I light three candles every night.
One for the brain.
One for the heart.
One for the soul.
Each time they burn differently.
I turn them off before I go to sleep.
They are funny, their worn length is different.
They seem to chase each other or to expect, they are never the same.
I think it is for the small air currents, for the drafts that come in through the cracks of life.
I always turn them on, every night, no matter which of the three is slower, what matters is knowing that they are there, knowing that I can turn them on and then blow on them.
I light three candles every night.
One for thinking.
One for not doing it.
One to dream.
And I can blow on it before I go to sleep.
Once upon a time, in a far away country, there was a dragon. A dragon like many others at first glance but you will soon understand that something about him was different.
Like any self-respecting dragon, it spit flames and like other dragons, it was covered with scales to armor it and "armed" with claws to attack and defend itself. But he wasn't as fierce and aggressive as he seemed to see him. Unpredictable perhaps.
It had almost a human soul, along with an animal one.
One day, an evil witch, for lack of more talented dragons, had to rely on him to guard a beautiful princess kidnapped in a nearby kingdom. The witch imprisoned the beautiful princess and put the dragon to guard the tower prison so that no one could approach her.
The dragon swore to the evil witch that no knight or prince would ever take that princess away with him, at the cost of his own life. And it didn't seem true to the dragon that he had a beautiful princess to defend and take care of. "Just me, thought the dragon, as unpredictable and out of the ordinary as I am!" His mind immediately began to dream of the battles he would have fought against untamed knights.
The first morning, upon awakening, the princess turned to him sweetly: "Good morning dragon, will you be watching over me then?"The dragon, hearing those words and for the first time that enchanting sound of the voice, was silent. Almost petrified. He was unable to utter a single word. He felt for the first time something between his throat and stomach, a melancholy he had never felt up to that moment. She was beautiful! Her sweetness was something she didn't believe could have existed. There was nothing so beautiful.
Thus began a beautiful story between the dragon and the princess. Time passed and a harmony was created between them that at times seemed inexplicable, also due to the nature of their being.
Weeks and months went by. Dragon and princess became friends. No, much more than friends. They felt it themselves, but neither of them had the courage to confide it to the other. On the other hand, it was a fairy tale and dragon and princess cannot live together. They both didn't quite understand this feeling and where it might lead them.
The dragon waited anxiously for the morning, only to see the princess open her eyes and hear that sweet "Good morning dragon ..."
They joked, laughed, played and talked. Yes, they talked a lot and about everything. Of what their past had been and how they imagined their future. But while the princess dreamed of a life with a prince, because the fairy tale wanted that, the dragon dreamed of it with her. Poor dragon, he had fallen madly in love ...
"Certainly not, thought the dragon, otherwise why in her dreams, am I not there?" It certainly did not take a witch, who read in a crystal ball, to know that this princess could not be his. She was destined for a prince.
But he dreamed and his dreams kept him alive. He knew it was a matter of time and that one day, someone would come and try to take her away!
Unfortunately, this was the reality. Or rather, fairytales and society are this and the poor dragon knew it. He knew he was determined, ready for anything, but perhaps not so strong to stop the knight he would have to face sooner or later in a duel. He was afraid of losing her. Fear that that day would come. Let him come who would snatch it from him.He had mentioned this to the princess, because he did not want to see her suffer and did not want to lose her: “Look, not all knights turn out to be princes. Especially in the soul and heart. Many assume only their appearance. They wear masks and shining armor, they prove themselves good, they write letters with trite phrases, thoughts felt and copied from the minds of other knights. And are you sure that a prince will be able to make you really happy? "
The princess looked down, but she felt she wanted her knight, her prince. She was convinced that this would be her great love, despite the fact that the dragon gave her all the security and happiness she needed. But which she evidently believed was not enough.
And that day came. That knight arrived in front of the princess's tower, that knight he had feared so much. That knight ready to challenge him and take away the princess, who, looking out of the tower window, was finally happy. He noticed it. And he saw his eyes full of joy greet that knight!
Why, thought the dragon, why is he so happy to run away with a stranger? Why didn't her eyes look at me the same way? Why didn't he believe in my love? " A series of questions that he could not answer and now there was not even time to think. He had to fight and enforce the oath made to the witch! He realized that he was ready to die in order not to see her go away with someone else. Also because his heart would have died anyway.
For the first time, the dragon found himself in a fight. It really should be said that he fought like a dragon, with fire, claws and tail swings! But nothing to do, the knight's sword and shield made the difference and, in the end, the dragon had to succumb to his opponent. But it was not the wounds inflicted by the knight that hurt him so much, but seeing the princess running towards him, hugging and kissing the stranger.
Nothing was comparable to the pain he would never want to feel again. No physical suffering could have come close to that experienced at that moment.
But fairytales are like that. He was the dragon destined to perish and she, the princess destined for her brave knight. And he, poor dragon, was certainly no exception.
Now the days followed one another, sad, and the poor dragon was now defending a tower without a princess. There was no moment when he didn't think about her and how she was spending her time. He hoped he would come back. At least once in a while, to alleviate his absence, even if it was "just" a simple dragon. She would have liked to better explain all her love to him. Those words that he had never been able to say completely. Until the end. It would have been enough for him to hear even his "Good morning" in the morning. And to see those beautiful eyes open to be a happy dragon. But she wanted more. The company and love of a dragon would not have been enough for her.
