He looked at her with his eyes shining, he ate it with his eyes, but he waited in silence. As she slowly approached his lips, he made a little jerk forward, but she gently stopped him with a hand on his chest. “Not like that,” he said softly. He didn’t want it to be a quick, voracious kiss. He wanted something completely different. She began to give him some very light kisses that went down from the nose to around the mouth. – A real kiss, in my opinion, must be slow … He reached his mouth and gently took her lower lip between his, then parted a few millimeters. – It must be tasted, it must be felt, it must be lived with all the senses. Slowly, looking into his eyes, she placed her lips on hers and, inhaling his perfume, kissed him softly, carefully enjoying every fiber of those sensations. Then her hands came into her curls, fingers caressing her temples gently. He too realized that he felt more, enjoyed more, gave time for all his senses to understand, to immerse themselves totally in those sensations, instead of confusing them.
Loving oneself and loving others are two inseparable things, one the reflection of the other.
This makes me think of narcissists, who in the common imagination are people who love only themselves.
But starting from the premise made, we understand that their love for themselves is no less sick than that felt by those who love others without loving themselves.
In both cases it is a simple compensation of infantile needs, neither is pure love. But society only takes it out on narcissists (and their invisible insecurities) and instead puts those who love others on a pedestal to satisfy their ego.
We are perpetually deceived by the courteous and kind manners of certain people which lead us to think that there is a correspondence between them and the goodness of soul.
On the other hand, among the most common masks and disguises of ugly people, inside there are beautiful manners.
They serve to sidetrack the real thoughts they have about others and relieve their feelings of guilt.
A person with strong narcissistic dynamics does not tolerate being left behind. Not because he cares about you. Because he wants to manage the waste. If she is the one to leave, she does so naturally and without scruples. If one dares to leave it, it will not be tolerated. Often he will try to hang up and then be able to suddenly get out of the relationship, keeping the image of himself victorious. Let us remember in all this what is important to her is not you. It is to safeguard itself. There are people who tend to get overwhelmed and humiliate themselves with everyone in the most varied contexts. When you get used to overstepping your limits because you are unable to oppose, rebel and say no, you enter a deadly loop in which you lose your borders. To the sense of humiliation you risk to become anesthetized and never get out of it.
The opportunities for awakening, however, happen to everyone sooner or later and it is one that must be taken advantage of to be indignant and raise one's head.
Living crushed, humiliated, submissive and bent can cause premature death or eternal unhappiness. Saving opportunities need to be seized as they arise. It is only the idiots who do not know how to grasp them and remain in their mire.
It's not your fault you stay in the mud. It's just happening that someone or somebody, a narcissistic person, is using you and manipulating you to get something: money, sex, success, gifts.
There is no narcissist, man or woman, who does not lead a double or triple life.
Victims are always very surprised by this because, among the various deceptions they implement, they manage to make you feel unique when they are there.
And so we tend not to ask ourselves where they are when they are not there.
The answer is simple: to tell someone else bullshit. Victims of perverse narcissists and psychopaths in general should focus on their own narcissistic wounds and fear of rejection in particular. Because it is precisely when you insist on staying close to the bastards, at all costs, that the process of self-destruction begins. Staying next to an abused will only amplify a wound that will never heal.
The essential principle of recovering from the trauma of a relationship with a psychopath is through total and complete acceptance of the truth.
This truth is only betrayal. This truth is very painful, but it is the only one that can heal the wound of a betrayal [abuse] trauma.
Not accepting the truth causes the brain to generate the worst reactions, functioning like a computer that is stuck and does not advance.
The first and most necessary reset of your brain is assuming from the beginning of your recovery the ultimate truth of your own innocence and the undeserving of what happens to you.
You were betrayed by someone who shouldn't have done it.
Years of "blame treatment" by a psychopath can convince his victims that it's all their fault.
The truth is, loving a psychopath is scary to those who experience it.
His inability to feel and experience emotions leads him to a surprisingly frightening emotional coldness for his victims.
A life devoid of emotions bores them and, for this reason, they seek in betrayal, risk, deception or overcoming any moral or legal limit the way to be able to get out of that deadly tedium in which they live, thus generating emotions that devastate the partner.
