IF I WAS A CHILD

I wish I could hug all those little girls who grow up with the idea of ​​being wrong, who start hating their body.
I wish I could tell them that I know that story well and that they are not alone.
I would like to be able to embrace every single creature who, looking in the mirror,
repeats “I am wrong. I am too fat for this world”.
I wish I could hug the child Queen to tell her that it is not her fault,
that the world is full of things of so many things that she has not been able to see.
He was afraid that only evil existed.
Everything was easier as children, when the words didn’t hurt and the hugs were sincere. When the greatest pain was a skinned knee and the only difficulty was tying the knot in your shoes. Everything was more beautiful as children, when to touch the sky it was enough to go on the swing and a storybook made us dream. When a lollipop was enough to let the sadness pass and a light on to scare the monsters under the bed. When the world seemed perfect and we were in a hurry to grow. Now the world is scarier and sometimes I would like to go back to being a child
“What happened?” “That lollipops have become cigarettes, water vodka, bicycles, mopeds, sex kisses. Do you remember when flying meant swinging fast? When did “protection” mean using a helmet for cycling? When the worst you could get from a person was head lice? When did we only love our parents? Dad’s shoulders were the highest place in the world and Mom was a heroine. Your worst enemy was your brother, speed problems were caused by running too fast. “War” was just a game and the only drug we knew was cough syrup. The strongest pain you could feel was in your skinned knee and “goodbye” just meant “until tomorrow”. All this was the best thing in the world, but we couldn’t wait to grow up… “
A hug to the little girl I was, shy and insecure. To that delicate and sensitive child who cried, suffered, felt alone. A hug to the woman I have become, stubborn and imperfect but always sincere, a warrior with a heart that is always too open. To the woman who is trying to forgive herself and who never stops dreaming. For the woman that I am, for all the love I have inside, for my victories and my defeats, for all the times I’ve stood up, for all the monsters I’ve faced. A hug to the little girl I still am and will always be, with fairy tales in my heart and a thousand dreams in my eyes.

NARCISISM AND POWER

But why does the narcissist seek power? Because it is fragile, because its feet are made of clay. Alongside the grandiose image that he exhibits outside, coexists the image from which he desperately tries to escape: that of being a nullity, without any value. The narcissist fears judgment and fears criticism, even constructive, because it calls him back to reality. But reality, for him, behind the grandiose mask, is emptiness, the nullity of feelings, insignificance. The narcissist is afraid to reveal himself, because deep down he feels unacceptable. If the negative image rises to the surface, he feels lost. Pain and a sense of humiliation resurfaces: he feels weak, exposed, afraid.
The narcissist despises the feelings of others because he despises his own feelings, the authentic ones, those feelings that lead him to recontact the original pain and depression. He detached himself from those feelings, choosing the schizoid path of alienation and covering them through anger.
If we look at the surface, we see the narcissist's arrogance and arrogance towards others. If we look deeply, through the eyes of the soul, we see that he practices the dance of arrogance in the first place towards himself, towards his tender parts and his most intimate feelings. The heart of his soul, the flow of deep feelings, is hindered and imprisoned. A jailer of himself, he has become a captivus, a villain. By separating, alienating himself from himself, he betrayed his own soul. Having abandoned the sinballein, the divine spark, the ubuntal conscience, the trust in everything, he entrusted himself to the diaballein, to the devil, to the great internal liar.
Narcissistic people, in order to bear their weakness and to enter a state of grandeur, to deny reality to some extent and to feel more stimulated and stimulating, often drink and use drugs. They need to get stunned, to increase their energy through alcohol: they are braver if they are tipsy. In fact, the use of stimulants helps them to face the great and dangerous world, but risks making them even more detached from the sense of self and therefore even more ruthless, critical, oppositional. Sometimes they feel naked without barriers and defenses. In those moments, they feel a great fear of living and begin to feel sorry for themselves and to make victims. "How I have reduced myself," a desperate man will say because he feels abandoned by his lover who acted as a great mirror for him.
That of the perverse manipulator is a perversity akin to the depravity of moral sadism. The perverted character (perverse manipulator) has a conflicting personality, while the perverted narcissist is more subtle, acts without arousing the slightest suspicion, indeed manages to arouse compassion. The perverted character is more presumptuous, more uncompromising and aggressive. He reacts to frustrations in an exaggerated way and takes pleasure in humiliating his victim. After all, the pleasure of domination is only a typical perverse feeling. The perverse manipulator shows a clearly morbid attitude, a destabilizing behavior, a strategic ideation. It goes in search of destructive stimuli, has no scruples, remaining immune from feelings of guilt. Since he does not trust anyone, he has no friends, but accomplices. Sexual depravity exudes it in raw and coarse language, frankly vulgar, but, what is worse, it actualizes it in rape and incest. In the differential diagnosis, however, they can be clearly distinguished from paranoiacs, as the mental structure of the latter is an impediment to any emotional relationship, while perverts of character use the narcissism of others, and manipulate it, to strengthen the incompleteness of their ego.
The relational manipulator is a narcissistic, self-centered pathological personality type; a psycho-affective vampire that feeds on the vital essence of its prey. He criticizes, despises, blames, blackmails, reminding others of moral principles or the pursuit of perfection, but this only when it comes in handy. And to achieve his goals he resorts to deceptions, pseudo-logical arguments that turn situations upside down to his own advantage. Often its communication is paradoxical: opposite messages in double bind, to which it is impossible to respond without contradicting oneself; or it deforms the meaning of the speech. He commits himself, takes no responsibility, does not formulate explicit and clear requests. Yet he does not tolerate rejection, he always wants to have the last word to draw his conclusions, even if they are not shared. Change opinions and decisions. Above all, he lies, insinuates suspicions, reports misunderstandings. Simulates somatization and self-depreciation, but substantially demonstrates emotional disinterest.
In short, it is a question of disturbed and disturbing personalities, with which one can bond emotionally in order to be inevitably destabilized by their perfidious influence.

