GREEN LOVE

Never get married as a lover. If you are in love, do not get married because in falling in love there is no sense of reality. Only when you have realized that next to you there is a wretch, a child or a neurasthenic, a hysteric, only when his defects are no longer funny, but hateful, then you will really love him. You have to know how to fight, know how to have different ideas and instead many live by making a living, swallowing toads. Relational well-being cannot decide on everything, because if not, the risk is that we proceed out of hypocrisy, that is to go ahead repressing what are our own truths. In fact, many live trying to avoid the defects of the other: I know that there are some things that I cannot say so that in front of a defect of the other I am in apnea waiting for it to pass and for one of its qualities to re-emerge. True love is that which knows no conditions, it is that which starts from attraction, passes through affinity and arrives at the intuition that there is something indissoluble between you. We all have this intuition and it is necessary to have it both. You don’t come to marriage to have an indissoluble relationship, but to put a seal on what you feel between yourselves as indissoluble.
And do you know what leads us to love in a certain way and not in another? The pain we felt, that’s right. The times we felt invisible, the words that pierced us, the abandonments we suffered, the goodbyes we inevitably found ourselves saying, the deaths we had to witness, the insecurities we carry inside from time immemorial. So you see? How can you think that one wound can look like another? That we all have the same pain threshold? All that can be said about love is that vhi really loves does not enjoy spreading the edges of our wounds, does not wallow in it, does not cling to it. The rest, all the rest, is another story.
I sit on the wall, squeeze my legs and look at my knees, to see some peeling, some bruising … Nothing. The ugly thing about broken hearts is this: that you can’t throw hydrogen peroxide on them and blow them while the bubbles walk on the wound, that you can only hold onto the pieces. And there are no operations and there are no medicines that can put them back together, you have to keep your heart broken like this. Maybe that’s good. Nobody deserves my frailty. It would be too easy to see a person who is always strong and smiling, but when the demons come out and there you really understand who you are in front of. I will continue to fight alone. It hurts to show yourself to others. It’s not worth it.
I believe that the human being has animal behaviors, but also plant ones. The animal has cells that heal and close its wounds. However, if you cut a branch it does not grow again: a plant wound is definitive and the only thing we can do is cover it. This is why we find trees with cavities, inside which fungi are born that feed the trunk. In this sense, our heart behaves like vegetables. If you hurt it it doesn’t heal, and the wound stays open. What could happen is that new experiences cover that same wound with life

MY HEART BURNS

The point is, when you’re fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, you can do anything. You can afford to be wrong. The thing is, it’s beautiful and we don’t realize it. It is the age of skipping school and falsifying it justifies it. Sweaters that are too baggy, tea under the covers on Sunday afternoons with friends. Concerts. The scars on his arms. The writings in the school toilets. It is the age of mistakes, the age that does not return, the age of whatever you do you can still fix. It is the age of crying for things that are nothing and seem everything, the age of first loves, the first kisses, the pain of when it ends, the “forever” that will never be. The fact is that it is wonderful and we do not realize it, we put ourselves in a cage for fear of life, without realizing that the real life is right now, the one that will not come back, the one that at thirty we would like to be able to relive. The fact is that we are a damned, burned, gone, passed away generation. The generation of facebook, twitter and tumblr. Conversation stamps, messages that are too long, too many tasks, dilators and tattoos done without thinking. Of “I want to live in London”, “I want to live in New York”. Poems on school desks. The films seen a thousand times. Friendships from a distance. The stations. The trains. The insecurities. Stop eating and start again two days later. And it’s beautiful, we just don’t realize it. I just don’t realize it. It’s time to start breathing, screaming and living. Live to your skin and bones. Live to consume our souls.
The strangest thing of all is that you learn quickly, that you suddenly begin to recognize things, to call them by their real name. When someone you love dies, something comes that grabs your belly and won’t let you go. No heart, no, the heartbeat remains the same, the blood pumps in and out, the chest doesn’t hurt, the famous pang in the heart is just an invention of those who write serial novels in the Thursday weekly. The pain that makes you double over is the pain in your stomach. It is not as strong as that of a fist but it manages to be worse, because it starts from the inside, crawls down the throat, floods your bowels and closes everything. The pain of dead love is as ferocious as suffocating, but I’ll get used to it. There will be many things that I will have to get used to, and there will be just as many that I will have to do without

 

SNOW FLOWER AND THE SECRET FAN

China, nineteenth century. Two girlsSnow Flower a White Lily, become linked for eternity with the Laotong rite, after sharing the practice of foot wrapping.

