The inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person. Not having to hide your thoughts or measure your words, but expose yourself for what you are. Pros and cons together, knowing that a faithful hand will grab and sift them, keeping what is worth holding, and then, with a gentle blow, blow the rest away.
Night the cloak of darkness envelops your world no mercy for your fragile hopes. Thoughts yield to the illusion of new eyes of different eyes, of a different point of view. The rhythm slows down transformed into a base note. Aphonic sounds pierce the atavistic enemy silence. You try to understand what it will be like tomorrow but it is already tomorrow.
Often I get lost in your eyes to look for a fixed point in all this chaos that reigns the order of things around us. The eyes are oceans where I lose the conception of space and time to give way to the irrational and uncontrollable part of me. In your eyes I find myself, I see my tired soul dancing between the rooms of your time, invigorating itself with life and love in this place that has the colors of honey and coffee. Dance, Dance ballerina between the shades of those eyes You look so beautiful as you dance between steps Finally you are no longer alone in this emotion that overwhelms you Life is finally no longer heavy, in those twists and turns of the heart Savor the life that no longer tastes of autumn but of spring, the one you have been waiting for. “One day three autumns” you said, now the only thing you are is light, you have returned to shine again to give that lost light to others. You are like that, you have to hit rock bottom to be reborn and there was no truer thing. Being born and then dying and then starting over … starting over for you, for you and for those you love.
Roses are red, blood is red, love is red. Happiness is clothed in thorns, it can be reached, embraced, with the crucifixion clause. The harder you push, the harder it sticks to you, and the blood gushes. Happiness is an elite created by those who self-destruct to give it to others. A cosmic equilibrium is destroyed in order to create, one loves in order to die, to the point of dying. Eros and Thanatos go hand in hand. There are still entities that prefer to harm themselves rather than those they love. They can be considered weak, but others do not know how much strength it takes not to open the Pandora’s box that is hidden behind a pair of eyes, they do not know how much awareness exudes from the skin. What awareness? The awareness of the power used to protect, which if released would cause a massacre with no survivors. An awareness that bleeds inside, behind a smile, without anyone noticing, or at least almost anyone. The blood gushes, and nobody pays any attention to it. And that’s right, for balance. For the world. There is a part of me that you don’t know, and it’s not my fragility, it’s that part that at some point reminds me of what I’ve been through, that makes me recognize your lies, that tells me when it’s time to move on , who does not stop saying that the first place will never be yours, because it is already occupied by me. You wouldn’t even understand it by trying on this part that you don’t see, so you will continue to call it insanity.
I don’t understand those people who when they turn one more year get demoralized because they feel older and older or who say they don’t give a damn. Instead of focusing on the fewer years they have left to live, they should be happy that they lived up to that point. Each additional year of life is a wonderful milestone to celebrate, as every day of life should be. Just for the fact of opening your eyes and having another day to live in front of you, you should smile and try to feed that smile all day. When you are young, you take everything for granted, including your health, and you don’t fully realize the extraordinary power you have right now. We often focus on a happiness that will only be achievable in the near future, but the future is only our imagination. Today it is reality. The air we are breathing, the beating of our heart and the sweat of our hands, these sensations of the present are what we take for granted as if they were eternal but they are not. Our vital senses take on their true value only when we are about to lose them. Do not allow this to happen, whatever you are doing stop for a moment and completely forget about it, breathe deeply closing your eyes, listening to your beat, touching your hands but above all enjoying being alive with a sublime smile.I look at your graceful figure and no fantasy is needed for me to follow the return to the origins, your morning toilet is of fine oyster cloth and you are an invitation to a mud bath, your blue eye stares at me through a milky keratome, with the stiff forefinger you push aside the yellow twigs of the weeping willow and you know well that you can expect all the worst things from me. Emotional flashes and a hundred and eight gold in the finish open the way to the sewer, to the sad weekend that I am now starting to live, the dress of which I dream is woven in the rice color of Siberian cellulose, the green hands of eight