HOW PEOPLE CHANGE

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.

RISING FROM THE ASHES

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.

HAVE A LOOK

When the fox does not get to the grape, it says it is unripe.

In order not to act like the fox very often our heart is armed with courage rather than cunning.

We begin to climb the vine branches undeterred with our eyes fixed on our goal: the grapes, the boy of our dreams, the girl we fell madly in love with.

We slip.

A

Two

Three times.

So we decide to look away from the grapes and aim at the poor holds, to make the most of them during our climb.

Let's go up

More and more.

Always safer to reach the summit.

When we stop, however, we realize that the grapes are no longer on our head.

It is no longer as unreachable as it used to be.

But he is not by our side either.

We have been so busy climbing, advancing towards our goal that we have infused all our strength into it and, in trying to reach it, we have even surpassed it.

We turn back and, with a hint of melancholy, we understand that now that grape no longer belongs to us but to our past.

UNDERWATER BALLS

There is more silence today, perhaps more than it has ever been, but it is a beautiful silence. A thoughtful silence. And so I think about the days to come and how they will hurt and I will need you but the distance will hide you and the world will seem cruel. And I will hate him for it. I think I will hate a lot of things. And so I think about how I will try to keep it alive. How will I save all the words that I have scattered in my mind. I will collect them all so that in the moments when I fear fading I will return to them. Relive the past just like Gatsby said it. I could be as crazy as he is. And I don’t think I’ll ever feel alone if I hold on to what you said. Only when the words break will I be truly alone. And I have a feeling you won’t let that happen. ….. The first words that come to my mind are. I like to complicate things. I like to complicate things in a beautiful way. I’m not sure if it’s frustrating or manic for people, but I want to see their faces all happy and confused. I want to do things in the craziest way possible to show that I care. To show that I love. I want to commit to doing something no one else would do and see the expression on their faces. That’s all I want. I just want to see their faces light up and say “What’s wrong with you? Because? Oh my God ”That’s all I want. I want to show them that the beauty of what they give me has to be something worth remembering and the only way I know of to do that is to give them a story to remember …

Do you see that light? It is brighter than the sun. Maybe that’s what we’ll see when the end comes. No, that’s not what you think. He is a man with a cigarette hiding in the trees. Yes, it is fading now. The only thing that has kept us warm so far. We are just losing ourselves in what we feel. ….. I know I spend too much time worrying, wondering and looking back on past things and moments in the past and the still reverberating echoes of my history, but these are the things we know for sure, aren’t they? Those things are certain and no one can say anything against it. The past can be confirmed by everyone because we have already been there. We have lived it. We all have different versions of it, a different story to tell, but the important thing is that we had those stories and they actually happened. I don’t know why, I don’t understand any of this and it might confuse many of you, but the thing that bothers me the most is why the things that happened so long ago have such a powerful effect on your soul. How can something be so real? It might sound ridiculous to most, but that’s the only way I understand it. Sometimes it’s almost too good to feel what I’m feeling. There is just no explanation. The explanation will always be vague and even if I feel it right now and have no doubts in my mind that what I feel is real, it cannot be explained. I think this must be the exact state of thought my mind is in right now. How confused and confused are the internal mechanisms of my brain.

LUX IN ARCANA

Arcane structure of the cosmos
Immense evolutions of species
And I, with my vague impression
of the indeterminate,
of anxieties, thoughts,
of the perplexities made visions,
I collect my data
of the soul, the secrets,
of my hidden and unacknowledged dreams.
And I look for fixities made of stones. 
I look for balance and poor food.
Oh light that the universe sets
dissolve my anxieties to certainties. 
Free expression. 
of this conscience of mine.
I would like to shout to the cosmos
with my broken voice
when I am sand in the desert
my mother's name
and stand by her.
I only ask this and I am happy.

