I HAD ANOTHER BLOG

I thank you for your closeness and your support. I believe that our freedom will never go back to the way it was before and that now we are the only ones left who know what it is. I see people very happy to be slaves. I see that everyone watches TV and believes in the mass media, they are manipulated and diverted. The dark mind is now mush. I am very sad and in the past I was an artist but now I am dying. I had an art blog with my paintings, I didn’t sell anything, I gave them away. I said that if nobody wanted them I would burn them. I have no real friends here, I didn’t know who to give them to. I wanted to leave them on the street but there was the covid and they would have thrown them away. I said I was missing, that I would burn them, and nobody told me anything. Nobody cared about what I created. I studied art in London, I refused recommendations, I refused a career. I regretted it. One day I wrote to a psychologist who had an association, I told him: “I give you my paintings, they are 50, you sell them and use the money for sick children”. Do you know what he answered me? “You are not famous, you do not get anything out of your paintings.” I regret having rejected my career. And so I burned all my paintings. My artistic blog no longer exists and there are few paintings left in my attic, eaten by mice.
I had a blog with 3000 followers. I said very interesting and important things but people weren't there. There were a lot of them but none of them spoke. I was really disappointed. I wrote very important things but somehow there was no dialogue between them and me. This made me very sad and one day I deleted everything, I deleted the entire blog. These 3,000 people got lost. I don't know if they still exist, I don't know if they looked for me, because I also changed my nickname because I wanted to close with the past, I wanted a new page in my life. But I believe that past has remained and always remains glued to me like a dark shadow.
I was very sorry to close that blog but maybe people didn't expect a woman to talk about certain things. I didn't talk about nails and I didn't talk about actors, not even about cooking, or about many other subjects that women love. I don't regret what I did but a piece of my life has been lost, destroyed, erased.

WOMAN IS THE “N” OF THE WORLD

Even now women are victims of a system that oppresses them. War is one of the many means by which the oppression of women takes place who are considered spoils, slaughter fodder, their abused bodies. This violence has no limits, it is the worst form that exists. Women who see their freedom canceled. Useless years of study. Unit sacrifices. Useless jobs. Useless clothes. Any free choices that women have made until now are useless. The war - and the men who fly it - have taken it all. They steal and erase female freedom. Men who have the power to annihilate women, their stories, their choices. The influence men have on women's lives is frightening. They are the masters and exercise this power of life or death with extreme wickedness. They are women whose life is over. Many will be sold. They will be given in marriage by little girls. They won't go home. They will end up in prostitution. They will be forced into the worst violence. And they will have to undergo everything in silence, in the blackest terror, without any hope.

I am furious because now I am sitting on my beautiful sofa writing a stupid papyrus which is useless, which will not help any woman. I'm furious because I can't save any woman with words. Because using a fucking keyboard is useless. And while I choose which stupid shirt to wear, a hundred other women will suffer and die because others will choose for them.

A strong thought full of pain and hope goes to Afghan women with the hope that one day the world will accept all of us women as an integral part and not as a category to be oppressed.