STORY OF A DEJA VU

Almost everyone has had a dejà-vu.

You are minding your own business, you are traveling to get to school or your workplace, or you are simply moving inside the place you call home, when suddenly something catches your attention. You are certain that it is something you had already noticed before, yet you are unable to remember where or when. You get over it, convincing yourself that your memory is playing tricks on you. You tell yourself that it is simply a vague reminder of a similar event you experienced in the past.
Well, nine times out of ten you are probably right, but every now and then that sense of dejà-vu will leave you with a discomfort that will settle inside you, remaining hovering in the corner of your head. When you tell a friend or family member, he too will minimize the whole thing by explaining that it is nothing more than a fragment of your imagination itself. And you will end up not paying much attention to it, you will reject that restlessness until it reaches the limits of your subconscious. There that feeling will remain, forget about the guardians of your mind.
At the end of the day you will go to bed feeling a fictitious sense of security, convincing yourself that what you felt will pass by itself after one of the nights rest.
The next day you will wake up feeling fresh and reborn.
The world will appear to you exactly as it always has been. That dejà-vu has already escaped your memory, you can't even remember the profound discomfort you felt at that moment.

You will drink your coffee, or your tea, and observe your same morning rituals, greet your loved ones as you leave and head for school or work.

Yet, as the door closes slowly behind you, there will be faint murmurs. They will disperse with every step you take, while for a moment you will seem to feel something that soon after you will set aside as a simple joke of your wild imagination.


"He doesn't remember anything ..." you'll hear them whisper in a barely audible whisper.

"... and you will never succeed, darling ..."

REVEAL

I am sitting in the library, sipping an American coffee. I'm looking for words, perhaps inspiration. It does not arrive. I seem to keep struggling to get words that just aren't there now.

I would like to write about realization and as soon as I think about how to start there is a sense of muffling in the head and nothing comes.

I drop my arms to the side, let the keyboard free. I look to my right and there, leaning on a shelf, is Robbie Williams looking at me. He seems pleased, smiling, a little tired. Beside his mouth an inscription, printed in gold: Reveal.

Reveal. Revelation.

I get a thrill when I mentally pronounce this word. Does this word have anything to do with realization?

The idea arises that maybe what we are used to calling realization is simply a revelation, a revelation of ourselves to the world.
A person I recently met on my path reminded me once again that in simplicity there is the way to what we are looking for. Whatever it is and whatever we are calling it.

I spent years wondering how I could have accomplished myself. What did I mean by this word?

I wanted to get to a point where I could feel full, useful, active part of the world and that being there made a difference.

I “fought”, more or less happily, trying to do at all costs something that made me feel like this, fulfilled.
Then I began to realize that what I called realization was a state of being disconnected from doing or, in any case, not a consequence of it but at most its presupposition.

