Declining our life in obedience to the game of opposites seems to give us a true destiny and therefore a broad freedom but it is precisely this obedience that makes us deluded souls wandering in the world in search of a goal that does not know how to exist because it cannot be a product of dance of opposites.
Friendship and enmity come from judgments we make on the real according to our advantage but is our advantage a truthful messenger from the front or does it have deeper layers where strange utilities flock to tell us their secret gaze on the things of the world?
I remember the Buddha's statement: affection is a vice.
causes attachment. attachment generates rights over the other rights over the other impose boundaries, they take their breath away and shortness of breath makes the quality of life poor.
Everyone wishes to have a friend, as in a pact of love, for better or for worse.
A friendship begins for a reason, for a context, for an emotion, and these will be the coordinates in which you will find it.
Is a friend a place in the world or a time to express yourself?
A friend becomes an enemy when his dreams are forgotten.
The enemy will still give you a place in the world and allow you to express yourself.
Enemy and friend will both give you the illusion of freedom.
There was a season
Of ordinary amazement
Innocent fingers brushed
The sky to count the stars
Dreams blossomed lightly
With golden firefly wings
The world was everything
In a moment
In the protected circle
Of hugs
Life seemed beyond
Beyond doors forbidden to childhood.
Is it the shadow that exists by virtue of the light, or is it the light that exists by virtue of the shadow?
We are made up of chiaroscuro, secret areas, bright accents and dark hiding places.
Nuances.
Cries of children.
Far horizons.
We are a contradiction in terms, of spirit and flesh.
The ethereal evanescence of the soul and the concrete physicality of the body.
We are perfect in our imperfection.
Outstanding bills have to be paid right?
After all, life is like this, it takes everything away from you without warning,
it's better to face everything like when you have to tear off a plaster on the wound, you count to three.
And you tear, you know?
In this case you raise your head and let your silences make them feel, there you understand that you are ready to strike.
Do it but make everything tremble.
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.
I am what I am.
It took me years to be like this.
And dreams.
And you are wrong.
I could have been countless others.
That to find us all together, apart from a common and sometimes vague resemblance, many would not recognize each other.
I am what I can.
That may not be much, but never judge anyone for what they are not.
In his place, you could have been less.
And seeing yourselves, you would be doomed.
I am my fears, which are many and some do not even have a name.
And they are just a shadow, a gust of cold wind, a noise in the silence, a phrase repeated in the head.
I am my hopes, I am the road on which I walk, I am my horizon, which does not follow the curvature of the earth, but the less geometric one of my life, of my thoughts, of my alternating emotions.
I am what I am.
And sometimes I still flap my arms to try to fly.
Basically in my dreams I always saw a black figure hidden in a corner of my dream, but it was never well defined, and I couldn't explain what it could be. Most of the time I woke up, I would find her at the foot of the bed.
Then one night I managed to dream what she was like physically: she was a woman (so he wasn't the man I saw in my mother's room) with a face half skin and half bone, long hair, black and unkempt and a flower. red next to the right ear. Her eyes were wide enough to pop out of their sockets. Hidden inside the sleeve of the tunic he wore, he carried a large butcher's knife. This woman has followed me on many occasions, even in my father's house.
Once, while I was in bed and thinking, I heard a woman's voice in my head smile sharply and then say "Hello" to me. Another time, however, the voice of a small child woke me up saying "Hello beautiful".
Sometimes, walking down the street, I have the feeling that someone is following me, but when I look around there is nobody.
I think this woman is following me, and I think she lives in my mother's room, but then there are the man and the child ... Once I dreamed of that man, I dreamed that I saw him in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. Then I dreamed that I had gone out to the balcony and, when I wanted to close the French door, I saw in the reflection of the glass a little girl crying. I remember that she had a yellowed white dress, her hair disheveled and her skin as if it were soiled with dirt.
Can you tell me who all these people are and what they want from me?
I think it's a family, but I live in an house that was built around 1940 and there was nothing before it.
