I feel exactly like … a black rose in a field of daisies. A black, withered, neglected rose, but with the thorns still ready to protect it, even when someone would like to pick it up like this, worn out as it is. I feel like a dead rose, but still with the strength to defend myself from others. And I know that I could spoil the beauty of the other flowers, because in comparison to me they look more alive and colorful. I also know that I spoil the landscape, but I feel this way and I can’t help it.
For a long time I have wondered what it takes to be truly happy: maybe a perfect family? Maybe, a person you love? Perhaps, a house in the most beautiful city that exists? Here, these things could not exist if our happiness were not the fruit of something more, if there were not something that elevates us so high as to lead us to love something we do not have. Happiness lies in what we do not see only with our own eyes: it is seeing the lawn greener than usual and being able to photograph the only flowering tree in a square; dancing on cut trunks and hugging trees; wait for the train to pass before taking a picture and greet those who smile at you from the wagons as if you were crazy; feel your hands burn because they have been rubbed on a bark and try to attract the attention of two dogs that will never listen to you anyway; adjust your camera settings to make this photo the best and feel your eyes water from the sun; playing with (pseudo) pine cones and falling off a bench trying to do something artistic. Well, I didn’t think I could enjoy all this, to have that little bubble of energy to feel that around me there is still so much to observe and analyze. And above all, I didn’t think I had someone with a bubble so big that I could get bigger. And never break out.
I’m like a daisy. They are of an almost banal simplicity, taken for granted, nothing special. But thus being born everywhere, thus resisting the cold and the wind, those who trample me, those who do not appreciate me. So astonish only those who still have a pure heart, like that of children who, after tearing a daisy from the lawn, give it to their mother. They are purity and sweetness at the same time. Sure, sometimes I wither, but I never die.
Today I dress in the daisies of the sky.
Those who laugh more than the stars.
With the same anxiety that keeps the seed alive.
Inside the black clod.
As long as he sees the unknown desired light,
and accompany the river on its long journey.
Between monotonous shores towards a glorious sea,
where together he recognizes and reaches his goal.
I was waiting for you without knowing it,
And waiting was also love.
I remember this and nothing else,
and I can tell you nothing else,
now that the time of love is revealed.
I create dances of little balls on the wind and a rush of gladness takes my heart back.
The eyes sink into the eyes,
sweet lips come together and all the petals
fall from the sky like snow.


I was alone and the trees around made that noise that you hear when they drop everything they have on them and there was silence, but at the same time the sound of thuds, branches, leaves in motion even if everything seemed still, an orange butterfly yes stops on my arm and looks at me, whole minutes have passed in which the only thing that brought me back to the present was my own breath. I’m also trying to let parts of me die and fall off like dead leaves or rotten fruit, but I’m not a tree. Sometimes it all seems so difficult, opening up to the world, trying to explore it being afraid of what might be found in the dark. Sometimes it’s all so difficult, sometimes it’s hard even to love. Nobody teaches us to love, there are no rules or notions to follow, of course there are generic ways of behavior but no written law or particular teaching on love. It is not said that those who love in silence love less than those who shout it to the world. It is not certain that those who love in the light of day love more than those who love by hiding in darkness. It is not certain that those who clash by pulling repressed anger in the soul love less than those who love in silence, keeping the pain inside. Yet, despite this, we tend to classify love on a pyramid system made up of actions, behaviors that are placed above or below other actions of those who have shown better or worse. It is said that love is not beautiful if it is not a quarrel, but why is it said? Perhaps only to create a moment of normality in unnecessary quarrels or perhaps because if there is no conflict there is no intersection between thoughts and points of view that will then bind to each other, who knows when. In fact, the key to everything will be the clash, as happens in the universe. Two galaxies, in the course of their collision, can remain united in a single element by merging with each other, or they can move away from each other again, leaving reciprocal elements in them. This is the key to everything, the confrontation. Love is like the universe, it’s up to you to figure out how to act.

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