He had lost all hope of seeing her when one day, from a distance, he saw her on the path that led to the tower. It was her!!! He couldn't hold back the joy. She had come back to him !! Little did he care that she was gone, he was too happy to think about it. He had already forgiven her even before he saw her! He took off and reached her making her climb gently on her back, laying down on the ground.She walked over to him, and hugged him tightly. Nothing could be like that embrace and nothing could be more powerful. He didn't understand what was happening to him, but he felt a strange liquid leaking from his eyes. He had heard of "tears", but he wasn't sure they were those, because they said they only came out of his eyes when he was sick. And he was happy instead! He was the happiest dragon in the world !! Of one thing he was sure, those tears would be able to put out even the mightiest flames of any dragon in the Shire.
She hugged him again. For many more times after that day.
The princess told the dragon what happened and how different that knight had been. The dragon held her tight and over time trained to become even stronger and to protect her from other knights who would come in front of the tower to take her away. The next day, he saw her still a little sad, he hugged her and said:
“I will never be a knight or a prince, but I swear that I will give you all of myself, and I swear that I will always be there for you and that you will always have a place in this tower to feel at home. Yes, of course, this tower will never be a palace or a castle and I will never be a prince, but what I will give you, no one else, will ever be able to give you. This is the only thing I can promise you my princess! "
She hugged him tightly and again that liquid substance came out of the dragon's eyes. And for a moment, he was pretty sure the princess had wet eyes too. The princess was different now, she seemed to worry about "her" dragon and with every winged reconnaissance turn, she would tell him: "Be careful, come back soon." And he was happy with those words. Happy that "his" princess cared about him.Their life flowed together, joking, laughing and talking about everything. The dragon knew that he was not in the princess's dreams and that perhaps there never would be. But he was happy anyway. Glad she was there with him.
It all lasted until another knight arrived.
And everything was repeated as the previous time. The fight, the pain of the dragon, she who goes away with him, he who was not what he seemed to be and ... She who returns to him again and hugs him.
And so it happened for other times. She slowly began to realize that no knight was as beautiful as her dragon and that no one would ever love her so much. He believed he was finally happy. But not completely. Until, he came ... Well, he was different from the other knights. He had a white horse, he was handsome, blond hair and blue eyes, just like his suit. Yes, it was him. It was prince charming. The one feared by all the dragons in the world.
The princess saw him from the window of her tower and was immediately struck, fascinated. He was not like the others, and this the dragon immediately warned him.
The dragon was afraid of losing her, just like the first time. He knew that if he was defeated, he certainly would never see her again. This was a prince, he was not like the other knights.And then, he turned that fear of hers into anger. He fought with all his strength and, the prince, never would have believed in his life to fight against a dragon so strong and fearsome. It almost seemed like she had something personal with him. The dragon pleaded with him: “Go away !! She is my princess! Don't take it away from me! Get out!! You won't love her half of what I love her and you won't give her half the attention I will! "
The prince could see the anger in the dragon's eyes, his fear of losing the princess. It was an incredible duel. Both arrived exhausted, but as in all respected fairy tales, even in this one, the prince was victorious and the dragon defeated. The beautiful princess went away with her prince, this time not before looking one last time at that dragon lying on the ground, exhausted from the fight. The dragon felt as though his heart had been ripped out. And this time, looking into her eyes again, he was sure he saw a tear streak down the princess's face as she looked at him for the last time. The dragon, with the last strength he had left, took and flew away, to hide his tears.
After several years, the dragon is no longer the witch's slave and watches over her princess, prince and their son from afar. He will always watch over them and especially her. About that woman who could not live and who, like in fairy tales, was destined for another life.Now I could conclude this story with the prince and princess who "... and lived happily ever after". No, because this is not a fairy tale like any other. And happiness is not enclosed in a "happily ever after". Happiness is something else.
And the princess noticed it too, every day that passed and every evening at sunset, when she left her castle for a moment. She looked at the horizon, while a tear streaked her beautiful face, always hoping to be able to see that dragon to which she had given her heart and with that dream of being kidnapped by her only love. The Dragon! She who is now sure that she has always loved him, but that all the fairy tales of this world have always prevented her from doing.
The point is, when you’re fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, you can do anything. You can afford to be wrong. The thing is, it’s beautiful and we don’t realize it. It is the age of skipping school and falsifying it justifies it. Sweaters that are too baggy, tea under the covers on Sunday afternoons with friends. Concerts. The scars on his arms. The writings in the school toilets. It is the age of mistakes, the age that does not return, the age of whatever you do you can still fix. It is the age of crying for things that are nothing and seem everything, the age of first loves, the first kisses, the pain of when it ends, the “forever” that will never be. The fact is that it is wonderful and we do not realize it, we put ourselves in a cage for fear of life, without realizing that the real life is right now, the one that will not come back, the one that at thirty we would like to be able to relive. The fact is that we are a damned, burned, gone, passed away generation. The generation of facebook, twitter and tumblr. Conversation stamps, messages that are too long, too many tasks, dilators and tattoos done without thinking. Of “I want to live in London”, “I want to live in New York”. Poems on school desks. The films seen a thousand times. Friendships from a distance. The stations. The trains. The insecurities. Stop eating and start again two days later. And it’s beautiful, we just don’t realize it. I just don’t realize it. It’s time to start breathing, screaming and living. Live to your skin and bones. Live to consume our souls.
