MY HEART BURNS

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

 

INTO THE DARK SIDE

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!

GALAXY MOOD

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’VE LOST THE NIGHT

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

DAMNED ART

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!

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