In the situation of isolation of the women of the time, the two friends will begin to communicate with a language unknown to men, the nü shu (女 书), through the folds of the Snow Flower fan.
Shanghai, today's times. The descendants of Snow  Flower and White Lily, two girls who have been friends since childhood, Sophia Liao and Nina Wei, bond with the Laotong ritual through a CD by singer Faye Wong. The various events of life will separate them and then discover that their union will transcend time.
The bandaging was a ritual that mothers imposed on their daughters, between four and five years of age, with the aim of changing the shape of the feet. In this way they would have remained small, about seven / eight centimeters, and would have assumed a pointed shape.
Unfortunately, there were also less fortunate girls, who did not survive due to the resulting infections and gangrene.
Furthermore, having deformed feet was an investment in marriage and in the possibility of social ascent, since marrying such girls was a sign of prosperity.

The only women who did not follow the practice were those of the Hakka ethnic group, very poor, and the fisherwomen, as they needed normal feet to be able to balance their weight on the boats.
The shoes used by women with golden lilies, compared with a hand. (Photo and hand by Amanda Foreman)

CAMILLE CLAUDEL

CAMILLE CLAUDEL is a french female sculptress. She lives her life in an extraordinary and contradictory context in Belle Époque France where the realization of female identity was still very difficult. Despite the various obstacles, the sculptress managed to establish herself by carving out an unprecedented and not small space for action in art - there are over fifty works that document the entire span of her production - despite the existential junctions that strongly influenced her: the problematic relationship with the family, the strong bond with his brother Paul, who converted will become an exponent of the uncompromising Catholicism of the French society of the times, the love and hate story with the sculptor Rodin and finally the mental illness, the twist in itself - as in the statue of the cover image - and internment in an asylum.

The academy Camille attended was mainly dedicated to sculpture, offered women the same opportunities as men and left the pupils great flexibility in the curriculum. Shortly afterwards Camille decided to move to an atelier in Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, where in 1882 Auguste Rodin came to teach. At that time, the master had been fighting for a quarter of a century against the classicist sculpture of the time. After two years under the direction of Rodin, Camille perfectly modeled the human body especially her hands and feet, thus she became one of Rodin's assistants, preparing clay, plaster and armor or modeling the hands and feet of sculptural subjects. Their works in fact in that period are very similar, obviously Rodin used Camille's genius as it was normal at the time to use his assistants. It is also true that we have a large production of Rodin in this period, of Camille almost nothing.
Their well-known love affair, which was born working side by side, leads to fifteen years of a passionate and stormy affair, from which Camille will however emerge exhausted, defeated not only humanly but also as an artist to the point of destroying her own works. Camille ends her relationship with the sculptor after realizing that no marriage would be possible between them - Rodin will always remain attached to Rose Beuret, his constant companion for years that the sculptor will never leave. Most likely, from some sources there is also evidence of an interrupted pregnancy, it seems that this very event has seriously undermined the balance of the young woman. An unhappy love, that for Auguste Rodin, exclusive, tinged with professional jealousies and above all poisoned by the prejudices of society, by the distance and then by the abandonment of Camille by the Claudel family in solitude and in precarious economic conditions.
Camille has always shown that she has a unique talent and genius, she has absolute mastery of movement, think of one of her most famous works La Valse (1895-1905) where movement and stillness are in perfect balance. For the client, the figuration of an embrace was clear and the work even scandalized the inspector of the Ministry of Fine Arts.

Here it is a perfect whole of strength, screwed on itself, pushed by the dynamism of the male figure that wraps the female one tied and held by the dress that descends to the ground. For the artist it is an attempt to grasp life in its movement, in its transformation, in the precarious balance of a tormented bond. What matters is that over time, the artist will not want to depict a single figure, he is not satisfied with the character but wants to tell a story, a complete narrative. A talent, that of Camille, which already leads her to distinguish herself from her peers at the age of 12, took inspiration everywhere for her drawings and clay sculptures from old engravings to anatomical models using her brothers Paul and Louise as models.
Camille had a limp defect and this perhaps led her to seek perfection in art with an impulsive gesture. She was very attached to her father, who was in fact her greatest ally until his death in 1913 - once he died, perhaps the only ally in his life was interned in a mental hospital. Perhaps in Rodin he saw precisely his father, often absent for work: in the Buste de Rodin the master sculptor looks much more than his forty-four years, he looks like an old man with a thick beard, a severe but affectionate father figure.

