I had been on the ground for so long that I had forgotten that I had wings once, several years ago, and that I had been able to fly.
But I had continued to keep my eyes turned to the sky, the desire and hope never really dormant in my soul.
And then less than a week ago, those same wings that had already betrayed me and made me fall, were offered to me again.
Without thinking even for a second on a possible new fall, I accepted them enthusiastically and with a jump, with my eyes closed, I went back to flying.
Come Icarus.
The sky was of a blue so intense as to hurt the eyes, the flimsy clouds, not at all threatening, the sun near and far at the same time.
The heart, as light as the body.
To spend a lifetime walking, after experiencing flight, is agony, torture. Icaro was right: dizziness, the fear of falling are little thing when you can soar in the air.
But then the heat became too intense, the light too strong, the oxygen too rare. And suddenly, I was no longer flying, but fumbling.
I widened my eyes, not knowing whether to bring my hands to my throat or to try to protect my skin, looking down in horror: I was falling.
Once again.
Slowly, because the wings still tried to support me, but inexorably.
And there wasn't a single branch to slow my fall; I saw no possibility of salvation.
I was a fool, just like Icarus: I wanted to fly at all costs, so much so that I forgot that if I fell I could even die.
I started to turn around, grab something - anything - but my fingers met only air and a vortex accompanied me downwards.
I looked with sadness and regret at my wings, beautiful and equally fragile, and it came naturally to me to wonder if it was worth it.
And as the ground got closer and more threatening, I couldn't help but admit to myself more than, in any case, I wouldn't be refusing those wings even if I had another thousand years at my disposal. Ten centuries. Or a hundred other lives.


We are here to remember who we were, we are the ones who carry the torch to illuminate the darkness, the ancient wisdom will return, because those who have protected and nourished it over the centuries will resurrect it, as our flame will rise again. To the Warriors, to all those who believe, the moment has arrived and just when everything seems lost, everything becomes possible. The veils are hopelessly falling, the revelation manifesting, the dimensions merging. There is so much to discover and no, this is by no means the end. We are what? Little orange lights, little fires, flames of hearts. We must breathe the sun, open the windows every day, greet the sun, the light within us. In the pain-body you rediscover the meaning of life, you receive the urge to want to do it, the urge to want to live and no longer succumb to the criteria of the armed grasp that is moving forward, moved by a still “invisible” hand that over the next few months it will acquire a clear face. In an inner action, in an active stop, we learn to breathe in what we feel and to modulate to transform that anger into Sacred energy in order to then take concrete steps. We walk in the fire of the Sun. We carry the Rebirth of this world within us. We have respect for every living thing. No, we are no longer the same as that of 2020 that marked the beginning of this transition and no, we will not be the same when we reach the end of this 2022. So many, so many things have to happen and life is giving us the great opportunity to let it fall by letting it happen.
The divine Flame is asking us to permanently disengage from the scheme and go out of schedule. We are here to open the Sun. We open our hearts. We become divine flame.



Do not do to others what you would not want done to you ยป.
I have made this concept my philosophy of life. But I went even further.
Because not only do I not do what I would not like to have done to me, but I do what
I would like others to do for me. And it is normal that, thinking in this way,
I expect the maximum from others: the very maximum that I am ready to give at any time.
And it hurts to realize every time that I have deluded myself and that I have placed trust in people who did not deserve it.
And it hurts to realize that you are the only one who believes so much in friendship. And it hurts not to be able to give less.
I give all of myself, mind, body and heart. But the others, in return, don’t even give a little of their time
What is a hero? What is an idol?
Simply someone who does his job to the maximum, does what is right, because if he feels it inside,
he does good because his morality is stronger, he makes art for others, to spread beauty in the world,
or someone who he says things as they really are without worrying about the consequences
Someone who would also be willing to give his life for all this and for others
Those who can be considered as such will remain in history or in the memory of people,
even if only one who will keep them in their hearts and minds forever.
These people have given a great purpose to their lives,
leaving the world, an idea, something perhaps priceless and ineffable.
It’s not about loving people, it’s about doing them good. The well-known difference between saying and doing is not just proverbial. Doing good is the only reason we were sent to this planet. There are men who do good, others who do evil, still others who do nothing. You may not agree, but I consider the latter to be the most dangerous and useless. Doing nothing is a very serious fault. The truth is that you change the world by doing good. You don’t have to go to the other end of the world to do it .. Just take care of the people around you. Never take a smile, a kindness, a kiss for granted. Even when you think you can’t change anything, when it’s heavy, it does the same. No it does not. We sow and cultivate the good always, also and above all in small things.


