TWO FACES

I have too many thoughts, too many things that I miss, passages that I am going to look for and that in reality I have no interest in looking for. Paranoia is like a mother who is convinced that you do drugs and looks for the reeds in every dress you put on, a try, anything and instead you have not touched anything but for some inconclusive reason you have anxiety. There. This is what happens in my head when I try to understand why I have anxiety even if everything is ok. What am I trying to find? Why do I always have to feel guilty? Why does my past affect me so much? I would like to be quiet as I have always been but maybe I just have to force myself and look in the mirror for what I am without veils. Without what there have never been. I have to believe in me.
In all these years I have probably experienced too much internal noise, thought too much, I put too many problems, many non-existent ones, I have never actually given myself a moment of peace, of silence. Sometimes it seems that I don’t do anything, that I don’t even move, that I stand still in front of books, in front of the screen, in front of a sheet, a canvas, and instead I never stop away from the eyes of others. The only time I stop is when I look at the sky, or at the sea, when I want to understand what it has to look at, what it is, and why. Because the universe is stressed, because the sea is always pissed off. I just want one of those clear-cut explanations, such as those given to children, those full of imagination and reason. But I have no peace in my soul, I always try NOT to adapt, not to homologate, not to stay in it too much, I want to look at the world with different eyes, I want to feel free and light.I don’t mind celebrating what is not a goal for me. I never want to celebrate anything because the real event for which to do it has yet to come. I want to be with her and look at the world with different eyes, I want that for once I can decide and celebrate MY choice, not that of others, not theirs, not yours. I don’t want to celebrate my achievements, I didn’t choose to participate in the match. This is not what I want. After all, I will just want a moment of silence, have dinner by the sea and be in silence, alone with you.

BLUES OF LOVE

It all started with a perfect dinner at the end of the season with her now healed. Seafront table at sunset, bouquet of flowers on the table and “Wish you were here” at its entrance. But if you lack the courage, what do you do with the movie scene. Pretend you are just a friend and then call yourself stupid for the rest of the time. Anyway, the chances were zero and you kept your friend (sigh!): That’s how I console myself.
No. It all started earlier. It all started during the summer, when she was at home a prisoner of the evil of living, the blackest depression, and I wrote to her every day to be close to her without putting pressure on her. I was the friend who gave her good morning and goodnight, the photographer of sunrises and sunsets, the fool who sought her laugh, the poet who hid love with friendship.
No. It all started earlier. . It all started when the day of his disembarkation arrived. We are together in the morning, before the practice in the Harbor Master’s Office: you are a professional and you must do everything right. Then a coffee and a walk, eyes that meet, but no one holds the gaze of the other. Finally the farewell in front of the ferry, she cries and you console her, making you strong sunglasses. And then one last hug, you turn around and then you cry.
No. It all started earlier. It all started when she got sick while on board and I didn’t understand anything until that day when she got hurt. A little cut on a finger and a bit of tears introduce you all of a sudden into the pain of a soul. And then, with pain in your heart, in agreement with her, you look for a way to get her to land as quickly as possible.
No. It all started earlier. It all started when she got sick while on board and I didn’t understand anything until that day when she got hurt. A little cut on a finger and a bit of tears introduce you all of a sudden into the pain of a soul. And then, with pain in your heart, in agreement with her, you look for a way to get her to land as quickly as possible.
No. It all started earlier. It all started on the boat when I secretly observed her while she worked and laughed with that laugh of her throat. And she was so lovely to customers, a light butterfly that exuded empathy. Occasionally she realized she was being watched, but she didn’t understand why. You have sad eyes, he said, captain, my captain.
No. It all started earlier. It all started as I watched her work on fixing the boat for the season. And she moved lightly with that step of her shy but curious explorer. A lively but tormented mind, which I still did not know and observed from afar with hidden (to myself) interest. A mystery of life.
No. It all started earlier. It all started when I started repeating myself: forget her, don’t look at her, you can’t fall in love, she’s just one of the crew. I repeated in my head “forget it”, but I’m not good at giving me advice, the thought came back and insisted, always on her. .
No. It all started earlier. . It all started when I saw her for the first time on the quay, at the end of the transfer of the boat from Turkey to Sardinia. As soon as I saw her dark, deep and shining eyes, I was shipwrecked in her without remedy. I gasped without air like a fish out of water and didn’t understand why, but in my heart I knew why.
Yes. It all started with his eyes. It would take special permission to have eyes like that. Eyes that pierce your heart and tear your soul apart. . This approximate blues should console me. Like all blues it was born to soothe the soul, but how come I’m crying then ?!