Camille also had a close bond with her brother Paul, from an early age in fact their great imagination gave them a unique cohesion. Although after his law studies he embarked on a diplomatic career, he devoted himself to art through poetry and dramaturgy, after his conversion to Catholicism in 1886 he became one of the exponents of intransigent Catholicism, that Catholicism that felt public reproach in name of atavistic prejudices for nonconformist women like Camille. Camille's very religious middle-class family reacted to her crises by having her interned in a nursing home for the mentally ill in Montfavet, where she remained for thirty years until her death. According to a journalist of the time, Paul Théodore Vibert, Camille had been arbitrarily interned for persecution psychosis only because her family was ashamed of her and her unconventional behavior.
The story is quite well known today and the French have dedicated two films to it, one in 1988 with Isabelle Adjiani and Gérard Depardieu directed by bruno Nuytten, the other in 2013 with Isabelle Binoche and directed by Bruno Dumont. It was 1913 when her mother and brother Paul sent her to hospital. Camille died in an asylum in 1943, without ever creating works of art again. It is she herself who does not want to be given the materials for sculpting. Yet she still writes very lucid letters to her mother (who will never go to see her), to her brother, to some friends. From these letters Chiara Pasetti freely drew a play entitled Moi, contained in her book, which premiered in Genoa in September with the actress Lisa Galantini in the former asylum of Quarto. The book ends with photographs of many of his works and also some of Rodin's works.

DRAGON LOVE

My friend all this word is dedicated to you, it is a good omen If I had continued to be a magician, perhaps I would have removed you from all spells And if it had been too late, I swear that with subterfuge I would have avenged you With a noose around my neck now I sing this because you must not be forgotten Now I am singing to the whole realm that they have slain a dragon that is not real But an enemy created by those who dress well on a large but poorly fed horse Which with a deception has already taken power because few know what magic is Because few know that at the end of the story it will be a tyrant to take her away.
Why a mentor says “You will become a man”
And trust a wizard who dreams that day
To stand next to that throne
Compete with other principles
For the defense of the princess
Only the prince who can win the dragon Which will then keep the promise
And if a very powerful mentor in his spells
Make a serum
To be made to drink by the greatest enemies of the prince In order to make him proud
He was not a great warrior on horseback It wasn’t he who gave the hay
The other prince who thwarted his plan He is also believed to be a real prince
He is a hero, a hero with a warrior heart Listen,
listen is the Dragonborn
The sound of his voice makes him a proud North Hear,
hear it’s the Dragonborn
The fate of Skyrim’s enemies is sealed Watch out,
watch out it’s the Dragonborn
Broken the darkness the legend is strong
Because the Dragonborn does not fear death.
How many times have we said it would be better to go back and not make a certain mistake? I think everyone in their life has thought that at least once. People try to change their past without thinking about a very important thing … We are made of mistakes, mistakes, actions that we have done in our past. If I now know that doing a certain thing leads to a wrong action, that doing an action will not bring me anything good is only thanks to my experience, because I have discovered that it is so. If I go back and fix a mistake I made by changing my action, I will never know if that was right or not. So I’ll definitely make the same mistake again sooner or later. For this reason instead of canceling our actions we should change our way of thinking, our way of acting now, in the present … Because it is only in this way that we will really change our future, we will change our way of acting in the face of difficulties. Only by knowing when something is right and when it is wrong can we actually take actions that lead us to do the right thing. So we shouldn’t think about going back every time we make a mistake but we should think about doing the right way in the future and in the present to get better now and later. Swallow the dragon fire and keep blowing ash.

MISS WHITE BUTTERFLY

There is a white butterfly trying to swim

He has the air of one who knows that the world lies

I would like to give you more than I can give

Make her feel more than she feels

A butterfly lands on his shoulder

Today I sit down and stay to listen to it

Then he says it's no longer time to talk

Who then tomorrow has another life to meet

Says please take me to the sea

I just need to understand

If it is right to live what remains

And I would take you

I would take you

In one place inside

In one place inside

And I would take you

I would take you

In one place inside

In that place inside of me

A butterfly lands on the shoulder and me

I can't give her anything but a goodbye

That his fate is as fragile as strength

But he says that today it flies and the wealth is there

It contains twenty years of things in a minute

After all, time is what we entrust to it

Who knows what will remain of those wings in a hundred years

He tells me "I leave the dream of flying to the children"

