STORY OF UNDERWATER

At the bottom of the sea the sun never sets. The sun, which seems to go out in the waves, has no place in the ocean depths. LAYA swam fearlessly among the corals and sponges of the seabed, of a dense, blackish blue; a viscous darkness for human eyes, but not for her, who possessed it, controlled it. It wasn't like that on dry land where darkness possessed her, controlled her. It infiltrated her body more and more every day: a tarry poison that penetrated her eyes, nose, mouth and filled her head, polluting her ideas; then he went down to force her breath, to numb her limbs. Although LAYA felt that something was wrong, that it wasn't right, that she had to rebel, she never did. The darkness comforted her, cradled her, clutching her organs, her muscles, her bones that she could no longer move. And she didn't want to move. When the darkness was thicker, his heart, so impregnated, slowed down so much, stuck, that LAYA watched him concentrated, wondering how faintly he could beat before stopping.

In his world it was not like that. In his world, even darkness was his subject.

He swam to the surface; hidden among the rocks she looked at the city where she had no place she could call her own, where all affection was a stranger. He watched the sunset color the horizon pink and lilac. He watched the sea sparkle with gold and wondered what could be so precious there, in the dry, for which it was worth facing so many humiliations, so many failures, so many losses. He watched his tail flicker under the surface of the water which gradually became an increasingly intense crimson: the princess, the symbol of a proud people, the leader of a valiant army, swam in those red, violent waters. There she was not placid, meek or compliant, there she was not herself, there she was free from herself.

She plunged back into the inflamed waters, swimming energetically towards the bottom, where she was alive and light and strong, where she didn't need or want to hide. He spotted a scorpionfish camouflaged among the rocks: he pounced on it and scrubbed it unceremoniously with his sharp teeth. The flesh tearing deliciously, the brittle bone shattering under her jaws gave her a thrill of satisfaction. She felt no pity for that fish, as she was sure no one felt for her.

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.

HEART IN DARKNESS

Conrad. The good heart of Tenebra. How I loved Lord Jim !!! It was a happy time in my life. The only one. So, I can tell you that many words are beautiful but then it’s not that easy to find happiness. Especially if at 4 you found yourself a man who pushed one knee to your chest to rape you. Continued abuse for years has devastating consequences for a child. I have not eaten since 4 years. I ended up with injections and infusions. I no longer opened my mouth. Nobody understood what had happened to me. Then I unlocked thanks to my paternal grandmother and a hen, who became fond of me and made me understand that not all beings on this earth do harm. So as you can see I’m still alive and I owe this to the art that saved me by allowing me to express the immense anger and pain I had inside of me. I survived but at what price? I would have preferred that he had killed me because carrying death within him is even worse, you know. You often feel desperate. You fall into bad hands again. You get up and fall back and suffer. Until one day your father dies and you look in the mirror and suddenly you see your evil twin living violently. And so you become the executioner. But that doesn’t make you feel good either. Neither love nor pain can defeat the death that man made you suck. And what do you do? Therapy is done. You try everything but nothing is needed. There’s always that monster growling inside me. And I scream but nobody hears me. Nobody saved me that day.

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