STORY OF A DECISION

I don’t want to try to live any life again. I got bastardized and the home is worse for me than the cauldron of cannibals. every day too many people ate my best meat and every day I fed their thoughts with succulent ardor and multicolored hopes. This lane no longer belongs to me, I am out of the white lines, I went beyond the yellow lines, I deleted the blue lines and I took possession of a space that has nothing to do with men. I jumped out of the lines of men and women ready for the handkerchief race. I saw my prize and refused it, even though it shone like pure gold. I am never the one who dwells in this non-existent rent. I sell myself to my thoughts. I sell myself to my breath. I sell myself to the stranger who lives in my houses. he has an immense need for inhuman pleasures. he is the worst of the inhuman demons. unfolds me on white sheets and folds my corners without hesitation, an origami of crowded evenings. I go to find the silence of the marble angels. I go where life no longer lives. I don’t bring flowers to anyone, I walk among my buried souls, I mix wet lands, replant dried flowers … I look at the photos of my deceased sisters, my soul mates … the others who were not as lucky as me to live despite my apparent death. They call me a vampire, they tell me a scribe, they think I’m alien. I can’t stand people paved with knowledge. reducing billions of sadness into sonic explosions leaping the pit of pain by stabbing black stars that fall like ash confetti. the apocalypse of sadness makes the angel more terrible and the trumpet sounds like thunder. the din of the mind increases, the detachment from human people increases, I am extinguished. I feel in the last non-stellar sky, on the top floor of inhuman pain, I feel myself going up and down for no reason, my love runs on black ice stairs, on roads that penetrate impossible, fearful darkness. fingers of flesh and wind slip into my torment. fingers of cardiac losses accumulate and open my chest. I open the doors of my feeling and immediately afterwards I regret it. I got a devil in every hair, a devil in my brain, a tiny tiny black elf that rubs itself on white surfaces to write his curses. two horns come out of the dream, two very long sharp golden tinsel. they turn to my power, they enter me without seeing any other direction. they come out of open walls, from walls of forgotten art, they come out of nights pierced by incomprehensible dreams. pearls come out of the darkness of nostalgia, they twist into pointed horns and I stare at endless nights. swamps smoke, the sun goes down, the pain disappears. the abysses fall! incredible crash of pieces of glass, of crystal wings, of metal hearts. my angels dance with dagger blades that become stems of roses without corollas. my angels protect my brain from the depths of steel, from the seas of gold, from cruel power. my angels crash into the walls of my pain, strangled by the love of living. they flee and return to their purple skies. voices intertwine, voices are released, from within and everything comes out, in a moment, in a single second, the world is torn apart and the killer enters the scene. no one knows his past, no one knows his pain, no one knows the subtle pleasure, the need, the desire … the instinct to kill. hidden inside is what triggered the bomb, what triggered the blow, what caused the nefarious fury, the sublime revenge … scenes and other scenes revisited in the imagination, scenes and scenes acted without script … what do you want to know? what do you want to know about a killer or a killer? Is the thinking distorted or is it in the world that everything goes wrong? when the hand is thrown choosing to give death it is the power of the man that holds the heart of the murderer in a grip of sublime pleasure and that makes him feel like any god, renegade or not. what thirst for knowledge burns in your veins? what do you want to know about the pleasure of killing? what brings you on the path of the unspeakable sin of the human mind? silence awakens me and silence doesn’t make me sleep. a crowd throngs inside my heart and I’m ready to strike again. is it me you were waiting for? here is the explanation for all of you, a confession opened from a cell without a lock, a superhuman torture because those who know the journey but never the destination! I didn’t know what I was doing, I didn’t remember I was another person … I was using another name maybe I was there and maybe I wasn’t there, a memory gap, for no apparent reason, something that you feel inside, something that doesn’t add up .., and yet it was I who had done everything, I had decided it a long time ago … or was it even before? I don’t remember, a memory lapse. but why understand? why ask again? there is no explanation for the pleasure of dying inside others. it’s another person, it’s not me. I was not there. I’m not… no voice, no voice anymore … from my silence. a word broke my voice, a word that doesn’t break my silence. never again no voice will come out of my throat. no voice, no voice. he killed the voice, he didn’t kill the silence … and I will kill him in silence … I’ll take away the one thing he doesn’t have … life. no voice, no voice I will give to my silence … nobody wants to know, nobody has to know the torment of being a killer. no more voice will tell you which is my favorite weapon, no word of mine will tell my wound, no voice for those who do not want to hear or hear … no confession beyond all daring! never again do men deserve to know, to know pain … no voice of me, no voice of me … it changes like a fish. no voice for those who do not want to hear or hear … no confession beyond all daring! never again do men deserve to know, to know pain … no voice of me, no voice of me … it changes like a fish. changes like an executioner inside his victim!

I HAVEN’T SEEN “LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL”

I have not seen “Life is beautiful”. And I have not seen “The boy in the striped pajamas”. Do you know why? After seeing “Shindler’s List” I was sick for 3 months. I was in Palermo. I went to Zen and left there all my books, my jewels, my paintings, my clothes, everything I owned. I’ve never told anyone. I managed to get into Zen because I was dressed like a gypsy (they control everything). When I was a little girl and I saw a movie “Amazonia” during the break I went out of the cinema, went to a shop, bought some make-up, went back to the cinema, went to the bathroom and put on my make-up like an Indios. At the end of the film everyone was looking at me as if they had seen an alien. I lay badly for months and months. I wrote desperate letters to the president of Brazil, I wrote to the Pope, many letters that have never been answered. Certain films, about certain truths, make me snap something, and I risk my life. I do absurd things. After seeing “American Sniper” I bought a ticket for Iraq and had to leave. Except that I have health problems and my doctor told me that I would go to die without my drugs. I cannot know of some suffering otherwise I feel too bad and do unthinkable things. When I was 4 they abused me for a long time, and so I know what it feels like when you get great pain. It’s not up to me, I can’t get rid of it.

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