Feeling fulfilled, feeling that our presence in the world is sacred has nothing to do with doing.
And maybe it's just as that shiny gold Reveal next to Robbie's mouth suggests… feeling fulfilled is a consequence of revealing ourselves to the world. To reveal ourselves without masks that do not belong to us. Entering that space of feeling full, and rich, and happy and in love .. and all the words we can imagine and that we often put between our personal and professional goals instead of putting them at the starting point.

I stopped coaching precisely because I was out of tune with this idea that there is something to be achieved and that there is someone who can help you do it faster and easier (or at least consciously).

There is nothing to achieve. Nothing to achieve.
Or rather, maybe one thing.
We.
If I think about it in this perspective, the word "Realize" takes on a new meaning ... realizing oneself in the sense of recognizing oneself.

It is essential and urgent that we begin to realize that there is no better time than now, this very moment, this breath, to start doing it.

And it doesn't mean using a make-up of happiness and Peace & Love to mask a feeling that we might call sadness or fear.

This is what we can no longer put off, recognize what is here now and what wants to be seen: anger, sadness, fear, happiness, embarrassment, shame, serenity, pleasure ...
The realization simply passes through the set of these moments in which we choose to be true, with love.

Where do we start from then?
From the simplest and most usable thing we have for example.
From the breath.
Taking a slow, full breath and listening to the miracle within that breath.
It is that the magic is hidden in these things that seem small that we therefore underestimate. So we are looking for big companies and we forget the power that is in simple gestures. Because life starts there.

The mind can continue to struggle to find meaning in big business but sooner or later it will be forced to give up.
We choose when.

FAR FROM YOU

( I WROTE THIS POETRY LAST YEAR DURING THE LOCKDOWN. I WROTE IT THINKING ABOUT MY AUNT OF 85 YEARS OLD, ALONE AT HOME)

Can you remember my perfume or has this distance also erased the memories once they were stuck in the folds of our heart?
The hand moves and we stand still and this time we have no motivation to start chasing time,
this time all we can do is sit and wait for time to stop running incessantly, that he realizes that we are left a few steps behind and that maybe he is waiting for us or that he slows down, because I know well that it cannot go back.
Can you feel my emotions behind this glass that divides us?
Can you still see them in my eyes or are we too far away?
I can write the intertwining of emotions inside me on a sheet of paper, but I know well that with words I will never be able to describe how I feel.
Can you imagine my smile behind this bulky mask?
I try to draw in the sky, to join the stars together, to write something, anything, in the hope that you can perceive me.
If with my fingertips I try to imagine touching you, can you feel my touch?
Do you feel the chills running down your back?
Does your mind start playing tricks on you?
Do you see my gaze stop the universe?
I try to whisper words to you I whisper them in the wind so that I bring them to you,
keep the window open and try to understand its meaning. I rest my palm on my glass side, you do the same.

