STORY OF AN EMPTY CART

I was walking with my father, when suddenly he stopped at a bend and after a short silence I wonder: "Besides the song of the sparrows, do you hear anything else?" I pricked my ears and after a few seconds I replied: "The noise of a cart". “Right - he told me. And an empty cart ". I asked him: "How do you know it's an empty cart if you haven't seen it yet?" He replied: "It's easy to understand when a cart is empty, since the more empty it is, the more noise it makes". I became an adult and even today when I see a person who talks too much, interrupts the conversation of others, is intrusive, boasts of the talents he thinks he has, is bossy and thinks he can do without others, I have the impression of listening to the voice of my father who says: "The more the cart is empty, the more it makes noise"

TRIPPING

If you take a toad, you put it in a pot with water and bring it to the fire, you will observe an interesting thing: the toad adapts to the temperature of the water and stays in there and continues to adapt to the increase in temperature, however when the water comes to the point of boiling the toad would like to jump out of the pot but would not be able to because he is too tired due to the efforts he has made to adapt to the temperature. Some would say what killed the toad was boiling water … what killed the toad was his inability to decide when to jump out. So stop adapting to the wrong people, abusive relationships, parasitic friends and many other situations that “heat you up”. If you continue to adapt, unfortunately, you run the risk of “dying” inside. Jump out while you have time.

I have been wandering in nowhere for too long, I have fallen into the maelstrom of my thoughts, futile desires, fantastic illusions. This distance separates the bodies and not the heart, I miss you, God if you are missing, we were a beautiful but misunderstood painting, we were alive, a painting so full of meaning, we were color, strengths and weaknesses, warm tones. The reality is that I have become a clochard of emotions, a walking cliché, I feed on the few crumbs that remain of a sworn, pure and raw love, the reality is that I beg for empty, forced smiles, but even if they are false they make me alive, or better, I survive. My world has become cold, apathetic, meaningless. Maybe I am exaggerated, yes, how can you think certain things? Can a feeling really affect our life? Can it really kill a man? YES. Love is a fucking mental addiction, love is you. I’m still wandering in the void, but I know that only you can save me somehow .. Your eyes are streets, your lips my city ..Let me go home .

This heart cried until it went dry,
These knuckles bleed, they gave it all,
These legs ran to the moon,
To show these eyes just how hard it is,
And this world only spins by inertia,
But if you stay here tonight maybe it will be different
These stars say "look but don't touch"
This sky does not speak to us but it makes us scream.
It's one of those days when I embroider black sheets,
we levitate among thoughts and avoid the most sincere,
maybe we deserve to look lighter.

WHY AMLETA CREATES SOMETHING

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.