There was a time when I used tarot cards but strange things happened in the house where I lived. I saw people who had died. A woman dressed in black crying in the armchair in front of my bed. I could hear the laughter of a child. Then even bad things happened to me. Then one day I saw something silver and they were angels and they entered me and caressed my internal organs. And I felt a lot of well-being. Now I don’t have much positive energy anymore but I still have my tarot cards. In this house where I live now there are many presences and therefore I never wanted to awaken them. A friend of mine told me that I would be a good medium but I don’t know how to become one.


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!


my dark side always stands out. it is a constant struggle. it sinks and resurfaces. you continue to breathe while remaining at the bottom of the sea. submerged in torment, chained to the passion that takes away a piece of me every day, I fight an existence of continuous death. a black blood flows in my veins, I tried to purify it, eradicate it, erase it from my every vein, from my every cell. but it always remained where it was, even when it seemed to disappear. Each time it regains the upper hand and holds me prisoner in its claws. The night is nothing, it is during the day that the atrocious suffering of being and not being at the same time begins. Like a crack in a well-programmed clock that has this little detail. I ride on the lost hours of my inhuman time and I lose myself in the shadows that are drawn in my secret garden. A little girl comes out of the past, brings flowers to a grave, and says her name is Ophelia. That little girl was me at the age of five, and I was reciting death on the Persian carpet at home. I soon appreciated the silence of certain places where the only living presence were the marble angels. The scent of rotten flowers followed my steps. I never felt so happy as my first time at the cemetery. Was that the paradise everyone was talking about? there you could stay like that, just as you were. He didn’t have to talk to anyone, he could sit and stay for hours with them, the stone angels. They whispered sweet words to me and I alone heard them. The candles fascinated me, I wanted to take them home, my mother scolded me, you can’t steal from the dead! She said. I was upset, for me they were the flames of their lost hearts and I wanted to keep them safe, in my home. Then, when I was finally grown up, I bought as many as I wanted and my room glowed with flames. They were so happy to me, people didn’t understand light, they thought they were candles of the dead and that was it. I miss the cemeteries. It has been a long time since I entered it anymore and nowhere have I found that silence again, perhaps only when my struggle ends will I be able to rest too and be just a stone angel. Art is a need. An instinctive need to create. An instinctive need to be and communicate one’s being to others. Affirming one’s existence with the creative act is the only way to live. Feeling such a force within oneself, an energy, an immense explosion, a storm that never settles down. A sea that is always stormy to its depths. Art is power. The power to create from nothing. giving life to what has never existed, which has never been seen, which has never been read. A sublime, divine, most perisolos power. Art feeds on souls. Art is insatiable, it is a ferocious demon, and whoever takes it is doomed and for all life seeks the escape route but one never gets rid of art. It is like a second skin and if you take it off, you skin down and you can’t live anymore. You have art in every cell, like a deadly virus, which never becomes a disease but which accompanies you throughout your life as a faithful travel companion. Art grinds your flesh, your spirit, your whole life. It crushes you and lifts you into the highest sky. you can see without eyes, hear without ears, draw without using your fingers. Art is a miracle of life and death. Whoever possesses the gift is condemned to a parallel life. You enter and exit as if through a window. We go in and out of ourselves, we feed ourselves to swine, we are left in pieces and then we start again. Who would ever want such a life? yet everyone envies us and do not know what it means to have the FIRE that consumes you!

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