THINKING ABOUT WHAT?

All of us, including me, are with our minds invaded by a thousand ideas, but lately I have been thinking more and more about the fact that in today’s world no one makes the effort to think, but think seriously about his life, the values ​​he has, the people, both those who are close to you and those who have gone away, what emotions do you feel when you wake up in the morning and live your day until you go to bed in the evening … Everything is too big compared to us, little human beings who think they are full (some with money, some with commitments, some with desires, some only with merits, some only with defects, some with a combination of all this), but who they’re actually fucking empty and meaningless. In my reflection in front of the mirror, I see a girl with two big blue eyes like the sky but which express nothing but false happiness because in recent years I have learned to swallow many injustices and things that are difficult to accept but also to take hits stronger than me but if internally they knocked me out, externally I had to stand up and walk with my head held high in order not to lose control of my life. Sometimes I have lost it, I do not hide it, leading to very negative and self-destructive consequences. Sometimes I think about how fast I have grown, too fast due to various events that have happened, perhaps with too much strength, stubbornness and stubbornness. Do you know what for?
To put up with two parents who asked me to behave in a normal way and see it right despite being 8 years old. I wish I had a time machine. I would like to use it to see my mom again who, despite coming home from work tired, smiled when she ran to me to kiss my forehead or to laugh out loud when my dad tickled me on the hips or to watch movies on the sofa all three together, in short, to have my moments of stability and pure family joy back. Now only small, but at the same time clear memories remain, to which I cling to smile if I feel bad. Finally, I really think that current life is taking us all away, in its immense river of frenzy, superficiality and general hypocrisy, so every now and then put yourself in a position to reflect on yourself, it is the best gift you can give yourself. If you think that life is crap, maybe sometimes you try, for example, to be less hasty when you have to run to catch a train and stop for a moment to observe the beauty that the sky has, even on dull and rainy days, or to turn it off. smartphone to go for a walk to free yourself from stress, or politely return the greeting to those who offer it to you, in short, simply live as you should.

INTO THE DARK SIDE

Its dark side always stands out. For Amleta it is a constant struggle. It sinks and resurfaces. You continue to breathe while remaining at the bottom of the sea. Submerged by 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 his veins, he tried to purify it, eradicate it, erase it from every vein, from every cell of mine. But it always remained where it was, even when it seemed to disappear. Each time it takes over 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: it rides on the lost hours of its inhuman time and gets lost in the shadows that are drawn in its secret garden. A little girl comes out of the past, brings flowers to a grave, that of her grandmother, and says her name is Hamlet. That child was her, at the age of eight, when she was reciting death on the Persian carpet at home. Soon Hamlet appreciated the silence of certain places where the only living presence were the marble angels. The scent of rotten flowers followed her steps. She had never felt so happy as her first time in 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 her in the wind among the cypresses and only she could hear them. The candles fascinated her, if she wanted to take them home, her mother scolded her, you can’t steal from the dead! He told her. She was upset, for her those were the flames of their vanished hearts and she wanted to keep them safe in her home. Then, when she was finally big, she bought as many as she wanted and her room glowed with flames. Those red flames were so happy for her! People did not understand the beauty of light, they believed them candles of the dead and that’s it. She misses the cemeteries. It has been a long time since he went and nowhere has he found that silence again. Perhaps one day not too far away, when this struggle of yours will also end, she too will be able to rest there and be only a stone angel.
I have lived half my life years now. I have traveled the world. Saw many good and bad things. Experienced with good and bad people. I was abused at 4 years old. But I was saved by art. I loved it very much. People and animals. So much so that I was able to save a lot of people except myself. I have always done everything following my heart but my heart has taken me to a country where I am dying out. I am dependent on vital drugs for me and I cannot marry from this damn nation. I hate being here. I hate my beating heart. I see too many people just looking for money. That’s why I’m alone here. Many have used and exploited me. But I said enough. I have given too much of myself. The world will perish and there is no Gandalf to screen Evil. No brave group to take out the orcs. We human beings are finished now. Machines own people. When I talk about real life and not virtual, they laugh in my face. All. It is normal for them to be on the web 24 hours a day. They consider me strange to me because I prefer to go out and live outside and not inside a screen. But unfortunately there are few left without cell in hand. We are just white flies. The trouble is this. See how life goes. You see that working does not bring happiness. Not even love gives happiness. Neither are friendships. And neither does the money. So what’s the use of all this play? Adaptation to society. From an early age they tell us that we are here and we must do as they tell us to do. And we all to obey. Whoever escapes is lost. Lost or free? Boh. Freedom always has a price. But in the meantime we are in a cage like lions and have to be content with this stupid survival? I am tired.
I’m remembering myself. I’m remembering who I am. Jasmine scent. Sometimes the neigh of a horse woke me up in the morning. The open cracks let the sun’s rays pass through and that dust looked like magic dust in the air. The voices of the neighbors, the morning television, the news. The heat already after the early hours of dawn. The scorching heat. The life that melted inside the water bottles. Ice cubes on your fingers. On the deck chair reading a book, chasing away ruinous flies. Then the dives in the sea, every day, every summer month, every year in the villa by the sea. I hated that season. I hated the heat and mosquitoes. In my literary solitude I felt detached from life outside. I didn’t know what human comedy was still like. I didn’t know sex and I didn’t even know love. Me on the deckchair, with my Flaubert and Miss Felicita and her parrot. My elementary teacher loved me. He gave me that book because I was good. I was always studying and always finishing my homework. I drew a lot. Notebooks full of drawings. Trees, flowers, animals, …. masks. That book stole my soul. That book stole my life: “A simple heart” was entitled. I didn’t even know who this Flaubert was. I also really liked the illustrations of that girl who lived alone with that bird. That girl who then died with a smile in her mouth. The smell of jasmine mixed with the scent of fried fish. The smell of jasmine that filled the summer nights. The sweat of being able to touch my pain made word. The pain that made me alone. I spoke English, nobody understood it. It was not modern English. It was the language of another life of mine. I’m remembering myself. About that little girl sitting in the deck chair. How I read that book without knowing who Flaubert was. I was only 11 years old and I didn’t know what love was. I didn’t know what life was. The pages were full of illustrations. Such beautiful designs!

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