My mother cut my hair and made me wear pants because I always got sick and couldn’t wear skirts, I just had to sit on the floor and play to get a fever of 40. I was a tomboy, who listened to music from the 50s and 60s and wrote a lot of strange stories… I was not used to fairy tales and it was better that way, growing up I realized that I would never be a fairy. I’m not good at making myself loved, I’m not lovable, I’m better at unleashing a grudge. I wanted to be a fairy, but I was born a witch, strange and without sequins. I’m not looking for someone who loves me, someone to show all my bizarre ideas, the ones I cultivate in the evening on the terrace of my house, while I enjoy a sunset and caress my cats. I made space many times in my habits to welcome someone, but I realized that I was never welcome in their habits. I wished I could have been a fairy and do spells for myself too… I worked on my edges while taking care of the bruises they left on me. I too fell silent in front of their silences, their walls, and yet I tried to climb over, as a tomboy I could do it. I tried and I failed: they left me out and I stayed out. I would have liked to be a fairy, but I’m just a girl, with edges and oddities that have become accustomed by now … And whoever gets used to certain loneliness survives.
Last night, I had a dream. I dreamed of a man. He wasn’t really a man, he was rather a young man. Yes, he was a young man. I don’t remember his face. I only remember his eyes, large, clear, I don’t remember the nuance of the iris. Maybe they were green, or maybe blue … who knows what color those bright irises were painted? Certainly, I repeat, they were clear. I remember his hair. They were beautiful. They were wavy, brown, a dark brown, almost black. They painted the gray background of a winter’s day with those tongues of charred wood. I remember touching them. They were soft, softer than I thought. I had imagined them bristly, almost stringy. And instead, what was my surprise in knowing that they are soft and silky, almost water rubbed between my fingers. I remember caressing them, from root to tip, which barely touched his shoulders. They were long and neatly messy. They were so beautiful. I remember them very well. He wasn’t handsome, my young man. But he was attractive, as no Adonis can be. He had a voice… oh, what a voice! He modulated his words gracefully and muttered softly when I was close to him. I touched his hands. He had nice hands. The fingers were long, tapered, pianist’s fingers, as they say. The skin of those hands … You touch it. Oh, if I touched them… they were soft, like hair. They weren’t hot, but they weren’t cold either. They were warm, that sweet, subtle warmth that warms your soul and barely touches your heart. Sweet sound his words close to my ear, as he murmurs …
I touch my snow plants
I fly over your anxieties
they pour out love on my limbs
and they fret to make me die
I wish you wouldn't look at me rapt
but become practical for a moment
you can't tell me to treasure
do what you want
I need to feel guided
from your fantasy of a woman who knows
back to a drunken time
of your soft skin
when I was willing for your precious smile
to give up the best part of me
when for your eyes of nothing
I was dragging along idiot and tired
when for all people
I was a loner
holy acrobat
for never asking you for anything
that went beyond your dimension
catastrophic and ridiculous at the same time
of a rich girl, a respectable girl
now my vein has run out
I swear I do not dare to speak
to make you feel bad a moment for good
to make you understand to be able to love
I asked my hitmen for money
I asked on my knees for a month's time
I have kept my promises and still
of your infidelity I am a monastic temple
I would never be able to continue
to still pretend to be a merchant of boredom
it is sold by weight or by the square meter
in my soul he is a true lacer
I'm still willing to do one thing love
old young vamp
to paint your myth of glory
to the hidden altar of cowardice
to console me by observing the image
of your dizzying hair
of the holy bibles of your womb
that I have too often confused with God.