Germaine Greer wrote: "Women have only a small idea of ​​how much men hate them."
Limited education, prohibition of certain types of clothing, restrictions on freedom of movement. To fall under the control of the Taliban again means this for Afghan women, who have taken to the streets to oppose the advance of Islamic fundamentalists. In the days when the foreign armed forces left the country, they marched along the city streets in the north and center of Afghanistan carrying rifles. The most popular demonstration in Ghor, where hundreds of women, marching with weapons along the streets of the center, chanted slogans against the Taliban. “There were some women who just wanted to inspire the security forces, only symbolically. But many others were ready to go to the battlefields, ”said Halima Parastish, head of the women’s leadership in Ghor, in the statement reported by the Guardian. “I and some other women – she added – we told the governor, about a month ago, that we are ready to go to fight”. “I don’t want the country to be under the control of people who treat women the way they do. We took up arms to show that if we have to fight we will do it, ”a reporter later declared.
It is not obvious to say that war, like evil, only brings out the worst in people, capable of showing their true nature without hesitation, in a state of suspended judgment. The strongest oppress the weakest, it has always been like that. And in the whirlwind of clichés, one from last August 15th echoes more than the others. With the takeover of Kabul by the Taliban, women are in grave danger. Everything that the Afghan women are or have conquered is raided day after day, in an all-encompassing process of depersonalization; they are objects for man’s use and consumption, they must satisfy their pleasures and to define them as sexual.
It is not obvious to say that war, like evil, only brings out the worst in people, capable of showing their true nature without hesitation, in a state of suspended judgment. The strongest oppress the weakest, it has always been like that. And in the whirlwind of clichés, one from last August 15th echoes more than the others. With the takeover of Kabul by the Taliban, women are in grave danger. Everything that the Afghan women are or have conquered is raided day after day, in an all-encompassing process of depersonalization; they are objects for man’s use and consumption, they must satisfy their pleasures and to define them as sexual.
Islamists have given “numerous warnings”: women and their families are threatened with death or torture if they go to work. The fighters do not warn twice, they go directly to action, staining even the most wicked acts such as necrophilia. All this seems to be confirmed by the warlords’ order to hunt girls aged 12 and over to make them sex prisoners, after the surrender of the Afghan government and the abandonment of the last US military troops. Rape, in reality, could only be the beginning of a long hell. Then, after the sexual violence, the same can be sold or sold as part of some commercial negotiation, such as weapons or drugs. Omar Sadr, who is a professor of politics at the American University of Afghanistan (no one knows how much …) argues that “the Taliban fighters feel authorized to do all this on the basis of their rigid interpretation of Islam, which sees women as kaniz », that is as a commodity.

AMEN

Thanks to my father, I have learned to screw those who think that the world should rotate as their head says, or worse it should rotate around itself. Three sentences and a few attitudes are enough to identify self-reported assholes, a few more behaviors for sneaky or victimized ones. It is not presumption, they are years of parasitization and direct experience with those who do not observe themselves, and in this life they will never do it. Get it out of your head that you can support their path by absorbing their garbage. The sooner you recognize them the sooner you take back your freedom. Nobody can help them, because 95% of the time it's not a solution they are looking for. They just want to pour the non-sense of their existence onto the neighbor (and in that non-sense there can be anything).
Precisely because they turn the root of their problems to everything but themselves, they are unable to be responsible for the harm they do to them and to those around them.
Even if you tell them. It applies to all relationships, know that.