The strangest thing of all is that you learn quickly, that you suddenly begin to recognize things, to call them by their real name. When someone you love dies, something comes that grabs your belly and won’t let you go. No heart, no, the heartbeat remains the same, the blood pumps in and out, the chest doesn’t hurt, the famous pang in the heart is just an invention of those who write serial novels in the Thursday weekly. The pain that makes you double over is the pain in your stomach. It is not as strong as that of a fist but it manages to be worse, because it starts from the inside, crawls down the throat, floods your bowels and closes everything. The pain of dead love is as ferocious as suffocating, but I’ll get used to it. There will be many things that I will have to get used to, and there will be just as many that I will have to do without
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!
Who called you to life? Where does your drawing come from? From which galaxy lost? When, why, are you coming? What theater, what scenes, what glow of the Pleistocene? Did you see the crash of milk and blood stamp your face with your name? Where have the roses gone, the nobility of defeat? Where is who invented things, the telescope, the stilt house? Where is who invented the wheel, the double basses and the trombones? Where is the one who tamed the flames, who measured the seasons? I will postpone any healthy conclusion until tomorrow, and I lock this beautiful asshole face of mine in my arms. curse!
When they were together she felt out of time. There was no longer any inconvenient past to hide, there was no future to think about and, for a moment, the present seemed like a sweet honeymoon embroidered between the meshes of space and time.
Just do it. Wear that dress too tight. Let your hair down. Get up and dance. Find reasons to laugh. Make love. Create something beautiful. Speaks. Recognize your worth. Don’t apologize for your magic anymore and stop hiding your light. Beloved. Forgive yourself. Make room for the unexpected. Stop waiting for the right time, do it now. Ignore what people think of you. Because in the end you will have to answer for all the things you didn’t say, the people you didn’t love, the things you didn’t do and the places you didn’t go. Do it now.
We are the ones that the night swallows, those that the sound pushes away the unlit lights come on we fly over the extinguished flames We are the ones who lost their wings while they were not flying We are light as feathers and we listen to the wind. We are the ones who don’t dream at night, sleep doesn’t touch them, life doesn’t even touch them. We are free from any vulgar emotion. We walked with Arthur while he wrote, and we were crazy, and he screamed. But we are no longer the poets of the past, with drugs in ink. We saw the world as it became and we hated it until we didn’t write anymore
my dark side always stands out. it is a constant struggle. it sinks and resurfaces. you continue to breathe while remaining at the bottom of the sea. submerged in 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 my veins, I tried to purify it, eradicate it, erase it from my every vein, from my every cell. but it always remained where it was, even when it seemed to disappear. Each time it regains the upper hand 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. I ride on the lost hours of my inhuman time and I lose myself in the shadows that are drawn in my secret garden. A little girl comes out of the past, brings flowers to a grave, and says her name is Ophelia. That little girl was me at the age of five, and I was reciting death on the Persian carpet at home. I soon appreciated the silence of certain places where the only living presence were the marble angels. The scent of rotten flowers followed my steps. I never felt so happy as my first time at 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 me and I alone heard them. The candles fascinated me, I wanted to take them home, my mother scolded me, you can’t steal from the dead! She said. I was upset, for me they were the flames of their lost hearts and I wanted to keep them safe, in my home. Then, when I was finally grown up, I bought as many as I wanted and my room glowed with flames. They were so happy to me, people didn’t understand light, they thought they were candles of the dead and that was it. I miss the cemeteries. It has been a long time since I entered it anymore and nowhere have I found that silence again, perhaps only when my struggle ends will I be able to rest too and be just a stone angel. Art is a need. An instinctive need to create. An instinctive need to be and communicate one’s being to others. Affirming one’s existence with the creative act is the only way 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. Art is power. The power to create from nothing. giving life to what has never existed, which has never been seen, which has never been read. A sublime, divine, most perisolos power. Art feeds on souls. Art is insatiable, it is a ferocious demon, and whoever takes it is doomed and for all life seeks the escape route but one never gets rid of art. It is like a second skin and if you take it off, you skin down and you can’t live anymore. You have art in every cell, like a deadly virus, which never becomes a disease but which accompanies you throughout your life as a faithful travel companion. Art grinds your flesh, your spirit, your whole life. It crushes you and lifts you into the highest sky. you can see without eyes, hear without ears, draw without using your fingers. Art is a miracle of life and death. Whoever possesses the gift is condemned to a parallel life. You enter and exit as if through a window. We go in and out of ourselves, we feed ourselves to swine, we are left in pieces and then we start again. Who would ever want such a life? yet everyone envies us and do not know what it means to have the FIRE that consumes you!
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 