I was a girl with many dreams before, now I’ve lost them somewhere, not knowing who I am anymore. I was a shy girl, but now completely apathetic. My hair was long and always in the wind, now red and always tied up. I used to have beautiful fair skin, but now it’s scarred. My green eyes were always bright, now empty and dull. I was not very afraid, now I’m afraid of my reflection, like a child who is afraid of the monster under the bed. Now I’m just ashes. It is horrible to be homesick for yourself, for your own energy. When you look in the mirror and think, “Damn what happened to me?” “I was a completely different person. I realized that actually people don’t give a damn about knowing you, they don’t care who you are, they just want to feel less alone. They use you as a stupid stopper to fill the moments of boredom, of emptiness, which is there when you need it, which is forgotten when you have better things to do. Maybe that’s why I can’t trust people, maybe that’s why when I’m around people I feel like a fish out of water. We may look the same, it probably is. The change is not visible, at least not to most of us, but we have changed. Completely. Forever.This period, this moment, is so difficult, I find myself in a situation that I now know well, all too well, this sickening apathy, this gray that makes your head break, this desire to cry for no reason, this littleness, this feeling like this. insignificant. Yet now it’s different, or it should, now I know how to get up, a shower, friends, a bit of entertainment, and nothing goes by but at least I pay less attention to it. Instead, here I am wanting to throw myself hopelessly on the bed and do nothing else, drown myself in a sleep that numbs my thoughts, canceling everything until it passes. Ignoring who I don’t want to ignore. Struggling with myself between what I know to be rational and what I would like. Wondering once again if I can do it, knowing the answer is yes but thinking it is no. Want to mess up. The worst part? Having to hold me back. Being forced not to isolate myself, having to keep myself up because I’m not physically alone, I can’t make it clear that I’m down. Worse still? Knowing they are just complaining. The knowledge that I should kiss my elbows, that there are people who are dying every day, by the thousands, alone, that there are people who are doing endless shifts feeling helpless.Then the future, this huge messed up nothing, that can’t take a shape anywhere, in any way, the many possibilities in which not even one seems to be the right piece of the puzzle, which I keep turning and turning, trying to fit it everywhere. , to no avail, to the point that I will probably pick one at random and break it in an attempt to make it fit with something that has nothing to do with its half, with the suitable continuum. The question always remains the same, why can’t I be different? Why do I always have to get complicated? A lifetime of being told “you are never as person x”, we have always thought about this, we have all felt different at least once. I understood that it is better “not to be like someone”, “never like someone”. It is us, it is ourselves. Children, young and old, we are perfect. We have lived like crazy, we are living like crazy. Everyone lives in his own way, who lives as a madman, as a moralist, as an arrogant, as a bigot or as a frustrated one. We are the result of what we have around us. Each of us lives different and unrepeatable experiences that enrich us and make us wonderful. All people have stories … not just one. We never allow anyone to underestimate or belittle us. Because all of us, despite adversity, are the sun … and the sun never stops shining.
I don’t understand those people who when they turn one more year get demoralized because they feel older and older or who say they don’t give a damn. Instead of focusing on the fewer years they have left to live, they should be happy that they lived up to that point. Each additional year of life is a wonderful milestone to celebrate, as every day of life should be. Just for the fact of opening your eyes and having another day to live in front of you, you should smile and try to feed that smile all day. When you are young, you take everything for granted, including your health, and you don’t fully realize the extraordinary power you have right now. We often focus on a happiness that will only be achievable in the near future, but the future is only our imagination. Today it is reality. The air we are breathing, the beating of our heart and the sweat of our hands, these sensations of the present are what we take for granted as if they were eternal but they are not. Our vital senses take on their true value only when we are about to lose them. Do not allow this to happen, whatever you are doing stop for a moment and completely forget about it, breathe deeply closing your eyes, listening to your beat, touching your hands but above all enjoying being alive with a sublime smile.I look at your graceful figure and no fantasy is needed for me to follow the return to the origins, your morning toilet is of fine oyster cloth and you are an invitation to a mud bath, your blue eye stares at me through a milky keratome, with the stiff