Manzoni  ( ALESSANDRO MANZONI, a famous italian writer of XIX  century) had not seen the plague, but he had studied documents after documents. And then he describes the madness, the psychosis, the absurd theories about its origin, about the remedies. It describes the scene of a foreigner (a "tourist") in Milan who touches a wall of the cathedral and is lynched by the crowd because he is accused of spreading the disease. But there is one thing that Manzoni describes well, above all, and that he takes up from Boccaccio: the moment of trial, of discrimination, between humanity and inhumanity. Boccaccio had indeed seen the plague. He had seen friends, loved ones, relatives, even his father, die. And Boccaccio explains to us that the most terrible effect of the plague was the destruction of civilized life. Because the neighbor began to hate the neighbor, the brother began to hate the brother, and even the children abandoned their parents. The plague pitted men against each other. He replied with the Decameron, the greatest hymn to life and good civilization. Manzoni responded with faith and culture, which do not avoid trouble but, he said, taught how to deal with them. In general, they both responded in a similar way: inviting us to be human, to remain human, when the world goes mad.
Health without Freedom is what is guaranteed to Farm Animals. . This is why they define you as “Herd”. FREEDOM is not a luxury, it is not an extra, an ornament that embellishes if there is, but in short, precisely if one can afford it or else something more comes first concrete.. NO! FREEDOM is your right to live, to work, to be happy, to express yourself, to be there .. what’s more concrete than your right to be there ..? Sometimes I would like to find an arrow indicating “free life”. I don’t know, maybe in the process of some woods, where the light filters through and the heat doesn’t kill you. A kind of guarantee that you are going to meet like-minded people there. People to talk to about everything but vaccines, governments and passes. Just talk to. A place you reach to express absolutely nothing, no opinion, no point of view on hundreds of points of view by now worn and tired. The only thing that sometimes matters is the need for sharing among similar people. Vibrate in the same tribe. Simply because it feels good to be together on the road. Stay in touch with those who look like you and aren’t afraid to hug. Talking without a muzzle, talking about good things, without someone having to convince the other and the other having to defend who knows what. Talk about what seeds you planted, what bullshit you did, the music you wrote or the love at first sight that got you. Thus, without having to find that prosaic sense to the questions of living, the more you think about it the more they have nothing to do with Life.
Yes it’s true, it seems to never end. It seems that humanity is condemned to an eternal struggle just to buy bread. It seems. Lately I often answer with a phrase that I said to myself when I was working, giving exams and in the meantime I had my father in hospital for cancer. Be grateful that you can fight, because you mean you are Alive. No matter how long the fight seems, it is the purpose and the mood with which you face it that make it appear to be war or peace. Choose your path and you will no longer have any doubts that that bread tastes sublime. The whole system is made in such a way that man, without even realizing it, begins as a child to enter a mentality that prevents him from thinking anything else. It turns out that there is no longer a need for dictatorship now, because the dictatorship is that of school, of television, of what they teach you. Turn off the television and gain freedom. Even the way you dress and the haircut you wear makes you realize that you really don’t choose anything. Already becoming aware of this would show the world in other terms.
Keep walking, when you realize it you will already be with your buttocks on the ground, in that uncomfortable position that the puppets hold. Immediately after, a long and obstinate reflection begins on the convenience of staying there on the ground. But the companions are already moving away and the path is far from appearing a clear path, obvious. It is not even in question the idea of ​​staying there all life, with the mud filling the soul and the backpack, so that the time comes to get up, a difficult situation and unpredictable in its results. Perhaps it is better to continue to stay on the ground and drag yourself little by little but, in addition to being not very aesthetic, this is impractical (believe me, I have tried it): there will always be a hidden root or a thorn to hold you back, and then a new reflection on the comfort of sitting in the mud, despite the mosquitoes, flies and blue flies. Already determined to get up, which is always the most difficult thing, comes the complicated operation that consists of resting with your hands and knees where it happens and trying to place the heavy hood on your back (so simple, and heavy, is to carry the house on the shoulders: just a plastic sheet and a hammock). But the backpack insists on carrying other absurd things: some poetry books, some clothes, a mismatched sock, medicine for the world, food, a damp blanket … The load as a whole weighs tons (especially after the first hours of walking) and tends to get muddy whenever he feels like it, that is, almost always. By now tortoise face on the ground, it follows the act of putting one foot and getting up on the other, with the consequent protest of the knees; the horizon then widens and will always be foreign. With the eyes on the ground, the march is undertaken again until the next fall, which will occur just a few steps ahead. And history repeats itself …

REBEL DAY

Don't cling to people, no one has to be a pillar, happiness doesn't have to depend on anyone, don't make people you love your reason for living. Each of us lives a war, a burden, do not think that those who harm you have a lighter baggage than yours, each weighs their experiences based on their inner strength. People all have flaws and will always make mistakes that they have to learn to fix for themselves, and it's okay to let them go when they want to.If they treat you badly it is a cause of weakness, fear, insecurity, people do not always understand and there are those who don't care and those who try to deal with the problem. To each their own weight. Don't allow people to dump it on you, friends, boyfriends, anyone. In love you have to feel good, mistakes can always be remedied when possible, second chances exist as long as you don't go further. Let those who still cannot understand and let go of those who want to stay for their own. No one is to blame, it is not selfishness,
 the universe sometimes speaks and the wounds sometimes serve to remove or heal something toxic. Learn to give weight to dreams and your ambitions, people are guests in our life, everyone will find their part sooner or later, let those who want to be next to you do it without responsibility, appreciate the small gestures and beware of scratches, forgive but don't forget, wanting is power, but respect the choices of others without affecting you too much. Those who want to love you will love you as a single entity, not because you are one thing together, completing each other is fine, but remain split entities who have a life together and if they do not want to be with you, accept it, nobody wants to hurt you and nobody wants to harm you. bad alone. Accept the answers and fight only as far as possible, do not use insistence, go ahead.