LOVING AN ARTIST

Loved only by those who had brought me into the world, I was a winged-hearted creature. A free creature, who would never have sacrificed the wings of freedom to a stupid and obsolete feeling commonly called love. Armed only with myself, in the evening, I spread my wings above the world and let myself be caressed by the wind, with my soul naked and free of inhibitions. The warm currents squeezed me and the taste of the lack of ties satisfied me; nothing in the world could ever upset my balance. Nothing, I was sure, for nothing, in my eyes, shone more than freedom. They are artists, for me, those who know how to create a unique world in which to take refuge. You, for me, were an artist. And as such, I envied you when, from the bedroom window, I saw the most beautiful paintings I had ever seen take shape on previously white canvases. Then you smiled at me, sent me a kiss and went back to painting. If it was just a joke, or if you really wanted to give me kisses, I don’t know, but the way you looked at me, the curious eyes with which you looked at my tousled hair and my oversized jacket, made me fall back lightly my wings, before spreading them in all their glory and straightening my head. No one would ever overwhelm me, not you, with your gemstone gaze, not anyone else. I was not like you. I was not beautiful, or clear, and I did not look perfect even with the face dirty with acrylic color and the hair gathered in a messy way. I’ve never been like you. I, I told myself, was free. Free from all ties and free from everything that could have binded me to the world. And my greatest wealth was freedom. Of this I am sure. I lived like this, as it happened. I lived for the day, detaching myself more and more from the earthly world and taking refuge in the warmth of my parents’ hugs. Their chests were warm and full of life. Full of love for me, but that love, perhaps, was not enough. That love, perhaps, did not have the color of your paintings and did not represent sunrises and sunsets. That love, I discovered, was not yours. It was inviolate, unconditional, but it did not come from the chest of the only person who, with his paintings and his smile, was able to take my breath away and make me angry. When I realized I loved you, I cried. I cried like I had never done before. One evening when it was raining I went out, on tiptoe I reached towards the sky; towards freedom, but this was so far away. I closed my eyes, as the rain soaked my clothes and weighed me down, I promised myself that feeling would not touch me. His chains would not have destroyed my wrists. I think I’ve never been good at keeping my promises, nor at winning wars. And so, crying, my feet touched the ground and for you, for your paintings and your sunsets, I tasted your lips stained with tempera, drowning in your presence and in your breath, clinging to my shoulders with all of myself. If you had left me, I would have died. I also gave up my only affections; those parents who, when they learned that I loved a girl, closed the door in my face and never reopened it are still just a memory. “Don’t you want to play with me today?” The wind asks me. But my wings are closed now, I hold your hand. That’s okay, you know? Sleep, sleep a little longer, my love. When you wake up, I will still be here. If, however, you find only this letter, look at the sun. Rising, it brings you a message: “She loves you,” he says “More than freedom?” “Yes, more than freedom.”

I WAS ON THE GROUND

The last trance was the last trance the one in which she had danced in the rain and in the wind. The storm was out. The storm was inside and the monster had water eyes and thunder arms. She had danced in the intercourse with the ferocious beast, the killer baby, a ferocious feline, a very fast condor had taken her and carried her up. All this and the rest, dispersed, in the raindrops. I had seen and said “follow me” and she had followed the force of the storm. No force was too strong for the challenge, no force was too strong for her liquid pleasure. Following the animal, into the forest, scrolling along the paths where you could not walk. The sound of the night was coming. She told him “save me” and he didn’t answer and hid. The beast came out instead and she took it in her hands and every vein was red and throbbing. She stood looking at him so full of pulsating veins and moving at the touch of his mouth. He told her “get out of me” and he didn’t but he flew up and fell on her and stayed on her back until the wings unfolded well. The wings were made of copper and carried energy. A blackout of harmonic kilowatts entered his ribcage. She stood still, let the transformation begin, what would become of her shell was not given to him to know. He wove heavier alloys on the outside of the wings, but platinum was his single-celled heart. He said “wait”. She felt the metal enter her ribs, enter her bones, come to life and breathe like a second soul. She remained dead. She remained dead. She remained dead. Lying in iron, in metal, in the world of her demon. He remained. It folded its wings and pierced the trees, the rocks, the waterfalls, the lights, the shadows. Everything stood in the way of his new wingspan. Everything was a hindrance to his body. He felt the heavy steel in his arteries. He couldn’t breathe. He told him “kiss me, give me air, I’ll suffocate”. He joined his thin hands and disappeared into the thunder. Anger took her. He threw himself away. It destroyed everything in its path. He pierced the storm itself and crashed into a mountain hidden by the fury of the hurricane. The wings were so heavy. The lungs were struggling. Steel was in every muscle. She got up. Moving his head he managed to swallow some air. He had re-entered her chest. He was breathing now. His demon had regained strength. He had it back. It covered her vital organs. He made her die to make her live better. His mind was ready. The crystals were reforming and in a few hours he would break all seals of piety and humanity. He shouted “leave me!” but he was more inward than ever. It had all its strength, it had its wings. He threw her across the seas like a bullet and she crossed the waves. It was ready. She had returned. The energy passed through her but the strength did not scare her. He closed his eyes. He saw her white eyes in her darkness. Who was? Who are you? Churches. Metal does not melt. The crystals flip over. Polarity swap places. And she became something else. She lay on the asphalt, dust in her mouth, as he screamed obscenities. She was just a victim and was crying. He couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t escape. He stayed on the asphalt and died inside himself.

