OPEN DOOR

I smell the stench of your darkness, your perverse looks, your bloody long tongues and your sharp claws that tear the light. You are worms that crawl to eat the soil you have beneath you. Humanity has nothing good and only a facade to get something in return. The true human soul is made up only of darkness that envelops the entire planet. I see empty people with no will to live. People who lose days of life without wondering why they die inside. Inside they have monsters that devour them and as soon as someone approaches they tear them apart to rob their soul. Life is a continuous devouring each other without even anyone noticing. We are beasts that devour everything and everyone in order to survive. A battle all in our heads that is amplified in the world.
A stain contrasts with your whiteness. It is black, black bewilderment, black disgust. Some would barely notice it, others would not consider it at all. I, on the other hand, can’t see anything else. It is there in the center of my gaze, I try to eliminate it but I cannot because it is sticky, it has stuck to you. I have dirtied you, defaced you, I scarred you. You, so beautiful, so innocent … How can I still look at you the same way? How am I not going to think about that scene turning in my mind like a restless beast? How will I still feel your hands, your body? It happened a while ago, but for me it’s like it was today. The disgust makes me tremble, the disappointment makes me close my eyes. Maybe it doesn’t matter to you, it was just to try, a game, nonsense … Nothing to do, these excuses don’t work. I try to keep an open mind usually, tolerant, understanding. This time, however, after she heard you speak, she curled up on herself, like a piece of paper that burns and slowly chars. I just want to curl up and forget everything, and then open my eyes and find it was just a dream. Because this memory is so strong, because the disgust is so intense, because … I am cold inside and you are in sleep and you are still dreaming about that day.
He looks at her with the eyes of love. And she doesn’t see, she doesn’t understand that she doesn’t make sense, she doesn’t have a purpose, a dream, an aspiration, nothing. Nothing is what you hear. No past, heartbeats, breaths, monotony, do what you have to, make them happy. The look that from time to time rests on what is “normal” but which for her becomes more and more distant, unattainable, almost inconceivable. The present is no longer anything, the warmth, the beauty, the sweet scents have arrived. But nothing always remains her, so eager to resemble her childish fantasies, so hopeful and yet so dry and dumb, cold and empty. The desert doesn’t want flowers, does it? It makes them thirsty during the day, cold at night. The desert welcomes passing guests, but then lashes them with its storms and hurries to erase their footsteps. He doesn’t want anyone, the desert. Or maybe yes, but he doesn’t even know how to manage himself. Hot, then cold, storms, comatose calm. He is furious with himself, he is disillusioned. He thinks that he will not make it, when he has to spread his wings and fly, he will realize that they are made of paper, so thin as to be transparent. He will realize that the imagination is just smoke. And it will fall into the void.

STORY OF A NYMPH

Clizia was a young nymph, lost in love with the Sun, so she followed him all day while he drove his chariot of fire throughout the sky. The sun, at first was flattered and a little touched by that devotion … he thought he was in love with her in turn and decided to seduce her, which was not difficult for him! But soon the Sun got tired of Clizia’s love and gave her, as they say … the welcome by turning his attention elsewhere. The poor nymph wept continuously for nine whole days.

HIDDEN SOUL

Unfortunately, the thing that unites all of us dreamers is the fact that we always wait for something to happen without ever doing anything to make it happen. We are always there, thinking, “I just have to wait. Sooner or later I will be happy. Sooner or later there will come that thing that will change my life, that will upset it. ” Yes, I said well, I used the word “upset” because, let’s face it, we all expect something to arrive that upsets the monotony of our life. Everyone, including me. And because of that, I’m missing out on the best years of my life. They insulted me, they tried to kill me inside, they used me, they pretended to love me, they beat me and trample me. Wasted effort, I’m still standing.
I’m the right brain.
I am creativity.
A free spirit.
I am passion.
Wish.
Sensuality.
I am the roaring sound of those who laugh.
I am the taste.
The feeling of sand under your bare foot.
I am movement.
Bright colours.
I am the urge to paint on the naked canvas.
I am limitless imagination.
Art.
Poetry.
I guess.
I hear.
I am everything I wanted to be.
The truest part of me is in the impulses I control,
in the emotions I hold back, in the thoughts I hide,
in the things I don’t say.
They are not for everyone, they are for those who can look inside me.
I am the cry of the blood in the glass of the sea,
I am a fever of the air, of the flower,
I am a leaf, a great funnel for the black nectar. I am welcome to new havens.
I am a flame,
seeking its drop of water,
it sinks,
but remains liquid inside the earth.
they are a mixture of various parallel directions,
different trains, tears mixed with private joys,
I’m the green grass,
fox and bird,
I dare to challenge every hunt,
I am inside the battles of the heart,
no way out,
no trembling,
no hesitation.