Stay true.
The black sheep of a family are actually liberators of their family tree. Family members who do not fit into family rules or traditions, those who are constantly trying to revolutionize beliefs. Those who choose paths contrary to the well-trodden paths of family lines, those who are criticized, judged and even rejected. These are called to free the family from repetitive patterns that frustrate entire generations. These so-called "black sheep," the ones that don't fit, the ones that howl with rebellion, actually repair, detoxify, and create new thriving branches in their family tree.
Countless unfulfilled desires, shattered dreams, or frustrated talents of our ancestors are manifested through this revolt. By inertia, the family tree will do everything to maintain the castrating and toxic course of its trunk, which will make the rebel's task difficult and conflicting. Stop doubting and take care of your rarity "as the most precious flower on your tree".
You are the dream of all your ancestors.
Often, the less understood you are, the more valid what you think is. They will call you crazy, but I think being crazy is simply having the courage to be yourself. And yes, people call you "crazy" when you rebel against something, and we are taught this from an early age, that rebelling is wrong. Actually I believe rebellion is the only way out of being who we really are. Because each one taken individually has its own unique value, but we tend to homologate, they treat us and we treat each other as if we were and should all be the same. We are so slaves of this system that we do not even notice it anymore and we believe we are free, we believe that what we have in mind is our true personality, while we are still subject to society and all its conventions. If you think about it, the most important people in past and contemporary history who have brought about significant changes in the world, who have brought about improvements, have been rebels. We could all be rebels, free ourselves from the chains that bind us. Yet we persist in making choices dictated by rationality, by schemes, and not by instinct. We say we are independent, but we continue to choose on the basis of what we have been taught, not on the basis of what we are, what we feel. So ultimately, until you understand your nature, you won't be independent, but quite the opposite. This is what I think ... In short, quoting Bukowski: "When everyone is equal, everyone is nobody".
Be rebellious
and stay special.
Don't be satisfied:
dream as big as you can
aim as high as you can.
Aim for the moon, yes.
And not just any moon,
but at the full moon:
more beautiful
further.
So perfectly imperfect.
Stay special
because everyone knows how to be ordinary.
Go as far as you can:
beyond the clouds we see
beyond the seas we know
beyond the fields of daisies.
Go beyond that idea of ​​right and wrong
that all impose themselves,
as if the world really existed
what is right
is what is wrong.
There is what you want
and what you want is never wrong.
Go further.
Besides all those things that don't have a name:
invent new names
new places
new dreams
and new emotions,
because emotions and dreams are the colors of the world
because emotions and dreams shape the world.
Go further.
Beyond the calm and the storm
beyond black and white
beyond the known colors:
stumble upon the new shades
that the sky invents every day
but which few are able to see.
Go further:
look for the rare things.
Everything you need is there.
Stay special
even if life, at times,
M- maybe often, it hurts
and even if this bad
it changes you inside
if you are not strong enough
to resist.
Stay as you are:
do not let yourself be transformed by pain.
Don't become different
angry
neither self-centered.
Improve yourself,
but don't change!
Stay special
with a smile on his lips
and the joy of living in the eyes.
Don't let yourself be changed by disappointments
by those who want to make you feel wrong
because you are not
nowhere
in no time
in no way.
Be different.
Be rebellious:
stay special.
Don't be upset by events.
Find the beauty in everything,
dream big
not giving a damn about others
don't care who says you fail,
why you won't:
do what you want.
Be rebellious
be great
and you will conquer the world!

