I’ve always been honest. Here is my problem. I don’t pretend. If I can’t stand you I’ll tell you, if you don’t respect me I don’t respect you, if I don’t want you near I will push you away. I’m not pretending, print it on your head. I don’t pretend a love that doesn’t exist, I don’t pretend to smile if I don’t like seeing you, I don’t pretend to have esteem for you if you make me sick as a person, you could even be 100 years old, nothing would change. Because I behave as I want to behave, as I feel I have to behave and not as “the rules” impose. This is my problem: I’m different from you and you just can’t stand this. My sincerity scared you, scared you that I’m real. Who I am will always screw me up and I am aware of it, yet you have to know one thing: better a hundred years of solitude than a single day in your company. When I saw that you were not sincere, that your play was only to exploit me, to draw on my resources, then I could no longer tolerate what you did to me. You are no longer a fixed thought as before, but sometimes my attention falls on you, for various reasons, but in any case I categorically avoid getting close to you, I no longer miss you as I once did, I’m fine without you, I no longer hurt myself, I have learned to be enough for a while now, I have learned to turn around and not find you, I have gradually got used to your absence, until it has become almost irrelevant, almost no longer felt, only in some fragments of time, I happen to feel your absence on my skin, but even this time it is no longer the same, I think about you, I think about you, about what we could have been but then, my attention turns away from it and I think that those who want you keep you, that those who love you stay, those who repent come back, that if only you had wanted with the same intensity with which I wanted, we could have been so damn happy, but it didn’t happen, and it goes well. I feel lighter now without you, I feel myself, I feel I don’t have to deprive myself of my life, and it’s fabulous, but above all I feel that I am in harmony with myself, I have developed self-love. don’t come back, don’t, not yet, not again. do not destroy everything I have created. go away. get out of me and my life for good. I’m sorry I don’t care, but I learned from you.
The needs of an artist are different from all those of others. Of course an artist eats, sleeps, goes to the bathroom. He may have things and people he cares a lot about. May have interests and hobbies. But one thing distinguishes him profoundly from all other people: the need for stimulation. An artist feeds his art from himself and from what he sees, knows and experiences. Visual, mental and empirical stimuli are profoundly necessary for every artist because in the absence of these his creative lymph dries up. In fact, if an artist is not put in the conditions of being able to have these stimuli that satisfy his needs, he will slowly fade away. His imagination, not being nourished, will become dry and will find it difficult to give him the input for artistic creation. Just as an animal dies in its instincts if placed inside a cage, an artist dies in his creative life if he is put in conditions that are not favorable to the expression of his artistic talent. Fantasy is like a plant and must be fed with the water of stimuli. If these are lacking, the substance for dreams is missing. It lacks the energy itself to create other dreams and other works. So for this reason it is sometimes said that an artist cannot live life like the others and the same things that others are enough cannot be enough.
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 