STORY OF NUVOLA FRESCA

Long before the white man arrived,
in a Cheyenne village lived a little girl whose
name was Nuvola Fresca.
One day the little girl said to her mother, Last Evening Sigh: "When night falls, a black bird often comes to feed, pecks at pieces of my body and eats me until you arrive, light as the wind and chase it away.
 But I don't understand what all this is.
With great maternal love Last Sigh Of the evening reassured the little girl by saying: "the things you see at night are called dreams and the black bird that comes is only a shadow that comes to save you" Nuvola Fresca replied:
"But I am so afraid, I would like to see only the white shadows that are good".
Then the wise mother, she knew it would be cruel to close the door to the fear of her child, invented a round canvas with which to fish the dreams of the night, then gave the object a magical power: to recognize good dreams, that is, those useful for growth. spirituality of the little one, from the bad ones, that is, false and deceptive.
Last Sigh of the Evening built many dream catchers and hung them on the cradles of the children of the village.
As the children grew, they embellished theirs with expensive objects and gradually the magical power grew, grew, grew together with them ... Each Cheyenne keeps its own dream catcher for life, as a sacred object bearer of strength and wisdom.
Even today the Cheyenne Indians build a dream catcher every time a child is born in the village and place it on his cradle. With a special wood, very ductile, they shape a circle, which represents the universe and inside it a web similar to that of a spider. The cobweb will therefore be entrusted with the task of capturing dreams. If it is a question of positive dreams, the dream catcher will entrust them to the thread of the beads (forces of nature) and make them come true. If, on the other hand, he judges them negative, he will entrust them to the feathers of a bird and have them carried away far away, scattering them in the skies.

FINGERS OF NATURE

It is fascinating. Nature is wonderful, she has managed to create beautiful things by herself, of perfect symmetry, all so calculated and precise. The leaves, the flowers, us, even if not perfectly. But it’s all calculated right? We were created to be imperfect and however we try to achieve perfection we will never be, neither physically nor morally. What then, who decides that something is perfect or imperfect? Which is right or wrong? What is good or bad? Who is stupid or smart? What is weird or normal? What is it that really makes it so? It’s just our idea. So theoretically symmetry does not exist and exists. Perfection does not exist and exists. All in contrast with everything. The stars are fascinating. They are very large, much larger than our planet and yet they are there, bright dots that shine in the sky, a hint of color in the dark, forming constellations, forming dreams, galaxies, galaxies of dreams. They are there in the sky, so far away, so close, that if you put yourself on your toes, it seems that you can touch them with your hand, but you cannot. The water, what the hell, is beautiful. The surface tension, its clarity, its necessity. But I don’t understand why nature hasn’t made it available to everyone. Then the matter, that everything is made up of everything.
There is no end of matter, a thing created first of all. The universe, which cannot be infinite, come on, everything has an end. Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring, Life, The Earth, Stories, Kisses, Friendships, Loves, Roads, Travels, Holidays, Nights, Days, Weeks , Months, years, sheets, notebooks, the most beautiful books, everything. And the numbers? How can they be infinite? They are not. There are many combinations, Infinite, But we manage to pronounce them up to a certain point, then we start with the astronomical unit, with the light years. And then nature has given us everything, even the possibility of hurting ourselves, it is up to us to choose what to do, it has made us totally free. Have you ever thought about all this? To fate? Exists? In my opinion, yes. A story written somewhere. Two people destined to meet, two people who will fail together, but not alone, two people who together will overcome everything. A person destined to be born to change the world, a savior on this unjust and infamous planet. But who created all this? And remember that the case does not exist, it is not that one day two planets decided by CASE to collide and create the Earth, right? You see, it’s all so wonderful, fascinating, twisted. All so beautifully beautiful.

