When you were five and still using a pencil, you couldn’t wait to be a nine-year-old to finally have a ballpoint pen. When you turned nine, you told yourself you wanted to be twelve, that if you could just pull the days towards your graduation day, you would. At twelve, you had a bad day, and you asked heaven to speed up time, and take you to fifteen right away. You were fifteen, bombarded with too many school jobs, yet you still managed to endure; nothing has changed, you wanted to become an adult. You turned eighteen. You thought that at that point you could conquer the world; you were on the road to being of age, it thrilled your soul, because you saw it as freedom from everything. Nineteen years old and you fell in love and realized that maybe a skinned knee hurt less after you fell off your bike. You have known loneliness, betrayal, anguish, pain and you have understood that you should not have been in a hurry to grow up.One of the things that changed my relationship with love was my desire to open up, to be given the opportunity to have the freedom to choose, to inform myself, to feel the need to improve myself. Understanding that, like everyone, I have potential. In this way I was able to increase love and respect for my person, who by nature will continue to falter, but that’s okay and consequently towards everything around me. Once love reaches your soul, she will ask for more and more, again, the best thing will be to find valid sources from which to draw and this is where our openness, our availability and the knowledge of us come into play. themselves. Sometimes it is important to detach ourselves from conventions, stop relying solely on what is served on our plate and listen to us deeply, in search of what can give us the love we need.
There are artists who paint what they see, others who paint what they remember or what they imagine. Our brain changes in the face of reality but, at the same time, it is capable of changing it: a "different" brain must therefore have a different relationship with reality.
In art this "process" can lead to the creation of new realities, which will only partly depend on "sensorial information"; our brain, in fact, does not necessarily need the continuous "information flow" coming from our senses. Dreams, memories that "revive" in mental images and also representations "simply" created by our mind testify to this event.
In this sense, art amplifies reality, creates a new "mental channel" capable of opening up to new experiences. The visual stimuli, real or evoked by memory, which excite the nervous system of the artist at the moment of the creation of the work of art, transformed by his hand into colors and shapes, will stimulate the nervous system of the observer. The work of art must be able to arouse in the observer's brain sensations and emotions that were present in the artist's brain. Approaching a work of art, looking at it, perceiving it, understanding it and appreciating it, implies the involvement of many brain structures and the activation of very specific mechanisms, starting from the functioning at the basis of visual perception, to those involved in the so-called "psychology of see ", in the aesthetic and emotional experience. This refers not only to the emotion felt by those who enjoy a painting but also to the creative moment that involves the artist to create his work.
Some researchers, especially psychologists and neurophysiologists, have been fascinated by the possibility of studying the properties and characteristics of the brain that are part of the evaluation of a work of art and the pleasure it can give; persuaded by the idea that the understanding of these cerebral mechanisms, together with the knowledge of the events of the life of an artist and of the culture of his time, can favor a greater "knowledge" and appreciation of the work and of those who created it.
A work of art is born from the combination of what the artist experiences "visually" and how he interprets what is communicated to him from the outside world. Both the acquisition of visual information and its internal processing can be altered by pathological causes.
The effects of serious mental illnesses, often altering the artist's perceptive and emotional abilities, can affect his pictorial expression and testify how the painter's life story becomes an integral part of his work.
All this emerges in the paintings of some great painters in particular moments of their life.
As you read, think. Think about every single word, every single sentence you have read. You are young. You need to live. You need to understand that being crazy about someone is absurd. People make mistakes, we are human, it is normal. Forgive and forget. Don’t lose a friend because something happened, forgive him. Forget about their mistakes, you want the same if it happens to you. If you like someone, tell them. You don’t know what could happen to him. It’s bad to talk about this, but it’s the truth. People die every day, every minute, every second. You will never know it. Have fun, dance in public, sing with all your lungs, don’t hold back in laughter, don’t hold back a smile. Dress how you want, not how others want. Be free, don’t let anyone tell you what you can and can’t do. Say what’s in your head, tell all your thoughts, free your opinions, you should never go unheard. Live your life as much as you can because you will never know what can happen. You just don’t know.I don’t know how to replace people, even if they hurt me. Disappointed. I let them go, I go on with my life, I go on. I don’t look for them anymore, I make myself strong because I know it’s right. And when after the ninetieth time I say enough, I don’t go back. I make new friends, I fall in love again, but it hardly happens, but no one will ever be able to replace them, because the emotions I felt with them cannot be imitated. People don’t replace each other. What I had with them I cannot have back with anyone else, nor can I expect it from anyone else. And when I wish things had gone differently, I think of the memories that bound me to them and I know that no one can ever separate me from them.I don’t want someone by my side to fill a void inside me. I want someone to tell about my day without feeling a burden, talk about my passions without feeling boring, show my weaknesses and dark moments without feeling out of place. Love hurts, they say. But it hurts when you don’t love the same way. Or when one of the two doesn’t love at all. At that point, every action must be measured, thought, weighed. Because the sensitivity of those who (perhaps presumptuously, humanly speaking?) Only want a little love: a daily caress on the heart, a beautiful word whispered in the ear, a smile that involves the whole face.Words come to life on their own at night. It is easier to find them, to feel them in your mind. It is as if they emerge from the depths of me, free, insistent. The best speeches, the clearest, most linear thoughts, or conversely, the most intense, children of a feeling that is difficult to master. The letters that get lost or confused during the day become autonomous, walk, come out into the open. I like this quiet, I love this silence. It tastes good. Clean. Of poetry.
