THE GARDEN OF MYSELF

I’ve always looked at the sky. Every time I am in a place I have always lost myself looking at the blue of the sky, the white of the clouds. I’ve always had a strange connection with the sky I always feel part of him when I lose myself looking at him. I remain there enchanted. I get lost in thoughts To reflect on everything that goes through my head at that moment. I always leave a piece of my thoughts in those clouds A piece of me in that infinite blue. As if for a moment everything was still there in that sky. As if for a moment all thoughts are dispersed in those clouds. As if for a moment I forgot everything.
I slept great tonight. Small in a huge bed, duvet to cover me and two pillows around to protect me. Zero nightmares. I dreamed of my father. He came to wake me up around five. He put his hand on my shoulder and said “I brought you the croissant”. At that point, the information received woke up all those particles of me that dance wildly at the thought of food. Inside of me I jumped up, but in reality the movement was quite slow. I first took off the covers, stretched, yawned as with every awakening, put on the false crocks and went to the kitchen to eat the croissant with cream. But there was nothing and so, a little sad, I only drank some fruit juice like every morning, remembering the time at university when my father came to me and brought me sweets. After breakfast, I opened the bedroom window and saw the white cat, PIPPINEDDA, ​​in the garden eating some herbs. She had a sly, very sweet look. When she noticed me she went away. I cleaned the bedroom by making the bed, sweeping and mopping the floor; then the bathroom by thoroughly cleaning the accessories and all the products on the shelf, my father’s postit still on the mirror and in order not to remove it I cleaned the glass all around. I also tidied up the living room and kitchen by washing the floor and tidying up. While I was in the Cinderella version I listened to the usual songs and hummed perhaps a little too much. After cleaning I prepared the vegetarian meatloaf: minced meat, courgette bread, eggs, parmesan, parsley, salt and pepper, and lactose-free slices for the filling. After that I started writing, and LUIGINA, my black and white kitten, started to watch TV and I to the pc to update the blog. About half past I baked the meatloaf with potatoes. After lunch I did the dishwasher, because I can’t wash the dishes because my wrist hurts right away. There was peace in this house and it seemed to me that my father suddenly opened the door. But it was only this morning’s dream. I was happy to see him again.

SOAP BUBBLES

Have you ever thought about how beautiful soap bubbles are? They have their short but beautiful life, which depends on who blows. And without bothering, they get to the point where they can no longer resist and burst, without making noise, without disturbing. They die in silence.
Do you know what the most beautiful thing is? Finding ourselves in the midst of people, like two simple people, and meeting our eyes. It is in that instant that all that the senses are based on vanishes. We are left alone with our complicity, to remember those moments spent together that no one can imagine and perhaps in doing so, an embarrassed smile also appears. As you always tell me, we are linked by an invisible thread that allows us to be part of each other, living our moments in our soap bubble, leaving out everything else and letting ourselves go into the arms of Eros.
In a soap bubble, you know those of a thousand colors, transparent and graceful This is how I feel In perfect balance Even a light and delicate breath would be enough to break it and make me fall to the ground in pain. Soap bubbles are like dreams, they break at the most beautiful moment. Do you know when you are in your bed, you are having a good dream and you wake up on time? this is an example of how soap bubbles, how dreams cannot last forever, sooner or later they will break. And in the foam drown the defects that had stuck to the skin, and while I hold my breath, I count the minutes that separate me from the darkness, then I blow into a bubble all the pain that slips away with the current. And I rise from the waters, naked, with mascara stars that decorate my red cheeks with missed breaths.

BEING AN ARTIST

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.

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