forefinger you push aside the yellow twigs of the weeping willow and you know well that you can expect all the worst things from me. Emotional flashes and a hundred and eight gold in the finish open the way to the sewer, to the sad weekend that I am now starting to live, the dress of which I dream is woven in the rice color of Siberian cellulose, the green hands of eight hundred girls are the foundation of a sweet confession, the isoipse of the rice solidify you with a courtesy mask and the ratchets of your porcelain ears are perfectly hidden in the listening bush of your oxide macerated hair. The spheres of things and events triggered, against the course of the clock hands, run at zero time, however a single day spent with the beloved girl on a Norwegian glacier is the love bag of all worthy people.Splinters of smashed dolls hurt my soul, the caterpillar crawling right next to my eye is bigger than the express train that passes in the distance. I don’t know which mountain farmer when he couldn’t find work years ago he started talking to a sheep. I see how my life is sucked into my mother’s life, I see how I am wound back from the umbilical cord to the womb of the progenitor Eve. I see how the stained underpants are the imprint of infinity and the intestines stirred by noble horror lead to a higher vision, I see my semen as against the current being sucked backwards to the first pollution like a mountain trout, I see how from the organ sexual intercourse of all my ancestors are sucked back into the spermatic canal of the progenitor Adam. I live tactfully the resection of the rib that I still miss today.And in the meantime this is your little waist and this is your pleated skirt from the belt to the delicate crepe and this is your toilet of the silky ivory color and it is an empire model and this is the confirmation dress kept as a souvenir and this is your back dappled by beer coasters and these are your loose hair and staves of music flow from your head. I see how naked you are now sailing under the dark beams, I see your rhythmic hands illuminated by the violent spray of the yellow chandelier, I see how from your little beating legs gush springs, beads that rise from all the pores of your body, you are immersed in a bathroom phosphorescent and vibrating ankles whistling rapids of seltzer, sparkling wines, sparkling fins, mineral feathers, flying fish wings, the flys that the beautiful and young Greek god Mercury wears on his ankles. The full moon shines with the footprint of Armstrong’s sole, but I was most moved by the news of the evening newspaper, a 68-year-old medical herb picker dozed off on a flowering meadow and was sucked into a lawn mower and her corpse escaped from the car along with the medicinal herbs and hay beyond recognition.Along the belt of the streets I return to the origin of going, the revealing splendor of animal experiences wishes pools full of children to thirsty cities. Your myosotide eye broken by a sliver of Modra majolica now understands my cold gaze, rightly follow how the knife of my imagination pushes back to the sources of things. The last stream is sucked into the small river with the last drop, the last river is sucked into the ocean sea with the last clear cloud evaporating in the blue skies. I see how you follow this ascending fall with me, I see that not a single phase of this striptease has escaped you. Apparently I follow the memory of your white silk dress embroidered with gold, on the wrist the sleeve was decorated with slits for my desire, two hollow folds of cream yellow cashmere, but I follow all the more quickly as the pure source and the divine Needle they go towards spring and you smile at me when you see how I take handfuls full of creative clay in my hands and smelling the earth I smell you too. Meanwhile I feel only in my brain the screeching of your sweet limbs, the skin you have adorned with tender cracks, you are transported by the coordinates of cigarette smoke, Climb high like the bubbles of seltzer, the trees and flowers describe circumferences, an apple falls from the melo, already with the apples in the seed, the last ruins of the evening slip silently into the soft dust, but in the meantime I like the excesses and extravagances of the songs with poetry in the newspapers.Graceful comes in the wave of the evening a lonely throb of a star. Gradually a light cloud the pupil closes them smiling; and as she passes with veils and feathers, in the great blue tremulous sparks they are born in swarms, they are born in garlands, are born in a hundred, are born in a thousand: but I don’t see you anymore, my star. Liable illusion How many anxieties you neglect. I woke up. Beyond the intoxicating essence of your insidious substance Vast expanses of multicolored black poppies They linger mischievous Willing to stem severely every unwary dream. Cleverly designed they will refute the insolent lie to which you are prone Allocating your vain shy escape to an inevitable departure. We cannot evade An intimate truth. Along the way we meet as graceful souls. Sensitive fairies. You covet butterflies and you love days sitting together.
We were lying in bed.
Like any other afternoon.
But this was no ordinary afternoon.