The manual world of practical skills is valued more than the mental world. Manual skills are appreciated by all. While mental abilities are underestimated and considered useless. Many of you who work with PCs or do mind-active jobs will know that many consider these jobs to be “comfortable” and almost trivial. On the other hand, practical professions are considered more essential and are valued more (and also with greater earnings. Mental professions such as writing a film or entering data or building graphics or preparing a lesson or discovering a new star are considered non-essential. the plumber, the electrician, the bricklayer, the mechanic … are considered essential and very important. Even those who have knowledge in these fields are valued more than those who make artistic or computer professions. It is no coincidence that there are even derogatory nicknames about these mental professions as: artist and nerd and mad scientist. While for the practical professions there is no derogatory. So in this society even if a good 70% of the population does mental work (since technology has also replaced many practical actions) the remaining 30% is considered more important.
I don’t want to try to live any life again. I got bastardized and the home is worse for me than the cauldron of cannibals. every day too many people ate my best meat and every day I fed their thoughts with succulent ardor and multicolored hopes. This lane no longer belongs to me, I am out of the white lines, I went beyond the yellow lines, I deleted the blue lines and I took possession of a space that has nothing to do with men. I jumped out of the lines of men and women ready for the handkerchief race. I saw my prize and refused it, even though it shone like pure gold. I am never the one who dwells in this non-existent rent. I sell myself to my thoughts. I sell myself to my breath. I sell myself to the stranger who lives in my houses. he has an immense need for inhuman pleasures. he is the worst of the inhuman demons. unfolds me on white sheets and folds my corners without hesitation, an origami of crowded evenings. I go to find the silence of the marble angels. I go where life no longer lives. I don’t bring flowers to anyone, I walk among my buried souls, I mix wet lands, replant dried flowers … I look at the photos of my deceased sisters, my soul mates … the others who were not as lucky as me to live despite my apparent death. They call me a vampire, they tell me a scribe, they think I’m alien. I can’t stand people paved with knowledge. reducing billions of sadness into sonic explosions leaping the pit of pain by stabbing black stars that fall like ash confetti. the apocalypse of sadness makes the angel more terrible and the trumpet sounds like thunder. the din of the mind increases, the detachment from human people increases, I am extinguished. I feel in the last non-stellar sky, on the top floor of inhuman pain, I feel myself going up and down for no reason, my love runs on black ice stairs, on roads that penetrate impossible, fearful darkness. fingers of flesh and wind slip into my torment. fingers of cardiac losses accumulate and open my chest. I open the doors of my feeling and immediately afterwards I regret it. I got a devil in every hair, a devil in my brain, a tiny tiny black elf that rubs itself on white surfaces to write his curses. two horns come out of the dream, two very long sharp golden tinsel. they turn to my power, they enter me without seeing any other direction. they come out of open walls, from walls of forgotten art, they come out of nights pierced by incomprehensible dreams. pearls come out of the darkness of nostalgia, they twist into pointed horns and I stare at endless nights. swamps smoke, the sun goes down, the pain disappears. the abysses fall! incredible crash of pieces of glass, of crystal wings, of metal hearts. my angels dance with dagger blades that become stems of roses without corollas. my angels protect my brain from the depths of steel, from the seas of gold, from cruel power. my angels crash into the walls of my pain, strangled by the love of living. they flee and return to their purple skies. voices intertwine, voices are released, from within and everything comes out, in a moment, in a single second, the world is torn apart and the killer enters the scene. no one knows his past, no one knows his pain, no one knows the subtle pleasure, the need, the desire … the instinct to kill. hidden inside is what triggered the bomb, what triggered the blow, what caused the nefarious fury, the sublime revenge … scenes and other scenes revisited in the imagination, scenes and scenes acted without script … what do you want to know? what do you want to know about a killer or a killer? Is the thinking distorted or is it in the world that everything goes wrong? when the hand is thrown choosing to give death it is the power of the man that holds the heart of the murderer in a grip of sublime pleasure and that makes him feel like any god, renegade or not. what thirst for knowledge burns in your veins? what do you want to know about the pleasure of killing? what brings you on the path of the unspeakable sin of the human mind? silence awakens me and silence doesn’t make me sleep. a crowd throngs inside my heart and I’m ready to strike again. is it me you were waiting for? here is the explanation for all of you, a confession opened from a cell without a lock, a superhuman torture because those who know the journey but never the destination! I didn’t know what I was doing, I didn’t remember I was another person … I was using another name maybe I was there and maybe I wasn’t there, a memory gap, for no apparent reason, something that you feel inside, something that doesn’t add up .., and yet it was I who had done everything, I had decided it a long time ago … or was it even before? I don’t remember, a memory lapse. but why understand? why ask again? there is no explanation for the pleasure of dying inside others. it’s another person, it’s not me. I was not there. I’m not… no voice, no voice anymore … from my silence. a word broke my voice, a word that doesn’t break my silence. never again no voice will come out of my throat. no voice, no voice. he killed the voice, he didn’t kill the silence … and I will kill him in silence … I’ll take away the one thing he doesn’t have … life. no voice, no voice I will give to my silence … nobody wants to know, nobody has to know the torment of being a killer. no more voice will tell you which is my favorite weapon, no word of mine will tell my wound, no voice for those who do not want to hear or hear … no confession beyond all daring! never again do men deserve to know, to know pain … no voice of me, no voice of me … it changes like a fish. no voice for those who do not want to hear or hear … no confession beyond all daring! never again do men deserve to know, to know pain … no voice of me, no voice of me … it changes like a fish. changes like an executioner inside his victim!
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 