But now please take me to the sea

Any place as long as it's somewhere else

Where words are no longer needed

And I would take you

I would take you

In one place inside

In one place inside

And I would take you

I would take you

In one place inside

In that place inside of me

MY SWEET ANGEL

My beloved,

What is all that anger that grips you?
You say you can't sleep at night and you don't know why. Won't those negative thoughts take you away from sleep? Could it be that your smile has gone out and the mirror no longer recognizes your gaze?
What killed your heart? Your dreams seem to have flown so far from you.
Is it a pride that you had to burn in the flame of necessity, or is it the disappointment of still feeling stuck in the same place that makes you suffer the most?
My beloved ... it seems so long ago that that little girl spread her wings and knew how to fly: she knew the bridges built on laughter, she set fires of joy in people's hearts, she listened with her eyes full of greed to the words that came from parallel worlds that he could hardly understand, but he was learning to know. He loved life and cried with emotion in front of a half-built project: his dream became real. She had built it, piece by piece and assembled with Love, brick by brick. Looking at her, one learned to fly with her.
And now? You have torn your wings and you don't want to fly anymore. Out of fear or out of pain?
I would like to hug you, but I feel you escape like the water of a fountain. "He" fills the bowl and drinks you to himself. You know that "he" is not a solution: he is your column, your warm summer sun, your chimney when it snows ... but it was you who saved him, when you still knew how to fly and now you know you can't make yourself save from "him". Little girls like you save themselves, courageously, with the strength of their legs to get up and with that of their wings to take flight.
Do not give up.
Even when the way seems so dark, the path is always illuminated by some stars.
I have been ordered to let you do it, to make you run in your footsteps and, if necessary, allow you to make mistakes. And I obey because I can't do otherwise. I don't have a choice. You yes.
Sweet, sweet baby! Don't listen to that voice in your head that tells you that you are weak. Do not stay to taste the bitterness in the mouth of those wings and those hopes that are broken.
It all has a meaning and a reason to exist and to happen: the time comes to understand it, as always. When it comes, our hearts explode with happiness as we understand that everything that happened was in the right place and was there for us.
When did you stop believing in all of this?
And when did you begin to think that Love should be measured from person to person?
The little girl I know was spreading it with both hands: she always had time for a distant friend. for a smile to tear from a cry, for a hug that took your breath away, for a tear of emotion that hid joy rather than pain. For a chat. Yes, two words thrown away whose value was immeasurably great. I love you, you told me.
Smile at me now. Now more than ever, because you feel like crying.
Your wings cannot dry up like autumn leaves. The angels know that it is their duty to fly: an angel who can no longer fly takes something away from the world.
A child who can no longer smile turns off the Energy of the Universe and all the suns of the galaxies would not be enough to warm the Earth, as much as her curious and serene eyes.
I remember with Love your wings, it lives on your bare back, and I think it hasn't been that long. It seems like years: when you suffer for someone, time expands.
I am happy and I would like to be able to talk to you, to help. You look at me with envy in the eyes, tired and disillusioned, and you don't know that it would be enough for everyone (absolutely everyone!) To hear you laugh once again to be reborn and to find harmony.
How long have you not laughed heartily, haven't you laughed heartily?
I don't cry and I wait: I know that the New Day will come and it will bring with it those wings, which you miss so much. He will sit royally next to you and show you how much Light and what events you have missed up to then. He will spread his arms and you will begin to notice how many little things were chained to each other, without you ever noticing.
Suddenly you will find yourself on top of the mountain of your successes, dreams and happinesses without knowing how you got there. And, at the same time, you will realize that the stillness that frustrated you was made up of small steps. You climbed that mountain with tortoiseshell steps: slow, but inexorable. This is how you got to the top. And that you have become wise.
It will all be there, in front of you.
And you will cry. You will cry for joy because you did not understand; you will be moved by the people who have been around you, even when they did not seem; you will cry sympathetically towards your great courage to get up from the ground, which you did not think you had. And closing your eyes you will feel again those wings, which you thought you had lost and which you had only stopped looking.
Finally, after so many pains, you will observe that New Day and with it you will take flight.
Have a good trip, my angel.

RED PASSION

I started walking ... slowly aimlessly ...

Up to a rock hidden in the waves of the sea ..

Losing my sense of direction .. And my heart ..

As if my soul wandered ..

In search of the life that slowly abandons me ...

The water calms my heart ..

But with each wave I feel that my soul is released from my body .. To reach that quiet place .. Hidden ... In my heart ..

But it can only do it by dissolving and regenerating itself ..

Sometimes love is also this ..

Getting lost ... Between loneliness and tears ...

