How are emotions told? Simply living them. I smell them, instinctively, with that sixth sense that I recognize myself, I find them like nuggets submerged in the deposits of my desires, I live them between thought and imagination as if immersed in a rain of shooting stars, I wait for them to evaporate like drops of dew at dawn on newly opened petals.
I know the journey will never end, that billions of new destinations are waiting to be added to the map of these eager senses.
And that it will be a great sailing, good wind and calm seas for those who set sail, let it be the breath of hope, grace, respect to inflate the sails and exquisite aromas to watch over the journey.
Perfumes as simultaneous translators of emotions. Senses in perpetual alert and new languages to explore. You smell and restart, you center yourself, you relocate, you discover new, higher and more stable balances, to measure your feeling. You go back to travel, to draw boundaries, to capture the good wind. The road is open, long but never fearsome and smells of will, courage, infinite possibilities. To take advantage of this is simply to live.
In the wind that tells the air,
I am surprised to stay still,
not to fly away,
to anchor myself to the roots of the restless earth.
The waking hours, at night at 4,
when the kitten meows,
the hours out of the dream of the stairs that go down and up,
they are so white, so stellar.
A distant movement of clouds, noises, hisses and breaths,
while I imagine the night as a light traveler,
without baggage, without destination,
towards a horizon there,
behind the mountain peaks.
I got up,
with a candle in hand,
as in dreams,
like someone who wants to see in the dark,
and I saw the air, clear, very clean, transparent,
but I saw it and I was inside that air,
as if you were something touched, caressed,
and I had no fear of death.
What purpose would I exist if I were all contained within myself?
But I am contained by the air and this invisible container
I saw it for the first time last night.
Like looking through a transparent, crystalline glass.
The world is immensely foreign to me,
because I look beyond the peaks and see,
I see through the rock,
I see the breath of the animals in their burrows,
the men in their shelters, doubtful and insecure.
A dove's wing moves,
his presence sounds in the silence.
I go back to bed, I blow out the candle,
I get back into the air and sleep.
It doesn't matter who I am.
It doesn't matter what my name is.
I have seen the air and the fire of the eternal soul,
inside a breath of wind that was going away
but I stay here, on the bed,
and I dream of being able to save trees.
How does the inner journey begin, the most important and long one?
It starts when you wake up in the middle of the night with tachycardia, when you look around and feel completely lost, when the world seems all sick and rotten but the reality is that you have just lost touch with yourself, or worse still not there. 'have you ever had.
Apathy becomes your answer to life, together with cynicism and pessimism, all seasoned with a generous sprinkling of victimhood.
In front of you there are 2 roads:
-continue to cry, feel inside the heart that bursts with unhappiness and accelerated pulsations, it is the body that is calling you, that warns you, is suggesting perhaps that you must stop,
-or to look deeply and stop with this routine stressful superficiality of a perfect Western.
You can look at what is happening to you and decide that it must be observed, faced, and that something must change, even everything, because in the end the only one purpose, what is it?
You look inside yourself even if it hurts very badly, even if you have to open closed boxes for decades, even if you have even more gastritis than before, and then you choose to give yourself another chance, you choose to choose yourself, to be different and not to feel less than others, because you are choosing your values and it is only your well-being and self-love that you have to listen to.
You do not stop for just a few moments, but you reflect, you do not judge yourself and you take the time of your choices.
They will seem idiotic choices to most people, especially to those who never make choices and live life without Responsibility, (towards themselves first of all) but they will make you the protagonist of your life and you will feel heroic and alive.
Emotions are part of life, joy, vitality, enthusiasm and it is not normal and wise to cancel them to be who they told you to be, or for who you think you should be, it is not normal to feel only anger, frustration and resentment .
Don't tell it to yourself, don't lie to yourself, there are those who are happy and satisfied every day and in any case experience the full range of emotions, they are not polarized only on negative feelings because they just can't do otherwise.
Clear with a decisive blow all the negativity from your life, the anger, the complaints, the heated and excessive aggression in everything you do, give space to the new.
Read stories of courage and true life lived with joy, and contentment, read success stories.
Stop that inner litany that tells you that you will not make it, that you are mediocre, that you are unlucky.
Get inspired.
Breathe and let go of the old yourself.
It is necessary to get rid of everything that you have been. Your previous life is dead and now you resurrect when you thought you were completely dead.
Follow your dreams, even if at present they seem unattainable.
Don't waste your time, worry about your time, how to invest it and how to make it unforgettable.
Choose to live each day in an intense, different and uplifting way for yourself, only yourself, without pleasing anyone.
The one, the only person you have to account for is only you.
If you never stop to step back and try to figure out what you really want out of life, you will forever chase things you don't even really want. Or you will forever feel dissatisfied and unhappy, even if you manage to get them. You will feel like you are making progress, but in reality you are moving away from where you want to be.