hundred girls are the foundation of a sweet confession, the isoipse of the rice solidify you with a courtesy mask and the ratchets of your porcelain ears are perfectly hidden in the listening bush of your oxide macerated hair. The spheres of things and events triggered, against the course of the clock hands, run at zero time, however a single day spent with the beloved girl on a Norwegian glacier is the love bag of all worthy people.Splinters of smashed dolls hurt my soul, the caterpillar crawling right next to my eye is bigger than the express train that passes in the distance. I don’t know which mountain farmer when he couldn’t find work years ago he started talking to a sheep. I see how my life is sucked into my mother’s life, I see how I am wound back from the umbilical cord to the womb of the progenitor Eve. I see how the stained underpants are the imprint of infinity and the intestines stirred by noble horror lead to a higher vision, I see my semen as against the current being sucked backwards to the first pollution like a mountain trout, I see how from the organ sexual intercourse of all my ancestors are sucked back into the spermatic canal of the progenitor Adam. I live tactfully the resection of the rib that I still miss today.And in the meantime this is your little waist and this is your pleated skirt from the belt to the delicate crepe and this is your toilet of the silky ivory color and it is an empire model and this is the confirmation dress kept as a souvenir and this is your back dappled by beer coasters and these are your loose hair and staves of music flow from your head. I see how naked you are now sailing under the dark beams, I see your rhythmic hands illuminated by the violent spray of the yellow chandelier, I see how from your little beating legs gush springs, beads that rise from all the pores of your body, you are immersed in a bathroom phosphorescent and vibrating ankles whistling rapids of seltzer, sparkling wines, sparkling fins, mineral feathers, flying fish wings, the flys that the beautiful and young Greek god Mercury wears on his ankles. The full moon shines with the footprint of Armstrong’s sole, but I was most moved by the news of the evening newspaper, a 68-year-old medical herb picker dozed off on a flowering meadow and was sucked into a lawn mower and her corpse escaped from the car along with the medicinal herbs and hay beyond recognition.Along the belt of the streets I return to the origin of going, the revealing splendor of animal experiences wishes pools full of children to thirsty cities. Your myosotide eye broken by a sliver of Modra majolica now understands my cold gaze, rightly follow how the knife of my imagination pushes back to the sources of things. The last stream is sucked into the small river with the last drop, the last river is sucked into the ocean sea with the last clear cloud evaporating in the blue skies. I see how you follow this ascending fall with me, I see that not a single phase of this striptease has escaped you. Apparently I follow the memory of your white silk dress embroidered with gold, on the wrist the sleeve was decorated with slits for my desire, two hollow folds of cream yellow cashmere, but I follow all the more quickly as the pure source and the divine Needle they go towards spring and you smile at me when you see how I take handfuls full of creative clay in my hands and smelling the earth I smell you too. Meanwhile I feel only in my brain the screeching of your sweet limbs, the skin you have adorned with tender cracks, you are transported by the coordinates of cigarette smoke, Climb high like the bubbles of seltzer, the trees and flowers describe circumferences, an apple falls from the melo, already with the apples in the seed, the last ruins of the evening slip silently into the soft dust, but in the meantime I like the excesses and extravagances of the songs with poetry in the newspapers.Graceful comes in the wave of the evening a lonely throb of a star. Gradually a light cloud the pupil closes them smiling; and as she passes with veils and feathers, in the great blue tremulous sparks they are born in swarms, they are born in garlands, are born in a hundred, are born in a thousand: but I don’t see you anymore, my star. Liable illusion How many anxieties you neglect. I woke up. Beyond the intoxicating essence of your insidious substance Vast expanses of multicolored black poppies They linger mischievous Willing to stem severely every unwary dream. Cleverly designed they will refute the insolent lie to which you are prone Allocating your vain shy escape to an inevitable departure. We cannot evade An intimate truth. Along the way we meet as graceful souls. Sensitive fairies. You covet butterflies and you love days sitting together.
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.
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.
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 ?!
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.”
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.
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 …
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 