PLANTS IN MY LIFE

Today I went to the nursery and bought four seedlings: an orchid, an ivy, a calathea and a begonia. Begonia is already half-dying because it has been mistreated during the journey. It is a bit bruised and bent to the right and so now to make it stand straight I have stuck a crutch in the ground. The calathea is not having peace because, although it has been in my hands for three hours, it has already undergone numerous transfers: after staying ten minutes on the dresser in my room, it has walked countless times the corridor that leads from the bathroom to the kitchen and from the kitchen to the bath. I still haven’t figured out where it looks best. The ivy and the orchid, for now, are having a quiet life.
Yesterday I was watering some plants When I got to basil Not before, not after, but especially during watering I could smell that fragrance of basil, so intense It was a great feeling If we want to be a little more metaphysical, we could say that basil, thanking us for the water we give it, gives us this wonderful scent
I bought the liquid chlorophyll drops (as I am not easily influenced) I literally toured 3 pharmacies and 2 herbalists for these blessed drops and in the end, after drinking chlorophyll on the first day, I stopped drinking it because it tasted like grass (but I already knew it before I bought it). I would like to start drinking it regularly because part of me hopes to turn green like Shrek and move to a little house away from everyone
People, relationships are like flowers and plants. They need a lot of attention: the light, the vase, the temperature, the habitat, the watering, all different depending on the flower you are talking about. And so do the people. We cannot expect to water an orchid every day because it would rot and die, just as we cannot expect to keep a plant in the sun that does not need direct light, a tropical flower in the cold or a winter plant in the heat. And instead we usually think that plants and flowers are all the same, we water them when we remember it, we keep them where they best adorn our home and then if they die we don’t even recognize that we haven’t been able to understand them well. A person needs the right attention, not what we believe is right for all people, but exactly what he or she needs.
People are like plants. Some are alike, others are completely different. Some have flowers, and they are beautiful just to look at, others have fruits that give nourishment, and still others have thorns … And they hurt. Some plants if you water them once no longer need water for some time, and indeed, if they have too much, they die. Other plants, on the other hand, need constant care and lots of water. Plants die in the dark. In the light they find life. And people too. Oh well I don’t have a green thumb and people don’t know about me.
To become a plant, the seed needs two things: the right soil and who takes care of it. Love, hate, anger, serenity, friendship and all our feelings are born in the garden of our heart and sometimes on the border of another person. If they only grow inside of us, we are the ones who have to cut the roots that seem harmful to us. If, on the other hand, the roots grow on two neighboring lands, there are two people who must take care of them. If one of the two cuts the roots, the plant can no longer feed and over time slowly and painfully dies. If no one takes care of it, the tree does not grow and dies. If one of the two looks for a way to make it grow, he will never succeed because only one part of the tree feeds and the other does not and therefore it is better to uproot it even if in that way the tree of pain will first sprout while on the other side it will grow. faster the tree of indifference or joy for having freed itself of a burden. It is not up to us to decide which seeds to plant but which seeds to ripen

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.

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!