There is no point in running faster if you are going in the wrong direction.
Many, too many unknowns to consider when making a choice of this type where revolutions not only in the way of facing life but also in living it. It certainly takes a certain amount of courage that not everyone has.
Are there subtle blackmails that keep you constantly on some sort of hanging thread? between guilt and terror of letting go.
Whoever exercises this power over you has the constant ability to bring you back in line, every time you disregard his expectations, every time you move on yourself. All this affects you, your daily life, your freedom. The fear of giving up those roles that are all you know, all you recognize, is biting. Getting out of these constant reproaches is necessary, giving up everything that triggers this mechanism is fundamental. The breath that breaks, the sense of guilt that digs inside, the fear of losing everything and losing you too, is central. "You do not give me what I expect, I ignore you, not recognizing you as I recognized you before, because you are no longer deserving that award". Letting go is difficult, giving up your role within that circle of trust is complicated, being afraid of not being able to "exist and recognize yourself" without the other is a focal point. Yet we can and absolutely must, to the point that it will no longer be what the other does but what you absolutely will no longer allow.
Divine Mother, majestic land in which we are all born,
forget our karma,
sparkles of radiant lives,
you, divine light brighter than the sun,
golden water.
Where the petals open our spring,
rise from the end of the black age.
Magnify the heart,
amplify love,
becomes birth again.
Mother of us all,
blue flame of the sky,
defeat the color of Death.
Open your roses,
stretch out your hands,
scatter your heart inside the branches,
fruit be given to each weary breath.
Lady of the golden earth
walk with your feet
over the terrible devils and kill them all.
I feel the movement of the wind, it creeps between my fingers, transforms my blue dress making it sway like sea water.
melancholy hits me, I close my eyes and breathe distant air. melancholy of places never seen before, of lights and colors; I feel them under my skin without ever having lived them. the murmur of the wind among the leaves becomes more intense, it cradles my faded memories.
I feel consumed.
- but who am I? a wrapper. an empty, jagged shell. I do not know. I don't know who I am.
a muffled melody, I barely feel it
and my body becomes stone.
and within that body of stone the pain that was awakens.
and I feel it squeeze my breath, hold it, scratch it, and my chest burns, torn and wants to explode, but it doesn't.
it was, but it is no longer.
I open my eyes, the sky clears up, I feel it calling me.
there is a perfume, when it is no longer night, but it is not yet morning. there is a tangible scent that the wind carries with it and in silence
I
I hear
peace.
and in the stillness of that juncture which is no longer night, but not yet morning, the words of the wind fly free.
the air is crisp, the grass wet, the trees sway and I seem to hear them talking. I seem to see them dance.
the wind is becoming, it is change.
the wind blows, while the sun rises on the horizon, brash, alive, passionate. it blows hard enough to lift my feet off the ground. and while the world still sleeps I fly over thoughts, dreams,
I fly
light
like
a
butterfly
towards the sky.
I become
of wind.
When I met you I didn't know what we would become.
I didn't know what love would turn us into.
I didn't even know that you would be the love to me that I never imagined I would find. I didn't know that love saves.
I didn't know that love would take my breath away as only you can take it, love.
When I met you I had to fight with every fear that I had always carried inside me, every day for all my life. I had to fight myself and you because you weren't real. You were dreaming and dreams hurt in the morning when you wake up. You I love you was a struggle against everything I had in my heart and brain.
Because you know, the heart goes on one side, the brain on the other.
And I believe that love is love when the brain and heart both answer yes.
Becoming yours was a reward, it was receiving the best gift ever requested and received. You weren't expected, you weren't expected to upset my life. It was not expected that together we would be different.
Beautiful things are never expected.
Love, they say, is seeing even the worst of the other beautiful and it is true. True because I see everything about you beautiful, even your worst. Because loving is first learning to love mistakes. The defects, the ugliness, the troubles of the other.
When I met you I did not know, you taught me.
Like everything else. Like to love, like to fly looking at a pair of eyes. How to write your name everywhere. How to learn how to make cakes just to surprise you.
That fighting is the most powerful demonstration of love there is.
That the sun in your eyes warms up more willingly if two hands are intertwined, especially if these hands are ours.
When I met you I didn't know that making yourself beautiful was something to give to you.
I did not know that each of your "you are beautiful" would remain engraved in the heart and each "I love you" would become a mark on the bones.
When I met you I didn't know that loving you would empty and fill me with everything and that being naked in front of you meant feeling free for the first time in my entire life.
But love, I'm not just talking about a naked me in your arms, I'm not just talking about skin that undresses and hands that touch, I'm talking about showing you my heart as it is, without barriers, without reservations: naked.You took it. I gave it to you.
And I thank you for all the fears you have taken, for all the insecurities that you have cured me, for all the still open wounds that you have disinfected me. Thanks.