EXTREME MAKE UP

In an era in which Kate Middleton, Duchess of Cambridge and wife of the heir to the throne of England, nonchalantly flaunts the same dress on several occasions, clearing the practice of recycling against which fashion addicted have pointed the finger for many years, It is no surprise that more and more companies are emerging on the Web that make second-hand clothes and accessories their specialty. Yet, the idea that Karen Horiuchi had when she founded Glambot.com is definitely new: instead of t-shirts, tops, skirts and dresses, the company has focused on make-up, selling eyeshadows, foundations at discounted prices. and even used and “refurbished” make-up brushes.
She’s good, wear makeup as well. A little mascara and a trickle of pencil. Put a brush of powder on it too and be careful not to forget your dear friend blush. Put whatever you want in it, and then get out. Have fun, drink, laugh, joke, scream, don’t care, live! But then you will have to go home and take off that mask that you created yourself adapting it to your face. You didn’t think about this huh? You can’t wear it forever, it’s a mask destined to be taken off, sooner or later. It is one of those masks that make you look beautiful at first; but then its beauty gradually fades away and all that remains is your true beauty; the one you have never noticed, because it lies in simplicity, in small gestures, in the most hidden details. That true beauty that you have never shown anyone; the one that no one knows; the one no one knows exists. Maybe because you don’t want anyone to see it, or maybe you think that, once it is revealed, nobody would appreciate it. And the funniest thing of all is that others do the same thing to you, without your knowledge. Because this is now a world of masks in which the actors who wear them are none other than the protagonists of this film called “Life”, where appearing is more important than being; where the story of being beautiful inside, nobody cares. Where nobody ever thinks that perhaps it would be better to be hated for who they really are, than loved for that fucking mask that we insist on wearing to please others.
Why do you stay in front of the mirror for hours before you go out? There is always someone more beautiful than you. Why do you look at the clock every five seconds? So much gives you the hole. Why do not you eat? You suck even with ten kilos less. Why are you wearing makeup? No one ever looks at your eyes anyway. Why are you hoping for it? Nothing good ever happens to you anyway.
All women need makeup. Don’t let anyone tell you a different thing. The only woman who was pretty enough to go without makeup was Elizabeth Taylor and she wore tons of it. “A few days ago I came across this phrase written as a caption under a photo shared on instagram by a fashion blogger, I felt offended and I I’m angry. The girl defines herself as a “fashion influencer” and this made me reflect, because actually she is a girl who is very active on social media and has a following of about 33,000 people, mostly girls who could potentially take her as a model and follow what he says, being influenced. I wondered how it is possible to write such a thing, to get the message across that everyone needs to wear makeup, to get the message across that they are not “enough”. how to make this girl reflect on the fact that it is not a good message at all. A friend of mine commented, in a very calm and open way to dialogue. , in response, the girl deleted the comment, changed the caption (without much improvement, however) and blocked my friend. I think that all these girls who have all this following could have great opportunities to pass important messages, to influence in a positive and constructive way instead they get lost in these frivolities, they remain on the verge of superficiality … Probably because that’s what “sells” “, this is what” earns “. The baseness that is raised and acclaimed pisses me off.
Many think about the type of girl they would like: tall, short, brunette, blonde, eec… but I think about when. I would like to meet her in the morning, still sleepy because the night before she studied a little too much, without makeup and with the overalls, because having gone to sleep late she obviously woke up late and left the house in a hurry. If on that occasion I find her beautiful I do not dare to imagine how she will be once dressed well and made up. So dear girls, don’t wear too much make-up like clowns because simple you are beautiful …

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