WE ARE SEEDS

Is it the blood that makes us the same?
Does the blood relate to us? Do mother cells bind us or separate us?
The ways out of a parasitic heart.
The windows of the soul become opaque and without curtains.
What does our existence prove if the value is given by fake smiles?
The dark side of our biology.
The pain of collapse.
The taste of the night.
The noise of an affection built from the unknown past.
It was dawn when my heart stopped beating.
nd a defibrillator did not and did not serve life.
I was sorry to leave this planet. But I had become different.
I had become a lonely man.
Plants and birds kept me company.
But I no longer had my mother Earth.
no longer saw a grain of sand in my shoes.
I was not honest with anyone.
They asked me how I was and I always nodded.
We who are love.
We who are hate .
We who are all things together ,
The worst and the best.
We who are on the razor’s edge that does not cut.
Which remains suspended above the sun.
We who are good people. We are screwed by ourselves.
We are not different and finite in infinite worlds.
We are weird things stuck.
We are the good and the bad.
We are forgotten fibers. We ended up being divided.
Seeds fall into the ground and do not grow.
Seeds fall into rocks and grow.
We are rocks that receive water and do not serode.
We must always be alert to defend the world.
nd spread our wings without anyone seeing them.
We are Alpha and Omega without eyes.
( FAIRY QUEEN)

DAMNED ART

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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