My name was Amleta, I was an artist. I remember few things from that period now. I was in London, I was always away from home, I was in love with art, I was happy, I liked everything. It was a magical city, it was beautiful to see strange dressed people and clubs full of music and artists and everywhere there was beauty and inspiration. I felt satisfied. I felt like myself. It could never be like this again in all my other life. I was 19 and living with a friend of mine. I drank tea every day, ate tofu, bean sprouts, carrots, honey, pizza. I went to the Hare krishna and danced and I was happy and I felt at peace with myself. It was nice to make plans and have so many dreams. It was really nice. I had fun, I went to parties, I had a lot of friends and a job and a great career. Now all dreams are over. Now life has taken everything away. We enthuse, vitality, inspiration, art. Art is dwindling. I feel drained. I made some wax sculptures but nobody cares. Maybe I'll put them here, but I don't know. I have to take pictures, rediscover the desire to photograph some of my things.Sometimes I find it strange to tell my life. It's like I've had two different lives. One life before and one now. It seems to me like I was two different people. Now that girl from before, the artist Hamlet, the black lady, the creative soul, have all disappeared. Who have I become?
Flying higher and higher to prevent anyone from cutting off my wings. Reaching high and shouting: you did not make it and you will never make it, because My dreams and My freedom are stronger and more powerful than all of you, hypocrites and hopeless! The desire to fly away, to leave, to take any train, any means, the desire to give up everything and start over, to go as far as possible, to forget everything, annihilate the rest, disappear and never return, the desire to get away … You save your heart yes with a walk but you stop and wait for the world if its shoe is untied and how many clashes, how many efforts strong breaths, keep going for these broken dreams shooting stars are not enough So used to falling that you seem born to get up take you to the sea alone you have the whole world in the air you have sun-shaped eyes if it rains make music and offer the monsters dinner if you are afraid that’s fine and if there is a jump you skip it and if you fall you laugh at it ….
Dreams are not like blue eyes, but with those you are either born with them or you have brown eyes like me. Some dreams, I say, come later. I don’t like everything I do, but there are many things I didn’t like to do and now I do. There are things I thought they would never do for me and now I would give everything I have to keep living them. Sometimes I suffered from this lack. I used to go around telling people “sorry eh, but I don’t have dreams, what should I do?” and everyone looked at me badly, because in short, you will know if you want to be a writer, a street artist or an engineer. But no, I didn’t know and still have no idea. But now I know one thing, another thing: I was born without dreams and then I met two or three on the street. And I didn’t recognize them immediately, eh no. Because that’s the hard part. When I saw them I thought “how nice, but I’m not suitable” or “no, thanks. I don’t care ”and two or three times I even risked losing them. “Toh, what a careless, I left my dream in that place, who knows if the bartender found it”. And of course he had found it, of course, because dreams are in great demand and the rule, the only rule that applies is that you have to be careful. They are everywhere and yet they are never enough. Maybe we don’t have them inside, but we have them next to us, on us or maybe they are waiting for us in the garden, in a shop in the center, in our jacket pocket, in the middle of a boring party, on a cloud, in a fairytale.
How people change when faced with the truth. To a smile that nails them. To a silence that strips them of their falseness. Their. Those of the nights spent chatting. The ones you trusted. You have lost faith in so many people. and because of your eternal trust, you have lost important days. A few smiles went out. Some dreams have been lost. You have even come to lose yourself. Don’t worry, it happens. First we learn to select who deserves to be close to us and the sooner we learn to love each other. You have lost faith in so many people. And today you know that too many know how to make promises. But few are able to keep them. There are those who stay close to you when the forces are at zero. When you have nothing left to offer. There. Who stays close to you in those moments. It is a safe haven for dark days. You have lost faith in so many people. You who have always loved people who feel empty after a hug. Who have nothing more to say. Because that’s where they recognize each other. Because it is when the silence begins that they begin to speak. And for this I tell you learn to observe who is in front of you, keep at bay those who insist too much in looking for you and be wary of those who need your hello to greet you. You have lost faith in so many people and now it will take a while to get back to who you were to accept the truth. That sincerity does not reward. To be able to rely less on others and more on you.
The hand on the bed, the messy body mixed with the sheets, the tousled hair, a ray of sunshine on her back. How can a human being feel so dull in such a lively context? The body between the sheets, and the mind where? The mind in the streets, gripped by a grip of people all the same and all so extinguished, all so ashes of a fire that does not rekindle. A body that mixes with the sheets and a mind that is lost in the ashes of a pain too strong to be faced, too violent to be placed on the pillow. Rising from the ashes means bringing the body to support the mind, held in that suffocating grip. There was a moment when the body was hidden by the sheets, and the sun did not touch the back. Slowly the wind blew off the sheet and exposed her back. The sun has passed the curtains. And everything that was dark before is now light. Now that the body is strong, the mind is free. Life burns back inside, starting from the feet to the heart. And like a child dreams of flying beyond the confines of the sky, dreams of changing the world. I will change the world, until the sun burns my back.
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 