes us deep inside - also resides the highest spiritual possibility of human living: the ability to be able to treat and look at the fragility that inhabits me and the other.

Evading, or not being able to deal with, this aspect that is so fundamental in a relationship - that is, that of "fragility" - is the first passport for accessing the archipelagos of loneliness and failures... Always starting from oneself, from own fragility, weakness, from our lack of love.
May all sorrows turn to dust, turn you to ashes.

Let the fire burn them and turn into dust, all your pains.

May the fire burn them, may the fire burn them and new flowers will arrive!

Heal your pain, my daughter, with the heat of the sun and the cold of the moon.

Sweeten your mornings with the aroma of lavender, rosemary, eucalyptus

And let the calm come.

LOST MEMORY

PUTIN AND ZELENSKY NOW IT’S TIME TO STOP

YOU TALK ABOUT VICTORY
YOU TALK ABOUT NUCLEAR WEAPONS
ENOUGH!!!
ENOUGH!!!
THE TIME HAS COME TO END THIS WAR!!! 
YOU ARE NO LONGER AWARE OF WHAT YOU ARE DOING.
YOU NEED TO END THIS MADNESS.
ENOUGH!!!!
YOU ARE BOTH WITHOUT A BRAIN.
THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE DEAD AND SPEAK OF VICTORY?
PUTIN AND ZELENSKY THIS IS ENOUGH ENOUGH!!!
END IT HERE!!!

THIS WAR IS STUPIDITY
THIS WAR IS IDIOCY.
THIS WAR IS DESTROYING BOTH RUSSIANS AND UKRAINIANS.
ENOUGH!!!
ZELENSKY AND PUTIN YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND VIOLENCE ANYMORE. 
THIS IS ENOUGH!!!
STOP THIS WAR!!! 

ZELENSKY AND PUTIN STOP THIS WAR!!!!

WHAT ARE YOU TEACHING YOUR CHILDREN?

EVANESCENT

I was lying in the thick grass that adorned the perimeter of a stream. Something had kidnapped my young mind, starting to lead it, undisturbed, among the aching sighs of people I would never have known. I was gazing up at the clear sky and caressing the flowers, when a memory crueler than any I could ever have suspected of having descended like a bolt of lightning and struck my innocence.
The dream dirty my mind
and the mad man keeps saying to me:
"I'm the rabbit in the hat".
But I tell him that I'm not Alice.
Every pain, every pleasure. Is this what forges me and has forged me? I spent my whole short life running away, wasting my time in a bet with loneliness. I heard voices coming from the thick forest, fear paralyzed me, and yet I ran. All my will quivered in wishing that those voices and those words were even more distant than the distant echoes.
But in this moment, I am sadly lying down, and the night hurts me. Although the moon still cradles my lonely soul, I am aware that it can no longer heal the wounds, now physical, of my heart: the arrow that came from someone who was too far away to be seen is taking on the existence that I have not never lived