I feel a little sad this evening because I realize that I am a little creature in the face of things we have always struggled with: time, death, love, destiny, life in general, injustices, evil, suffering etc. etc. I feel a little crying because I know that this life is as beautiful as it is sad and we have so little time that sometimes we waste it without realizing it. We could say that we really love that person who has been around us for a long time, we could help that someone because more unfortunate than us without being overwhelmed by arrogance and selfishness, we could decide for once to improve someone’s life because (yes never knows) that that person hasn’t been smiled in a long time. We could teach someone to walk on their own legs, even if they need a little nudge at first, we could just hug each other a little bit more without adding a word too much, because the power of a warm hug is often underestimated. We could do many things that we don’t do, but still remain in the memory of those who have us, each in their own small way, loved until the end. Each of us, as can.


Violence against women is one of the most serious and widespread forms of human rights violations. Amnesty International relaunches its awareness campaign against the violence perpetrated against women, girls and girls all over the world. UNIFEM statistics are terrible: 1 in 3 women in the world suffers a form of physical, sexual or psychic violence. For the mere fact of being a woman.
According to UNIFEM data, one in three women has been raped, beaten, forced into sexual intercourse or abused at least once in her life. According to a study by the WHO and the World Bank, domestic violence is the leading cause of death or serious injury for women aged 16 to 44 - more important than cancer, malaria or road accidents.
Statistics on violence within the couple vary considerably from one country to another: according to the UN, 30% of British women are abused by their spouses or ex-spouses. In western Jordan, the percentage reaches 52%, in Nicaragua at 28%, in Bangladesh at 47%, in Canada at 29%, in the South and Southeast Anatolia (Turkey) at 58%, in Australia at 23%. % and in Cambodia at 16%. A survey conducted in Switzerland in 1997 showed that one in five women between the ages of 20 and 60 said she had already suffered physical or sexual violence by her spouse or partner. In 70% of cases of murdered women, the culprit turns out to be the spouse. In 1999, 14,000 Russian women were murdered by their spouses or family members.
Physical violence almost always goes hand in hand with psychological violence. In the Swiss survey cited above, 40% of women indicated that they had suffered psychological violence from their spouse or partner. A study carried out in Canada in 1993 shows that a third of women who have experienced domestic violence had, at some point in the relationship, fear for their lives.


My aunt was a very religious young person. She prayed for everyone. She was a really good person. 
An always kind, hardworking, indefatigable woman. She always prayed and even did fasting to help the souls in Purgatory. 
She respected all holidays, was always close to God and never asked for any grace for herself but for others.
She always thought of others. Her name was Giovanna and she was a truly pure and good soul, consecrated and united only to God. 
She had no family, she chose only God. 
Please if you can say a prayer for her I thank you very much. My heart is crying. 
I hope that she is in the divine Light now and that she is happy.