LOVING AN ARTIST

Loved only by those who had brought me into the world, I was a winged-hearted creature. A free creature, who would never have sacrificed the wings of freedom to a stupid and obsolete feeling commonly called love. Armed only with myself, in the evening, I spread my wings above the world and let myself be caressed by the wind, with my soul naked and free of inhibitions. The warm currents squeezed me and the taste of the lack of ties satisfied me; nothing in the world could ever upset my balance. Nothing, I was sure, for nothing, in my eyes, shone more than freedom. They are artists, for me, those who know how to create a unique world in which to take refuge. You, for me, were an artist. And as such, I envied you when, from the bedroom window, I saw the most beautiful paintings I had ever seen take shape on previously white canvases. Then you smiled at me, sent me a kiss and went back to painting. If it was just a joke, or if you really wanted to give me kisses, I don’t know, but the way you looked at me, the curious eyes with which you looked at my tousled hair and my oversized jacket, made me fall back lightly my wings, before spreading them in all their glory and straightening my head. No one would ever overwhelm me, not you, with your gemstone gaze, not anyone else. I was not like you. I was not beautiful, or clear, and I did not look perfect even with the face dirty with acrylic color and the hair gathered in a messy way. I’ve never been like you. I, I told myself, was free. Free from all ties and free from everything that could have binded me to the world. And my greatest wealth was freedom. Of this I am sure. I lived like this, as it happened. I lived for the day, detaching myself more and more from the earthly world and taking refuge in the warmth of my parents’ hugs. Their chests were warm and full of life. Full of love for me, but that love, perhaps, was not enough. That love, perhaps, did not have the color of your paintings and did not represent sunrises and sunsets. That love, I discovered, was not yours. It was inviolate, unconditional, but it did not come from the chest of the only person who, with his paintings and his smile, was able to take my breath away and make me angry. When I realized I loved you, I cried. I cried like I had never done before. One evening when it was raining I went out, on tiptoe I reached towards the sky; towards freedom, but this was so far away. I closed my eyes, as the rain soaked my clothes and weighed me down, I promised myself that feeling would not touch me. His chains would not have destroyed my wrists. I think I’ve never been good at keeping my promises, nor at winning wars. And so, crying, my feet touched the ground and for you, for your paintings and your sunsets, I tasted your lips stained with tempera, drowning in your presence and in your breath, clinging to my shoulders with all of myself. If you had left me, I would have died. I also gave up my only affections; those parents who, when they learned that I loved a girl, closed the door in my face and never reopened it are still just a memory. “Don’t you want to play with me today?” The wind asks me. But my wings are closed now, I hold your hand. That’s okay, you know? Sleep, sleep a little longer, my love. When you wake up, I will still be here. If, however, you find only this letter, look at the sun. Rising, it brings you a message: “She loves you,” he says “More than freedom?” “Yes, more than freedom.”

I WAS A TOMBOY

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 have been protesting for many years, since high school, and giving advice through my blog, but I see that very few people are interested. They also don’t even know what zero waste is. Especially young people who use the web are not interested in things related to the climate. Or they say they do but then buy items that produce non-recyclable waste. I grew up in a family where my parents tried to reuse anything.
I’m italian. I used to dress like a boy until I was 22. I had been abused at 4 years old. So I didn’t accept my female body. I wanted to be a boy because I was afraid of being raped again. This fear caused a lot of shame in me. I always covered my breasts. I crushed it. I didn’t want to have a female body because I knew that men only love it as an object to own. Many years have passed and I am very different. I have long hair, I wear makeup and I always dress like a woman. But men have not changed at all.

ARE YOU FREE?

I CAN STAY WITHOUT VIDEOGAMES.
I CAN LIVE WITHOUT MUSIC.
I CAN STAY WITHOUT SHOPPING.
I CAN LIVE WITHOUT TV.
I CAN STAY WITTHOUT COMPUTER.
I CAN LIVE WITHOUT SMARTPHONE.
I CAN STAY WITHOUT MANGA OR ANIME.
I CAN LIVE WITHOUT SOCIAL.
I’M NOT SLAVE OF ALL THESE THINGS
I CAN LIVE WITHOUT THEM FOR ONE DAY, ONE MONTH, ONE YEAR OR TEN YEARS.
AND YOU?

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