THE WHITE FLOWER IN THE MUD

You see a mile away that you are special, everyone points it out to you but you don’t want to see it. You color the lives of those around you but you can’t find anyone who colors yours, and I see you looking around for a pair of eyes in which to reflect yourself. But you can’t find them, because you are pure and the only time I saw you mirrored in someone was when that child was in your arms, the one you said had the same eyes as me, but strangely I saw yours again. . You tell me that I have an innate purity, and I tell you, and so we spend our days wondering who among us is right, never finding an answer, even if I know it. Sometimes we see the world in black and white, and while I drown in the darkness of darkness you point out the purity of white, and slowly together we emerge from the abyss. We often have a tantrum, because we are never too old to cry in exchange for a candy, or a caress. Sometimes I would like to give you my eyes, and ask for yours in return, to change perspective and see if our points of view are damn the same or so damn different that they collide all the time. And sometimes I want to make you feel special, just as much as you make me feel.
I grew up with her. “The flower that blooms in adversity is the rarest and most beautiful of all” has become the phrase I repeat most often. They always wanted me to be different: thinner, more affectionate, less cold, less sarcastic, less reserved, more feminine … But I can’t. I don’t know how to hug, sarcasm spontaneously comes out of my mouth, I’ll always have a tomboy part, despite my make-up and hair in order. I have always fought, I have always managed by myself. Some time ago, I wanted to get a lotus flower tattoo. It is a particular flower: it comes from the slime, from the mud but finds the strength to blossom and emerge from this dirt. When it blooms it’s wonderful. I felt and I feel this way. I just can’t fully blossom, I always find myself trapped in the mud, few parts have blossomed, the rest is still hindered. I gave up the tattoo partly out of fear, as I am too delicate, partly because it is now turning into a too trivial tattoo. So maybe I’ll mix a Celtic four-leaf clover with their flower. But I still haven’t had time to try to draw it.
When one is dedicated, one is totally dedicated. We all share the pain, something deep that breaks our hearts in half, that makes us gasp, oppresses us and makes us scream inside with evil until we are completely exhausted. But love wins everything. Love overcomes time, overcomes pride, overcomes anger, overcomes difficulties. Here, above all, Love overcomes difficulties. Because Love is dedicated to heal, to heal, to remind us that life goes on and we can open ourselves to something great, beautiful, new. Love holds hands and hugs tightly, because Together is Better. Together we are never alone. Two Heads reason, discuss, comfort each other, understand each other, advise each other. They help each other. They love each other. Because love wins everything and knowing that you can share your problems on the strong shoulders of those who love us is already a great sigh of relief. Love Wins everything. Because Love knows. Love knows. He knows suffering, he knows tears … but he also knows the joy of falling in love, of being together. To make it: in spite of everything. “When Love arrives, treat it well”. If Love is faced with the Common Thought of being Two Souls who give themselves to each other, then Love is realized. And it completes. In the Today and Forever.
Give me time to change. I don’t like habits. They are an unconventional of habits. Yet, in the end, I get used to it. Like all. I have always welcomed changes with sudden ease. Growing up, who knows why who knows how, I neglected to cultivate this ability. For years I have pursued habits that have become stronger and more alive. Some of these saved me, some broke me. None, however, is indispensable if I don’t have the ability to let them go. Just give me time to change. This morning, I met a dear Buddhist friend of mine who was six months pregnant. She is a special, sweet and courageous woman. We talked about children, parents, education and Love. When I left her, I told myself that it is worth changing, choosing to be a better person if only to leave something Good, Bright, Strong in the world. And, in the presence of the children, to be able to set a good example. Because it is never the adults who educate the children, but the opposite. Adults mislead children, force them, clip them, adhere them to their reality, forgetting that the vision of children is much more complete than theirs. It is worth changing to remember how to play, how to taste the snow, how to touch the ground. Finding the time. That as adults we lose, we fight, we take the rest of our life. Give me time to change. The time to abandon my mental schemes, pre-built in years of purism, which have become aseptic. A purism that smells of emptiness and in which I no longer came to meet myself. Myself. Find myself. Love me. Live me. In order not to have fears. To forget that I was looking for myself and just remember to be happy. I’ve spent far too long telling myself no. Please forgive me, thank you, I love you. Give me time to change and I will rely on myself, without trying to be helpful at all costs. The Posts. I am there. But first of all I have to Be There for Me. To love, to love me, not to disappoint me. The courage to remember that goodness is not something that can be given as a gift, only to find oneself empty-handed. “If you keep filling other people’s glasses, when do you drink from the well?” Alive. Here, “Live” also means this. I’m finishing “getting ready”. Then the change will come, light and sincere. Habits will fall like houses of cards, faded by the wind. It is the world that acts as a mirror for me, it will change in my embrace.

SERENITY BREATH

It takes peaceful thoughts to clear the air, from fears, from distances, to cultivate new life.
It takes climbers of good thoughts.
Bellies full of beautiful things to feel close to us. Breath is needed.
Vigilant, with bated breath, at nightfall.
The contours slowly fade,
Swallowed by the anxious awakening of memory.
Veils of violet and blue arrive
at the appointment with my heart in my throat,
chased and canceled
from a black man who is never satiated.
Only now, with firm steps,
the king of magicians will enter the scene:
it will steal your eyes
and will repeat the trick over and over.
Everything is a color.
Each emotion is a color.
Silence is white.
In fact, white is a color I can’t stand:
it has no borders.
To spend a sleepless night, go blank,
raise the white flag,
leave the blank sheet,
have a blond hair …
In fact, white isn’t even a color.
It is nothing, like silence.
A nothing without words and without music.
In silence: in white.
Each violet like a break in the sky
a company of clouds in bloom.
They bloom at sunset inside the sea.
Do you ever give people a color?

I do and sometimes I am amazed at how some can have all the shades of that color. Thus there is a midnight blue that manages to turn into a crystalline blue of dawn. A powder pink, only apparently insignificant, but always comforting, always the same. An emerald green, an orange that can be dark, a sand color, a gray as smart and brilliant as a cat, but just as soft and to caress (even if it hides it well). Then a fuchsia, an Irish grass green, a sunny yellow that can brighten as much as it burns, an unashamed red and even an olive green. A purple ... which sometimes looks like me so much, even if we are often the exact opposites and we take each other by the hand to give each other a different tone.