Death is nothing. I just went over to the other side: It is as if I were hiding in the next room. I’m still me, and you’re still you. What we were before each other we still are. Call me by the name you’ve always given me, which is familiar to you. Talk to me in the same affectionate way you’ve always used. Do not change your tone of voice, do not assume a solemn or sad air. Keep laughing at what made us laugh. Of those little things that we liked so much when we were together. Pray, smile, think of me! My name is always the familiar word from before. Say it without the slightest trace of shadow or sadness. Our life retains all the meaning it has always had. It is the same as before, there is a continuity that does not break. Why should I be out of your thoughts and out of your mind, just because I’m out of your sight? I’m not far, I’m on the other side, just around the corner. Reassure yourself, everything is fine. You will find my heart again. You will find its purified tenderness. Dry your tears and don’t cry if you love me. Your smile is my peace.
Those interested in parapsychology, altered states of consciousness, or spiritualism or even esoteric philosophies, the first questions that arise concern death and the possibility of survival beyond this. Soon after others emerge: “Will we meet our loved ones? And if they have reincarnated, how will we find them?”. As confused as the ideas may appear and the doubts are legitimate, from what I have learned, in the afterlife we ​​will find a world that will mirror what we have experienced on earth. Time will also proceed as we know it. We will meet and converse with our loved ones, with our friends and with all those with whom we have established a relationship on the physical world. This is necessary for us because the experiences made together have built a bond that needs to be understood beyond the limits of the materiality that produced it. This consolidation will allow us to go beyond appearances and give to the conscience that feeling that has been recognized as a feeling of love, affection, friendship, solidarity. In reality we will continue our earthly history, but we will do so in worlds and spaces of thought that will allow us a vitality and understanding as we have never experienced it before. In this way it will finally be possible to access the root of our feeling of existing, in that plane of being which, emerging from chronological time, will show us the essence of our life and the meaning of the relationship with those to whom we are linked. Only then will we feel the need to reincarnate, and we will do it with all the baggage of experiences and relationships that will create new stories, further expanding the sense of love and belonging. For this reason no one will be able to reincarnate if he has not first “consumed”, to the maximum degree of understanding, the history of relationship that has seen us together on earth. I am convinced of this and I know that the people who have loved each other never get lost, regardless of the events that apparently interrupt that relationship. No story can remain in the middle. Especially those stories that have linked two people with feelings of affection and love. They have distant origins and will be perpetuated over time and beyond time in a quality that is increasingly felt and involving those individuals. It is true that the body ages, but the body is only a tool to nourish and test that love that comes from the mind and has its roots in the spirit. The body changes, the mind evolves and changes, but the spirit remains to qualify the relationship to make it participate in a unity that will prove to be eternal and felt beyond all imagination.
Someone asked me if we will keep our character after death. For what emerges from the many stories of near-death experiences, but also from a philosophical logic on the mechanism of the becoming of being, it seems that we will keep intact every aspect that has characterized us in earthly life. From what I understand, the Hereafter is simply the continuation of a sense of existence for what it produced and characterized us when we developed the physical body and consolidated our individuality with adult awareness. But let’s consider the environment we are going to consult. From what it seems, this will be made up of a material that is extremely sensitive to emotions and thought, so much so that it takes shape and quality in response to our desired and thought. Just what quantum physics has hypothesized for physical matter, that is, that thought modifies situations and emotion forms its characteristic. Well, in the environment that we will find in the afterlife, with a much more refined quality of matter, this fact will be immediate and evident. So how will fears, our tensions and all the deleterious aspects of our character affect this world? We think that the natural state of our way of being has no characteristic of anger, resentment, anxiety, which are momentary imbalances, derived from some shortcomings that generate these negative aspects. Instead the serenity of a relationship to the outside, the openness to who or what surrounds us, represent the perfect balance, albeit limited to our sensitivity. So it can be imagined that if we were placed in an ideal environment, at peace with ourselves and satisfied with what we have, we would have full character; we would act in that environment within the limits of our acquired and expressed, which is different from that of others. So will the world beyond the physical plane, in which there is no longer any reason for shortcomings and, therefore, for anxieties, anger or other feelings which, although part of the limits of our character, would not find “material” and reason to be solicited. . On the contrary, what is solicited, exalted and highlighted, is everything that has been able to trigger a beginning of a harmonious relationship, a trigger for understanding, a solution of completeness (intellectual or emotional). So after death we remain ourselves and understand ourselves, not for our limitations (that will come later), but for our potential for understanding and harmony. Everything must be resolved, the experiences of our life, in that environment, must find their solution, understanding and consummation, so that consciousness can finally find the reason for being and prepare for a new descent on the physical plane, if this is the case. necessary.


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.


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.
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.


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!


My blog was born as an artistic space but nobody cares about art. I also had a blog with all my works but it didn’t matter to anyone. I also said that I would burn my paintings but no feminist or association said a word. I have no friend or I would have given them all as a gift, as I did some time ago. I never wanted to make money with my art. For me it was just a way to vent my pain. And also my paintings and all the things I did. Now I’m tired of creating useless things. Nobody cares about my life. I could be dead and no one would notice. People got bored with me. My German Shepherd puppy gives me more satisfaction than a lot of fake people. There was a user who wrote to me that “HUMAN GENDER IS GOING TOWARDS A POSITIVE EVOLUTION” So then he called me a pessimist. So apparently it is only I who now see the human disaster where it has come. Maybe everyone else is blind. So I take a step back and leave all this scum to their positive evolution and I step aside and think about my own business. It is not a defeat but every now and then you have to take a break. What I was doing was important to you, to me and to some haggard whore. For the rest, everyone was there to comment with monosyllables and smilies at the end. No dialogue. See, this is my trouble. I am sociable, still too sociable, and I expect to have a dialogue with people. But some believe me to be superb, pretentious, dominant. And all this because I had different life experiences from theirs. Then some when they know that I am not looking for money they almost consider it an affront. As if having money you can live well. On the other hand, they do not understand that inner well-being cannot be bought with money. I can have it all but I still don’t heal. My heart no longer exists. I live only for my son and my husband. Only for them. For me to exist or not to exist is the same. I don’t differentiate between life and death, they are just two different types of energy but the source is the same. I have lived with such strong emotions and even ecstasy you know, mystical ecstasy, seriously. And then? I have never used drugs, I have never taken anything, not even opiate drugs or psychiatric drugs. For my anxiety I use a simple tranquilizer, which I only lose if I have severe anxiety attacks. I have a very normal life: husband, son, dogs, cats, garden, swimming pool, vegetable garden, cellar, … I don’t drink and I don’t smoke. Never caught anything strange or poisonous. I have had friends who are alkist and sadistic artists as well as ordinary artists. My inspiration came only from my pain. My fantasy originated only from my pain. The pain of abuse lasts for a lifetime. I used my pain to do good to others. I am at peace with myself. I wanted to help other people but I couldn’t. If people want to listen to Chiara Ferragni’s advice, let them listen to her. People have the right to choose. I don’t want to save anyone anymore. What happens will happen. I had to stop in every sense. The pain resurfaced. There are bad dreams, bad things about my unconscious memories that come back to the surface. But I’ll be fine, I’ll continue to paint trying to keep the shadow of my executioner away. But I don’t want to talk to people anymore. They don’t deserve my words.

%d bloggers like this: