COLOURS WIN

I look out the window. What a dark night. Just below the house some street lamps illuminate the street, and the lines of the windows are clearer; then your gaze flies a few blocks away, and you don't understand where, in that black, the houses rise and end. The night is scarier, because you look around you and it's cold, and you don't quite understand what's happening, because it's all so dark and confused. But then there they are, the lights. A thousand lights that dampen the gloomy and dark air of the night. Whether they are far or near, they illuminate and kill the black with color strokes. And never as during the night, colors win over black. Date: every fucking day. I lie down on the bed. It's night? Yes, it's always night inside me. Also because night rhymes with blows, routes, fights, blows, blows. Inside me everything is so messed up that even day rhymes with night. Inside me it makes everything scarier. Because I am always cold, acidic, impregnated with memories, cut by pain. Because I never understand what I do; right? Wrong? They are formalities. People judge me anyway, they trample me. But then there they are, the bright and cheerful memories, those few but good friends, the passions and the family. What I love to do, what I want to become. The stories people tell me. The experiences and the lessons, the memories, the memories. They are what carries me forward, that helps me fight that black inside me. They are my colors. And never as in people's lives, colors win against black.
I did the costume fitting. Naked, I looked in the mirror, it had been a long time since I did.

Holy shit, I'm more beautiful now than twenty years ago, had it happened in the past I would have spared myself so much sadness.

Okay, I said to myself, better now than ever, take care of yourself and think about your health.

I have to say, I'm doubly proud of myself. First of all because perhaps I have never had such a splendid b-side, then because I am enjoying many beautiful days in good company by the sea and this is very good for me.

It was not easy to carve out some days for a vacation but you always have to find the time.

Girls, trust nature and yourself, don't care what society demands of you, wrongly. You are always worth it. Dress up and be proud of yourself and your body, whatever shape it is.
My hair got more wavy. Every time I get out of the water they are all stuck and tangled but then after the shower, when I dry them they become waves of sun. They say it is the salt of this sea water. I don't know but it looks like I'm going blonde.

DARK PUNK

Life has always taught us ever since we met, that even the most unlikely person would leave us alone, that even the one who has always wanted to face all the battles with you can decide to fight his alone. Who knows, maybe one day we will part too, with the knowledge that we will meet again. All this repetition of abandonment on our journey has made us so detached from people, that they often wonder if we are the evil in this world. If you say that you do so much for someone, in truth you are not doing anything, sincerity is silent, therefore a sincere affection is never a “I have done everything for you and you nothing for me.” It’s sad to know that people think they have to be reciprocated and if you don’t, they make you look guilty and take on the role of the bad guy. So my friend, we are the villains of this generation, so superficial that we blame ourselves for the absence we give them when they start demanding what is not theirs. Perhaps this is the price to pay to prevent this evil from being spread. Nothing is due, everything must be deserved, if someone demands, it makes us repress all kinds of feelings. You and I got in tune to escape this monotony, but maybe in the end, it’s not people’s fault. Maybe it’s just us who are wrong, but brother, when we leave too, remember me, someone who cares about you and who you really love, we who have stained our own wings with black as a sign of our friendship.
Maybe music doesn’t change us up to that point and neither does great art. Rather, it reminds us of who we have always known we are and who we are destined to remain, despite our claims and denials. It reminds us of the milestones that we have buried and hidden and then lost, it reminds us of the people and things that mattered despite our lies, despite the years. Music is nothing more than the sound of our regrets translated into a cadence that stimulates the illusion of pleasure and hope. It is the thing that reminds us most clearly that we are here for a very short period of time and that we have neglected or deceived our lives, or worse still, we have not lived them.
The night is made for memories. It is made of memories. It is made for dreams, for dreams. Of people who are missing, whom you would like to embrace, but you cannot. The night is made to fill with thoughts everything you want, but don’t have. It is made for hidden tears. Of songs. The night is made for romantics. The night is made of shapes that threshold you.
The baby arrived home in tears. Grandpa ran up to him and took him in his arms. The baby continues to sob. Grandpa stroked him, trying to calm him down. “What have you done?” said the grandfather, worried. The child sniffed, then said: «We were playing hide and seek, and I was hiding really well. I was there waiting, but time was passing … At a certain point I went out and … I got upset that they had finished playing and had all gone home and no one had come looking for me ». The singlets shook his small chest. “Do you understand? Nobody came looking for me.”

I DIED ONCE

I wandered through a fantasy forest.
Blue branches, yellow barks, purple grasses, star gourds.
My one second dream.
Those who keep their hats even at night.
The thieves of gods.
Tears without taste.
Drinking.
I don’t protect myself with the sacred.
My mantle is made of mountains, bright rocks, forests that I don’t know.
Human journeys first were made by dogs.
Flora is like a colored texture around the inky black of my path.
I was a happy child and I was making bouquets of flowers.
Now I collect stones to consolidate my torn chest.
I died once where I haven’t walked yet.
I was taken without my permission.
Collected by an ogre they didn’t warn me about.
It wasn’t his garden, and I hadn’t crossed over.
Maybe my being a doll brought him closer.
Perhaps beauty sometimes brings death.

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