STORY OF A TRIP

I was wondering “I, for example, why did I want to become a writer?
Indeed, for what reason the writer himself? "
I looked for the deep memory that was to be connected to this choice, one of those that embodies the moment of the "crossroads". I remembered my high school literature teacher who said he had to leave a mark or, perhaps, I made up this memory; probably, I was just someone who, like all the deluded kids of my TV generation, had found a job with which to become famous.
At the time, for TV, they were the footballer, the showgirl, the singer, the actor, the actress, the presenter, which was a bit of a sociological thing, indeed, precisely, it was often a real "sociological consequence", such as for those of the generation before ours, that of our parents who, after Apollo 11, all wanted to be an astronaut and the girls, on the other hand, all wanted to become dancers, probably because they saw the first true female freedom on one black and white screen.
Plastic dreams that smell like food until you start biting into them.
Generations and generations of astronauts and dancers, of footballers, of actresses and actors, of volleyball players thanks to Mila and Shiro, of dreams that have often been broken and that have not been realized.
Now there is another screen, full of colors, to always carry with you: now there is the internet, the phenomena of the web, the InstaStars, the TwitterStars, the fashion bloggers, the influencers and us who often do not we don't even have an influence on our life.
I wondered what this dream pursued over time of wanting to be a writer was, I wondered what it had brought in my pocket to follow it until then.
That day I had practically reached the breaking point of my life where it is as if I woke up to look underneath my dream in the drawer and saw that it said IKEA. 
The stimuli to write my first real book, in fact, had been lost, faded over time and, frankly speaking, after this dismissal at the hotel I was no longer even convinced if I had really been cut out to be a writer.
I had written the book “17 years, in the summer” which had sold a good number of copies, it sells some now and then even now. I had published it at 19 only because a publisher had smelled the scent of easy money for the "kids" target, but I am still ashamed of most of the text, since then I have only published articles in music magazines and my very first book , the one heard, the one on which you spit blood and sweat I had not yet written.
That book published as a teenager, on the other hand, was about revenge, drugs, alcohol, identity research at the end of school, but it was only a summer love story with the usual late-adolescent problems; reading it now would perhaps even be a bit ridiculous, perhaps even 12-year-olds wouldn't read it now. Many of those teenage problems, socially speaking, are over now, or at least they want to believe they are, because perhaps it is most of adolescence now that seems over. Now, adolescence seems more like a very early adulthood, there is a too strong gap between childhood and adulthood, or at least much faster, some things, some actions, even some mistakes must be made in the "wrong age" "Right; this was the basis of the book with which I raised some money to round up: "If you smoke a joint at 10 instead of 15, if you already fuck at 12 instead of a few years later, if you don't enjoy some things before you know how to enjoy others, then you skip the steps too much, my friend. "
There was such bullshit about this book published at just nineteen.
It is true that I still think so briefly, but with the maturity and non-pride of thirty, at this moment, I know that I am nobody to tell you how you should live your adolescence or your life, therefore of that book, the I repeat, I am ashamed, even if they are right things they do not reflect respect for others and this is worth much more. However, if a story is written in a certain way, even at seventeen and published at nineteen, it can be enjoyable for those who are going through those problems and emotions and also for those who want to remember them.
However, without the purity of time in recounting the events of the protagonists, that book would certainly not have sold more than copies equal to the number of my aunts who, even if buying it, would still have complained about the fact that I had not given it to them at Christmas.
Maybe it's that I was no longer hungry to write, maybe I worked too many years in that hotel among the rich, maybe I bought too many useless things, maybe I should find a good girl by my side and stop being infatuated with those a little more crazy, but I don't even want one that, as they say, “Where do you leave it”.
Leaving the hotel behind me, I said to myself: “Maybe I should send everything to that country and take a trip. Yes, a trip.

ADOLESCENCE

I remember my adolescence partly carefree, because I studied, made music and painted a lot, and partly painful, because I had to listen to my mother’s problems, I didn’t know how to deal with mine and she wanted my help and I gave her advice but she did not listen to me, I only served as a container in which to put all her suffering. So I had loves but I didn’t even talk about it to my sister because she was smaller and shy, she wanted to copy me in everything, I was flattered but then it was a disaster when I left because she felt abandoned, and I didn’t have it done on purpose but I had dreams that I wanted to fulfill and she still had to finish school and could leave the following year but then she didn’t come to me anymore and I was very disappointed. I was a happy and angry child, I had long hair and blond curls, I made faces at my waist but I always knew how to collect tears. I was so afraid when I lost the caresses of the hands of those I loved, the beautiful eyes that were the background of my dreams. I have always responded with elegance to offenses, without ever taking away and without giving too much. I tied to silver threads hanging from the sky, notes of soul to make poetry rain, to protect me from the world. I took a train in my mind and walked miles to kiss you and tell you I love you, because I don’t know how to shout. I scream in the silences. I put aside my insecurities to warm my heart, to take cover. I ran a lot in my dreams, to catch up with you and I would always run, because they taught me that love is the only thing worth fighting for and continuing to breathe.
I was an insecure, anxious girl, a good girl, one who always did what was asked of him, who never went crazy, who watched others live and she always remained on the bench, who dreamed of meeting great love. I have lived like this for 15 years. Then something happened. I fell in love. A year spent behind a boy, dignity under his feet, his heart punched, of which only scattered fragments remained. When it was all over I was destroyed. I said to myself “enough is enough! Time to change! ” And so it was. You know, you change by choice, not by chance. You change when something breaks and you are faced with a choice: change or fall behind. I have always hated being left behind, I have always loved running, and so I did, I ran, chasing the girl I had been all my life away in a corner of my mind. I started drinking, smoking, even what I could have avoided. I started to go dancing, to collect meetings, guys that after one evening I would never see again. I just wanted to have fun, feel like a teenager for once. This is what happens to those who spend a lifetime doing the right thing. The day will come when he decides to put a point and break everything. But I assure you in the same way that the day will come when all this will no longer be enough. Where your heart of ice will hurt too much in your chest. In which neither cigarettes nor straws will be able to calm the anxiety that arises inside you, which torments you like a hurricane. In which vodka will no longer be able to make you happy. In which you will understand that all those guys have only used you as an object: taken, used, thrown, replaced, and your insecurity will become unbearable. In which breaking all the rules will make you feel wrong, and more alone than ever. Because you see, you can never allow anyone to love you unless you first learn to love yourself. Another year has passed. And now? Now I am a confident, determined girl, one who does not do what is asked of her, nor who disobeys him in the name of some principle, now I decide my life, I have stopped being on the bench, I have stopped looking love and I started looking for myself, to love me despite all my infinite defects and you know what? It was then that love found me. Love each other. It is the only rule to be happy.