We were there under the covers.
Dressed but stripped of any pride.
You stroked my hair, playing with it.
I had my head hidden in your chest.
Up until half an hour ago, we had been sitting on that same bed.
You had tears in your eyes, you were holding your face in your hands, avoiding my gazes.
I used to cry with you, so vulnerable to see you sick.
You were trembling, sobbing.
"I can not lose you" you said to me in a faint voice.
"You don't love what I have become"
But at that moment I loved you even more.
We both got scared.
I am a mess, you know.
You feared for a moment that I was leaving and you freaked out.
A bit like I usually do, only more conspicuously.
I dried your tears and in the meantime I was making myself strong for both of them.
Because in the end the strength lies, if it comes to you.
Because if something scares both of you, I must always be there, to belittle it, to convince you that everything is fine.
You took me with all my problems, you picked me up and you decided to look after me, with all the patience and love of this world.
So when you go haywire, I'm there ready to play the part of the "healthy" and "reassuring" one, even if it doesn't suit me at all.
In the end we hugged tightly and pulled ourselves up;
not that we had eliminated all problems, in fact not at all.
But we were there for each other.
So once the thoughts died out, we remained embraced, with no words to say.
Only in a moment did you break the silence:
"Vanessa, I love you"
I said it all in one breath, as if it were the most important thing to say. Which, after all, it was like that.
Have you ever tried to take care of a woman’s hair? Slip them between your fingers, welcome them in your hands if they are too curly as if it were wadding. Touching a woman’s hair is very important, taking care of it even more. Because if you do it, it is with her consent, it amounts to permission to touch her heart. Dissipating any tangles or brushing them frees his mind, a massage to his soul. We should all take care of a woman’s hair, with dedication and delicacy. Make them a braid or brush them with extreme delicacy, you too will benefit, because relaxing being a source of serenity. A woman’s hair has its own scent, which differs from woman to woman. By arranging her hair you put her soul in order, she will allow you to listen to her secrets, because taking care of her hair is a very intimate act. In Portuguese it is called “cafuné” the act of tenderly running your fingers through the hair of your loved one. Kiss a woman’s hair, because they deserve respect. Take care of a woman’s hair, because they give positive energy.
I remember my adolescence partly carefree, because I studied, made music and painted a lot, and partly painful, because I had to listen to my mother’s problems, I didn’t know how to deal with mine and she wanted my help and I gave her advice but she did not listen to me, I only served as a container in which to put all her suffering. So I had loves but I didn’t even talk about it to my sister because she was smaller and shy, she wanted to copy me in everything, I was flattered but then it was a disaster when I left because she felt abandoned, and I didn’t have it done on purpose but I had dreams that I wanted to fulfill and she still had to finish school and could leave the following year but then she didn’t come to me anymore and I was very disappointed. I was a happy and angry child, I had long hair and blond curls, I made faces at my waist but I always knew how to collect tears. I was so afraid when I lost the caresses of the hands of those I loved, the beautiful eyes that were the background of my dreams. I have always responded with elegance to offenses, without ever taking away and without giving too much. I tied to silver threads hanging from the sky, notes of soul to make poetry rain, to protect me from the world. I took a train in my mind and walked miles to kiss you and tell you I love you, because I don’t know how to shout. I scream in the silences. I put aside my insecurities to warm my heart, to take cover. I ran a lot in my dreams, to catch up with you and I would always run, because they taught me that love is the only thing worth fighting for and continuing to breathe.