THE VOICE OF DESIRE

Is this what it feels like when you’re in love? The heart that beats fast as soon as you see him, the smile that appears on your face as soon as someone names him, the lack you feel when you don’t see him, the scent you smell even if he is not close to you, the thousand songs that you dedicate to him the phrases you used to read and say “I will never be like this” yet look at yourself now. You had built yourself a thick armor that no one would be able to break down, yet it was enough for him to look at you to make you weak again. Because yes, love makes you weak. When you love someone, you depend on that someone. A message, a gesture, a word is enough to completely turn your day around. Yes, it completely upsets your love.
And she was like that. He spoke to you with an unparalleled enthusiasm, he looked you in the eye and smiled, and the next moment he stared at a point lost in the void, she was like that, she was able to go from one emotion to another in a second. A memory was enough. And she was beautiful when she remembered, she enchanted herself with her mouth open, wrinkles formed on the sides of her eyes because she squinted and squeezed in the effort and then, even more tender, she put a hand in front of her mouth, realizing what she was doing. he was thinking. And most of the time not to be beautiful things, despite her innocent appearance, because she blushed and looked around that nobody saw her, then clapped a hand on her forehead as if to say: what have I done ?! She was like that. It would get lost behind her and it would come to her mind and one would choose the air, break her heart, a sense of vertigo as if she were about to sink into a black hole. To keep herself anchored to reality she bit her lips until they bleed and stuck her nails in her palms. And then maybe on one side she regretted it, of certain details, but on the other side she smiled mischievously. She was like that. He was half angel and half temptation.
Kisses against the wall.
Kisses given with force.
Kisses that take your breath away.
Kisses given by mistake.
The best mistake I could have made.
Kisses off guard.
Kisses given on the threshold of a door.
Kisses with the tongue.
Kisses without a tongue.
Kisses with bites.
Quick kisses.
Long, slow kisses.
Kisses on the neck.
Kisses on the forehead.
Kisses goodbye.
You kiss that when you are angry you push him away by forcefully saying to leave you alone but then he pulls you hard and kisses you and you try to resist but you surrender to the touch of his lips.
Kisses are the one thing we can’t avoid.
The only temptation we cannot resist.
And there is nothing more sublime than letting oneself go to temptation. The perversion of the forbidden, the adrenaline of error, the pleasure of discovering hell, the absurdity of denying heaven. We are fire and flame, what burns us, what burns us. We are heroin injected slowly, we are an absurd perception of ‘after death’. We are the time that stops, and the souls that touch. Ripping flesh, the most captivating pain I know. We will invent new sensations, explosions, nuclear disasters. We will be the thrill that pervades the body, the sensuality that intoxicates the senses. We will be cocaine, addiction, we will be a mistake, we will be the devil. There is nothing more beautiful than the perversion and the desire for it between two bodies that have understood. Understood, perhaps, deadly.
The temptation
The pleasure of an instant
A simple action Small enscattante.
And slowly it destroys Your poor soul
And slowly it melts you
That magnanimous pleasure.
And fall and yield In the waves of time
And fall back and recede It’s just a moment.
Everything seems to take away While the heart despairs
Praying for my soul My heart hopes.
Your God you pray For salvation
After you don’t fool yourself
But it is your only certainty.
Calling for forgiveness, Between sobs and salty cheeks,
It is your only gift,
You pray, with your veiled pupils.

 

STORY OF A FAILURE

What does a woman do when she has had a family, has wanted to forget her dreams, has decided that she no longer wants anything and becomes a shadow of herself? A woman who had a good career and who now has to take care of socks and sheets? We talk about how a woman is always brought or forced by some man to devote himself to the family and to abandon his career. Men never willingly accept a woman who is good and important. Let’s talk about how a woman feels when she looks back on her past and sees a different woman. A woman who was an artist and now no longer creates anything. A blocked, diverted and repressed creative nature. I am not speaking of a woman of the 19th century but of a woman of today, of this century. A woman who secretly mourns her failures and disappointments. The world has not helped her to be able to realize herself. Men have never given her a hand. He has never received help from anyone. A woman who feels alone and who has lost the desire to have a beautiful life. What would you tell her that you have had the opportunity to be able to stay on your path as men?

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