SAY NO

To rebel means to disobey the laws and perform a series of acts against an existing power. In this case we refer to the Italian state, a geopolitical entity in which subjects are oppressed in a legal way, in which legality is an instrument of oppression, where institutions are used to oppress the population and humiliate it. Rebelling is a duty when the law becomes an instrument of persecution, when the law becomes the alibi behind which evil against the population is justified. The ministers and presidents who follow one another in the Italian state are legalized criminals, modern executioners who use the law and their faithful dogs, to maintain a network of privileges extended to millions of people who have annuities, pensions and salaries guaranteed by their position in institutions. Two entire generations have been enslaved by a generation of gerontocrats who have everything: economic, political, information control. And as if that were not enough, they begin to cheat even rejecting electoral clashes, referendums etc….
In a situation of this kind where it is oppressed through taxation and obsessive control of life, the economy, information, it is necessary to rebel, it is necessary to fight with every means against this enslaving system.
When the abuse of legality against elementary rights is evident, such as the right to have a home, the right to eat with dignity, to have the opportunity to warm up and cover up, to be able to work while doing business, to have decent and efficient services .... When the system denies all this, when one is the victim of an apparatus which no longer guarantees this but which even demolishes it, then it is necessary to rebel and destroy this system and its protagonists.
I would like to be alone with my loneliness now. walking by the sea, at dawn, with the sound of wind and waves, and the salt that ruffles my hair, and the salt that touches my skin. I would like to stay in the evening sitting on the floor of my terrace, contemplating the moon and getting lost among the stars, and feel small, insignificant and yet finally part of something, in the harmony of the firmament. Listening to the sound of crickets and cicadas as a balm for my heart. Or, still sitting on the ground, contemplate my reflection in the mirror of my room at the house, the sea, the one that overlooks the railway, and while I look at the sky, think of a future that will never be there. I have been wandering blindly for years in a skin that does not belong to me. I would like to change it. Above all, I would love to know how to do it. And then I would like to go to Los Angeles with my usual dreams in mind, meet other artists, paint and run out of all the money, and then write, write, write, and then with music in my ears, go to Alaska and merge with the green of the earth . I’m a wild spirit, you see. In captivity for too, too long. I suffer so much, I need to breathe again, to savor the rain, to make my skin burn from the sun.
The dreamers. The crazy means. The drunks. The lost. The poets. The musicians. Draftsmen. Artists. The only ones. Those who have made peace with the darkness of the night. And thoughts. Those who keep defeats to themselves without ever begging for forgiveness. The funny ones. Clumsy. That every now and then they cry and say it. A little sociopathic and therefore fascinating. Those who have discovered what fear and even a little love is made of and have lived better since that day. And since that day they have been afraid of hurting. Those who in an ordinary morning after drinking a good coffee have decided to disappear. To live. To meet beauty. To go. Because this happens. Those who have left the handrail for some time and do not remember the way they went. Let alone that of the return. Masters and slaves of the truth. They. Who will certainly smile at you after a: hello how are you? They. Kiss them carefully. They. Hug them harder.
But was it worth it in the end? Holy God, how irremediably my life has changed, it is always the last day of summer and I was left out in the cold without a door to get back in, I admit I had a good deal of intense moments, many have great plans but their life slips out of my hands, in the course of my life I have left shreds of heart here and there, and now I have not enough left to keep myself alive, but I try to smile, knowing that my ambition has far exceeded my talent, now I no longer find white horses or beautiful women at my door. It is the people that no one imagines that they can do certain things those who do things that no one can imagine.
They always talk about democracy, progress, civilization, legality, justice etc., holy and just big words for the hierarchs, for the dominants, for the respectable, I just suck, both the first and the second, what I think is to be focused it is the condition of the “last”, of the People, the real ones, who are considered by the dominants only numbers useful for slave labor, who find themselves in unacceptable conditions of survival, who in the majority remain calm and submissive, in other cases they succumb to suicide , in others they do not accept this condition and rebel and for this reason they are “treated” with the means of democratic repression, this crap of a capitalist society should not be given signs of submission and fear, but of active rebellion

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