I was an insecure, anxious girl, a good girl, one who always did what was asked of him, who never went crazy, who watched others live and she always remained on the bench, who dreamed of meeting great love. I have lived like this for 15 years. Then something happened. I fell in love. A year spent behind a boy, dignity under his feet, his heart punched, of which only scattered fragments remained. When it was all over I was destroyed. I said to myself “enough is enough! Time to change! ” And so it was. You know, you change by choice, not by chance. You change when something breaks and you are faced with a choice: change or fall behind. I have always hated being left behind, I have always loved running, and so I did, I ran, chasing the girl I had been all my life away in a corner of my mind. I started drinking, smoking, even what I could have avoided. I started to go dancing, to collect meetings, guys that after one evening I would never see again. I just wanted to have fun, feel like a teenager for once. This is what happens to those who spend a lifetime doing the right thing. The day will come when he decides to put a point and break everything. But I assure you in the same way that the day will come when all this will no longer be enough. Where your heart of ice will hurt too much in your chest. In which neither cigarettes nor straws will be able to calm the anxiety that arises inside you, which torments you like a hurricane. In which vodka will no longer be able to make you happy. In which you will understand that all those guys have only used you as an object: taken, used, thrown, replaced, and your insecurity will become unbearable. In which breaking all the rules will make you feel wrong, and more alone than ever. Because you see, you can never allow anyone to love you unless you first learn to love yourself. Another year has passed. And now? Now I am a confident, determined girl, one who does not do what is asked of her, nor who disobeys him in the name of some principle, now I decide my life, I have stopped being on the bench, I have stopped looking love and I started looking for myself, to love me despite all my infinite defects and you know what? It was then that love found me. Love each other. It is the only rule to be happy.
In the end, if we think about it, we won't write because we don't have the courage to write. Writing is the day of silence. We write to let off steam, to bring out our feelings and turn them into a lighter. But ultimately, whatever character is beautiful, most of the world will impress on a bird or screen. And they are there. Real estate. Nothing will happen next to us.
I need to find him, what courage. Take the initiative and read "Loud those words". The human body is an almost perfect machine, we created it with a lace, with the ability to speak and dialogue, it was very powerful. We should brace ourselves and shout. Speak and write that it is now within us, the one that divides, piece by piece.
More than anything else, 2020 has taught us to let go, which is never giving up. It is rather not to push, not to strategize, not to force. It is not resisting things happening. It is not brooding. It is having courage to the end, stopping to direct but letting oneself be carried. It is trust, breath, love and lots and lots of courage. It’s watching life shatter and doing nothing. It is having absolute certainty that it is that reassembly that will give us a new shape, finally ours, the one we ignored, the only one that really belonged to us. Let yourself be shattered and believe in miracles. Abandon yourself and create them. Thanks for this year together.You are made to be loved. With your sweet and smart eyes. With your ways of doing you send on the ball. Inspire sweetness, tenderness. Anyone would try this for you. You laugh. Talk and laugh. You like to joke with people. When you speak, you lower your head, look I don’t know where, then you raise it up and laugh. You are small, small but strong. You are able to save yourself and anyone else. You never tell about yourself. But if you told something, you would say that you tried to save someone you cared so much about, but they didn’t let themselves be saved, did they? If you told it, you would say that you have destroyed yourself for someone who lived on something else, and not on you. But how do you live, if not you? If you tell, you will tell that you have lost. And that’s why you look down every now and then while you’re talking. But even though you were small, you were strong. You took your life, you started to appreciate it, you took courage on your own and you came to the surface. You’re not dead, baby, no. And that’s why when you look down you look up and laugh. Because you made it against the whole world. Because when a person loses, he is in a struggle with himself and with others. And these kinds of battles are never easy. But keep it up, baby. Continue to enchant the eyes of others. Maybe God sent you for this. To bring some happiness. Because when it comes to you, spinning around, and then laughing, and then pulling your hair back, and then squirming, there’s always a smile ready to come out. There is no other alternative.It has a strange effect, I don’t know if you understand. I mean, that looking into each other’s eyes so intensely, but for so little. A complex and enigmatic language, sometimes subtle. It can mean all or nothing. It is free, broad. We can give ourselves the taste of our interpretation or we can simply read what these two eyes can emanate. But no, I don’t do any of that. I don’t read, I don’t interpret. I live again. Images, feelings, scenarios and moments that transport me into the vortex of memory. A powerful vortex, which wonders what magical power gazes can have. It is a matter of seconds, really. But full of us.
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 