Because people don't know they hurt, because life doesn't know it's hurting and because we ourselves don't know how to stop hurting ourselves and then we are poisoned by wounds that do not heal and for this I thank you for coming, for knowing you and letting myself be saved.
When I met you I did not know that love is a miracle and that the greatest miracle for me is you.
The last trance was the last trance the one in which she had danced in the rain and in the wind. The storm was out. The storm was inside and the monster had water eyes and thunder arms. She had danced in the intercourse with the ferocious beast, the killer baby, a ferocious feline, a very fast condor had taken her and carried her up. All this and the rest, dispersed, in the raindrops. I had seen and said “follow me” and she had followed the force of the storm. No force was too strong for the challenge, no force was too strong for her liquid pleasure. Following the animal, into the forest, scrolling along the paths where you could not walk. The sound of the night was coming. She told him “save me” and he didn’t answer and hid. The beast came out instead and she took it in her hands and every vein was red and throbbing. She stood looking at him so full of pulsating veins and moving at the touch of his mouth. He told her “get out of me” and he didn’t but he flew up and fell on her and stayed on her back until the wings unfolded well. The wings were made of copper and carried energy. A blackout of harmonic kilowatts entered his ribcage. She stood still, let the transformation begin, what would become of her shell was not given to him to know. He wove heavier alloys on the outside of the wings, but platinum was his single-celled heart. He said “wait”. She felt the metal enter her ribs, enter her bones, come to life and breathe like a second soul. She remained dead. She remained dead. She remained dead. Lying in iron, in metal, in the world of her demon. He remained. It folded its wings and pierced the trees, the rocks, the waterfalls, the lights, the shadows. Everything stood in the way of his new wingspan. Everything was a hindrance to his body. He felt the heavy steel in his arteries. He couldn’t breathe. He told him “kiss me, give me air, I’ll suffocate”. He joined his thin hands and disappeared into the thunder. Anger took her. He threw himself away. It destroyed everything in its path. He pierced the storm itself and crashed into a mountain hidden by the fury of the hurricane. The wings were so heavy. The lungs were struggling. Steel was in every muscle. She got up. Moving his head he managed to swallow some air. He had re-entered her chest. He was breathing now. His demon had regained strength. He had it back. It covered her vital organs. He made her die to make her live better. His mind was ready. The crystals were reforming and in a few hours he would break all seals of piety and humanity. He shouted “leave me!” but he was more inward than ever. It had all its strength, it had its wings. He threw her across the seas like a bullet and she crossed the waves. It was ready. She had returned. The energy passed through her but the strength did not scare her. He closed his eyes. He saw her white eyes in her darkness. Who was? Who are you? Churches. Metal does not melt. The crystals flip over. Polarity swap places. And she became something else. She lay on the asphalt, dust in her mouth, as he screamed obscenities. She was just a victim and was crying. He couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t escape. He stayed on the asphalt and died inside himself.
Art is his need. An instinctive need to create. An instinctive need to be and communicate one’s being to others. Affirming its existence with the creative act is the only way for Amleta 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. Being a river in flood, dangerous for others, not accustomed to strong liquid currents, but a natural and splendid element for her. Art is its power. The power to create from nothing. To give life to what has never existed, which has never been seen, which has never been read. A sublime, divine, most envied power. Art feeds on souls. Art is insatiable, it is its fierce demon, and it has walked this path all its life looking for an escape. But you never get rid of art because only art makes it free and alive. It is like a second skin and if you take it off you become skinned and you cannot live anymore. Amleta has art in every cell, like a deadly virus, which never becomes a disease but which accompanies it throughout its life as a faithful travel companion. Art grinds the flesh, the spirit, the whole life. He raises it in the highest sky, being able to see without eyes, hear without ears, draw without using his fingers; and then makes it descend into the most terrible depths of the human abyss. Art is a miracle of life and death. Whoever possesses the gift is condemned to a parallel life. Amleta goes in and out as if from a window. She enters and exits herself, feeds herself to the pigs, gives her vital breath, remains in pieces and then begins again. Who would ever want such a life? Yet many envy it and do not know what it means to have the fire of inspiration that consumes! Art is its condemnation. She didn’t choose to start drawing, then painting, writing and playing at the same time. A dark force took his hands, and guided his dark energy. He was thus able to empty the pain he felt while living and to enclose it within his creations. Nothing remains of that period: everything burned. Unfortunately, something was saved from his subsequent dark periods, still not gone and up in smoke. Hamlet was born on a cursed island, in a sick country, and soon she got rid of her life and the pain took her far away, where she continued to suffer and create, create and destroy, herself, paintings, installations, plays, notebooks, sculptures, … Amleta creates and destroys what he creates. Hamlet is and is not at the same time. He yearns for this perennial creation and has tried several times to free himself from his prison without success. This gift, this power, this torment of colors and words, is the nectar of his days. Everything else is just a bitter side dish.
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 