Even through oneself and then find oneself with an infinite sweetness of a caress .. Of a touch ... That only those who have your heart can revive and awaken what really belongs to you ... Your life .. His sense .. your heart ...

But my life why don't you let my sweetness invade your heart ..

You who are simply life for mine ...
Between us it is like this,
we get lost and find ourselves.
We understand ourselves in the eyes of the other
and we never cease to be amazed.
Thoughts in perfect synchrony
minds tuned
and feelings in harmony.
Fragile, yes.
But strong in our choices.
We would have the ability to annihilate ourselves
but we are leaning on each other
and if one falls
the other also falls.
If you get sick
I will suffer like a trampled flower,
if I'm going to get sick
you will be like a street lamp that does not want to light up
and you will look for me in the dark.
So different
like heat and frost
so similar
like grains of sand.
And I'll come look for you
every time you get lost
and you will no longer find the way.
I will be that light
that will guide you home
and you will hear my voice
calling your name
and you won't turn around
but you'll know I'm behind you.
Hold me tight
hold me tight
because in the evening it is difficult to be alone
because without you
the world is a little less colorful.
And it will be enough to see us to understand,
no words
those are useless.
But every word will open our hearts more
they make it explode
they make him feel alive
that make it beat
strong
very strong
until our stomach closes
until our legs tremble.
Everything is so clear.
Looks that sum up pages
hugs that contain tears
smiles that transpire thanks.
Only our limits contain us and give us the rhythm.
Like a heartbeat,
like a symphony.
Think with your head, always, do not let yourself be inculcated by anyone. Deconstruct every thought, every advice that is given to you, take it apart, look at it carefully and feel free to agree or not. Even if you value your interlocutor, disagreeing does not mean going against him, express your opinion if it is different from his. Talk. Try to understand. Don’t force yourself to do things that make you feel uncomfortable. Ask questions. Learn to say no. Develop your own ideas. Don’t be manipulated. Show your qualities. Don’t be conditioned. Educating means “pulling out”, not “putting in”. Follow yourself, interpret according to your intelligence. You are unique and wonderful, feel with your soul, feed your sensitivity, cultivate your passions. Learn more, be curious. There are no absolute truths. Have an ethics, a morality, have respect and then feel free. Nothing else is needed. You don’t have to please anyone. We are all different, we cannot have the same lives. You have the right to choose, choose to be happy.

STORY OF A SISTER

Yesterday, today and tomorrow now merged with each other. The rush to take the bus, the jostling to get on the train and the brisk step to the office were actions that were invariably repeated every day, so that it became difficult to distinguish the days between them. At first she liked that much-needed routine, somehow it made her feel safe after so much instability. But now it was close to her, it made her out of breath. She spent the whole journey looking out the window, looking for a shred of freedom in the landscape that accompanied her. But even that, after all, remained the same over time: gray buildings, fields, a kindergarten, a park, houses, hospital, gray buildings … By now it even seemed to her that she was always seeing the same people on the train: the little girl whimpering among the the mother’s arms, the hatched kids yelling and giggling, the beggar jingling his glass of coins as he limped around the carriage, the gentleman reading a newspaper, the lady looking around cautiously, the boy leafing through an ebook, the girl arguing on the phone and the girl chewing a butt with her mouth open. Sometimes he hated them all without distinction. Other times he just hated the crying girl but he adored the boy because he read Bukowski. At other times he still felt tenderness towards the child and hated the boy who, completely absorbed in reading, did not care about her. Often the same things that one day made her feel calm, another were those that made her nervous. Like when she happened to sit next to someone whose music was so loud that she too could hear the songs: there was the day when she was happy because at least she wasn’t forced to make conversation and the day when she imagined she was pulling away earphones to the victim and stamp them under his feet. In general, however, she always limited herself to mentally cursing and throwing only a few fiery looks on days when she was feeling particularly angry. “You’re always angry,” her sister commented when she confided certain thoughts to her. Was it true? Possible. Yet it hadn’t always been like that. She remembered perfectly when she worked in the village bookshop, which she reached astride her Graziella: they paid her little, made her work more hours than she had to and preferred to ignore the fact that she had a degree. And yet, during that time she had been peaceful. Could it be that just taking the means could change a person’s mood? Or even his character? He didn’t want this. Maybe he would look for another job, closer to home. Or maybe she would have bought herself a motorbike and would have arrived at the office like that, with her hair crushed by the helmet and her fingers withered by the cold. Oh no, it wasn’t feasible. He leaned his head against the window, closing his eyes as the girl beside him chewed loudly. No, maybe it was better to keep doing as he was doing. It wasn’t that bad after all.