EVERYTHING N FIRE

It's true I often burned my paintings, notebooks, books, I burned to forget that I was an artist. To forget the power to create from nothing. It was exhilarating, demeaning, tiring, it was destructive to me too. But my life was fire, fire lit every day. Now there is not even the ash left. I have burned souls, I have burned whole nights, burned words and loves. All together incinerated in a moment of sublime beauty. The green fire.
My green fire guided me. It was night, it was day and for me it was always life. But it doesn't burn forever. Eventually we turn off.
Eventually the coal becomes blacker. Very black. You find it in the walls, inside your inner walls, and you always get dirty every color you try to trace on your door. But Black crosses the threshold, reaches you, takes everything, burns you completely.
She was the one in the photo, holding a bouquet of flowers and a red hen’s crest on her head. It was she who acted among the frightened girls. Hamlet hadn’t hesitated either in his gestures or in his voice. And she continued to play a role that was not hers: the good girl who goes out of her way to meet her father’s expectations. A studious pupil, a caring daughter. Never any drift or dangerous friendship. Never any friends who are too annoying or a boyfriend who is too jealous. Never any of that. Only music and art, mixed with the tears that often bathed his pillow. He loved his mom and dad. He went out of his way to make them happy. And her little sister also loved and often played with her and never teased her. Growing up he had kept that naive and innocent look, that beautiful vivacity of one who has not known evil. Yet Hamlet knew evil from an early age, when a man took her innocence. Her nightmares were frequent and she did not know who that man was and she could never see his face. Maybe it was the shadow that appeared in her paintings or maybe she lived next to it without knowing that her executioner was the one who fed her. The executioner was always present. The executioner who had destroyed her at the age of 4.
The needs of an artist are different from all those of others. Of course an artist eats, sleeps, goes to the bathroom. He may have things and people he cares a lot about. May have interests and hobbies. But one thing distinguishes him profoundly from all other people: the need for stimulation. An artist feeds his art from himself and from what he sees, knows and experiences. Visual, mental and empirical stimuli are deeply necessary for every artist because in the absence of these his creative lymph dries up. In fact, if an artist is not put in the conditions of being able to have these stimuli that satisfy his needs, he will slowly fade away. His imagination, not being nourished, will become dry and will find it difficult to give him the input for artistic creation. Just as an animal dies in its instincts if placed inside a cage, an artist dies in his creative life if he is put in conditions that are not favorable to the expression of his artistic talent. Fantasy is like a plant and must be fed with the water of stimuli. If these are lacking, the substance for dreams is missing. It lacks the energy itself to create other dreams and other works. So for this reason it is sometimes said that an artist cannot live life like the others and the same things that others are enough cannot be enough for him.

BELLA KOTAK PORTRAITS

Bella Kotak is a fine art, fashion and portrait photographer. In her works the beauty and fantasy of worlds inspired by fairy tales are inhabited by strong and charismatic women and reveals to the observer the beauty and poetry of the environments, depriving them of the banality in which everyday life has placed them.
Photography changed her life when she grabbed a camera and started a Flickr project. Since then she has been drawn to this medium which translates thoughts and imagination into a tangible form.

Describe her current style as “floral”. “Flowers are always present in my work, even at the beginning when I was attracted to them without realizing it”. “Now, however, in my work everything revolves around flowers, fairytale atmospheres and spring”.
Inspired by fairy tales, nature and strong feminine characters, Bella’s images lift the veil of the past and remind us that there is magic in the most ordinary spaces. The portraits of women express Bella’s passions through photography: floral and fairy-tale subjects that become images capable of taking the observer into another dimension.
Bella has always loved reading many books and this is what fueled her imagination. She likes to create new worlds, new visions that she manages to make real through photography. Many of her photos are set outdoors because Bella loves nature and natural light very much. Shooting outdoors makes her feel much freer and more creative and allows her to capture an energy that cannot be captured if you shoot indoors with artificial light.
For Bella, both in photography and in life, it is important to approach things with a mind free from prejudice and false beliefs. For her it is necessary to recreate life as it was seen as a child, unaware of one’s limits and what was real or not. In his photos he tries to recreate a world where everything is possible and where innocence is the predominant element. Bella does not set limits to her photographic style, she still considers herself a young photographer who still has a lot to learn and for this reason she never stops lessons in new things. Only through experience will his creative eyes develop and create ever new things.
The thing that Bella loves most about photography is the ability to capture moments and create images that are able to impress the viewer. For her it is very important that her photos tell something about her and in fact she always tries to create images that are the sum of what she feels and her thoughts at that precise moment.

I DIED ONCE

I wandered through a fantasy forest.
Blue branches, yellow barks, purple grasses, star gourds.
My one second dream.
Those who keep their hats even at night.
The thieves of gods.
Tears without taste.
Drinking.
I don’t protect myself with the sacred.
My mantle is made of mountains, bright rocks, forests that I don’t know.
Human journeys first were made by dogs.
Flora is like a colored texture around the inky black of my path.
I was a happy child and I was making bouquets of flowers.
Now I collect stones to consolidate my torn chest.
I died once where I haven’t walked yet.
I was taken without my permission.
Collected by an ogre they didn’t warn me about.
It wasn’t his garden, and I hadn’t crossed over.
Maybe my being a doll brought him closer.
Perhaps beauty sometimes brings death.

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