THIS IS MY WAY

I stared at him, but only for an instant, the time to cross that blue sea that always put me in awe. I felt like a thief caught in fragrant, guilty of that strange addiction I now had on his face. It was like a drug, I couldn’t do without it, and it was never enough. Greedy, I always wanted more, but you know the effect of being toxic to something or someone: it never ends well. And that’s what I repeated to myself, like a mantra, every time, so as not to fall for it: “Don’t get lost in those eyes”. I took a deep breath, staring at an indefinite point. Every cell in my body was on high alert and was screaming “Send it away”. While the heart remained in absolute peace, in its little corner of paradise, there in the center of the chest, where at every beat it seemed to mark its name.
I squeezed into the seat of the black Honda as the road passed fast below us. I checked out of the corner of my eye to see if he was looking at me, but at that very moment, I saw him go into the fast lane to pass an off-road vehicle ahead of us. I took courage, taking advantage of his moment of distraction, while the words came out of my mouth without any control, as if I hadn’t been the one to pronounce them: << Why did you want to see me? >>. I felt his eyes on me, incessant, violent, as if they wanted to dig inside me. I kept my gaze down, helpless now, outraged by his implicit irreverence. << I needed it >>. << What do you mean you needed it? >>. I realized I had almost screamed, exasperated. I lowered my voice, not even giving him time to reply. << You need oxygen, water. You need to feed, to sleep. Not people. Those, you simply want them or you don’t want them. And you don’t want me >>. << This is where you’re wrong >>.
I felt a butterfly go through my stomach. Her breathing slowed as her heart pounded inside. I replied with pride, as always, when I was too afraid.
<< You’re just lying. If you needed me, you’d hold me tight. If you needed me, you would save me >>
<< I’m already saving you. From me >>
<< You can’t. It’s too late >>.
<< I don’t know how to be there as you deserve. I’d give you a sunny day and then you’re dark. And you need to shine. You shouldn’t waste time with me. I’d just hurt you >>.
<< You do more to me by staying still, there in the prison that you built. How many brick walls will you still put between you and the world? How long will you be convinced that you are the bad guy, the one who only knows how to destroy? >>.
<< I don’t know how to love anymore, my friend >>.
<< I’ll teach you >>
<< It wouldn’t work. I would hurt you >>.
<< You are a coward. Stop being afraid of you, of us. Undo those damn chains. I have no more air and you don’t kiss me. Tell me why >>.
<< I can not keep anyone next. It’s like you have cold inside. And how can, who is snow, give warmth? Have you wondered? Do you think I would warm you up, that I would be able to always look at you with the same eyes? I would begin to feel cramped in our world. I would invent an alternative route along which to escape. I would treat you badly. I would let you slip away from me, until the day you could no longer bear my silences. Is this what you want in your life? >>.
His breathing was labored, perhaps desperate, as lost as he was. I was exhausted too, but I couldn’t give up.
<< I ask you again: Why did you want to see me? >>
<< For the dimple >>
<< What? >>
<< When you smile, a dimple appears on your right cheek. But you have to be careful and notice it right away, because often then you bite your lip and the dimple disappears. So I stay there like a fool trying to make you laugh, to see her again >>.
<< You can not claim that you need to see me and drag me here at 3 am for a dimple. Tell me what game are you playing >>
<< And then sometimes, instead of biting your lip, you touch your hair; but don’t twist them, just brush them, and lower your eyes. And you can see that you are embarrassed, so you try to hide it, but when you get embarrassed you laugh, and here is the dimple again. How to return to the starting point. And I would like to ask you to continue each time, but then I remain silent. So you look at me and you start thinking, and I wonder what is on your mind, what universe you have inside. But I don’t understand it.
Here it is.>>
Tonight I was thinking about it and I wondered if I was with someone, if I had that look of someone who is focused and is thinking about something. And a strange thing happened: I wondered if sometimes I too was among those thoughts, because I wanted it. And I never care about these things. I turned away anyone who was holding me in mind. I didn’t want to be in there. I waged wars to get out when they wanted to lock me up.
And instead tonight I would have sat there in your mind.
<< Would you ever believe it? >>.
I opened my mouth to reply, but only silence came out. I wanted to say everything and nothing, then everything again. I reached out to his hand slowly. The more he walked, the more intimidated I was. I first put my index finger to caress the contours of his fingers, then the whole hand. I held hers, tighter and tighter. << I teach you to love. You teach me not to be afraid >>.

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