His moral inability to take responsibility for his actions, his harsh and callous behavior, his sense of grandiosity and of deserving everything without any effort to achieve it, leads the psychopath to refuse to feel discomfort, guilt or remorse for his indolent, parasitic, unfair or directly predatory behavior.
It is always others who are to blame.
It is usually necessary to remind the victim that he is innocent. It's not his fault, but the psychopath's.
The victim did nothing to deserve this destruction. There is nothing that justifies what one suffers at the hands of the psychopath.
One of the most positive aspects of working with patients who have been victims of a relationship with a psychopath is the fact that the suffering they bring is of such caliber that they are more motivated than any other type of patient to do "whatever" you propose to get out. from the well.
In this sense, having suffered so much in a psychopathic relationship offers the best therapeutic predictions.
If you go ahead and believe in the truth of your innocence and have hope, you will heal your relationship with the psychopath and learn to prevent and anticipate in time any further trauma of abuse that may appear in your life.
To believe that you will move forward is to have hope. And hope is the best prognosis for your recovery.
Believe me when I tell you that all of this will end, and you will go on, even if now you don't see anything and you find yourself in the dark. Start turning on the light and be determined to move forward from truth and recovered innocence.
- sorry, would you have a cigarette? -
He saw her every morning. He knew she was one of those good girls, who never smoked. He wasn't the type. But he asked him; not so much for the cigarette as for talking to her. Just to see her lips in a dance just for him, to tell him something, anything. For him.
- no sorry. Still better for you, right? Smoking is bad -
- bad? Bad for what? -
- ah I don't know. Brain, lungs ... heart -
- what if one smokes to forget the harm they have done to his heart? -
- then in that case he needs help. He's killing himself. But I'm not a doctor, I can't know -
- Help? Guy? -
- like love. -
- and what is love like? -
- it's like when you smoke a cigarette and take his soul, but then it gets inside and kills you. But sometimes it's not like that -
- and how is it, the other times? -
- it's like when you kiss a strong person so that he can get inside you, and that person could kill you instead he chooses to save you. -
- then? -
- and then he hugs you and puts your heart close to his -
- and you? -
- I what? -
- you don't smoke. Do you have a person who can save you? -
The girl laughed.
- they were just metaphors. I don't believe in love. It was a nice way to tell you that smoking is bad for you, just like love does -
- you must have huge scars in there. -
The girl looked down.
He took her hands, looked up and saw those dead and empty and dark eyes.
- we will have to learn to hurt each other, what do you say? -
- what are you talking about? -
- I save you and you save me. Make love. We hurt each other together. Maybe every day or even every hour. But we keep ourselves alive, because we hold hands. So, are you there? -
- what if we end up killing ourselves? -
- what if we end up loving each other? -
This tale is the second novel I translated in English language. It has a very intricate storyline and I hope you enjoy this new version of a princess who has some weird surprises from her stepmother.
DESCRIPTION OF THE NOVEL: What perversion can exist in a love story? What incredible implications can a foregone love have? Don’t expect a fairy tale like the ones that exist around. Everything was upset. Each character has a different role than the traditional one. For some perverse scenes I had to restrict it to adults only.
IF YOU WANT TO HAVE A LOOK TO ALL OF MY NOVELS HERE IS THE LIST:
Once upon a time there were PINCO, an avid gamer, and Palla, his girlfriend, also very fond of the world of video games.
PINCO had made many videos on youtube but now he had switched to Twitch where he had even more following.
PINCO and PALLA woke up every morning with the sweet sound of the voice of some streamer commenting on some game. Throughout the house resounded the voices of these boys and girls who played for hours and hours without stopping.
But PALLA did not like the voice of a player, who was called Toreador, because his voice was lavishly ringing. He said it to Pinco but PINCO preferred him, because he played an interesting game. Palla only knew his voice and had never seen who he was.
One day PALLA started looking for other channels to look for companions to play with. So by chance he found a channel where there was a boy playing a very old game. She saw it and was impressed that the player did not speak during the game. Yet he had many followers. PALLA wrote to him and he answered her. They started talking to each other often. PALLA went to his channel and played that absurd game but only to be with that guy named Starry.
He told PINCO that there was a videogamer playing an old game, but PINCO was too busy watching Toreador and didn't give him any weight.
PINCO continued to write to Starry and then one day Starry gave her his cell phone and invited her on a video call. PALLA was so into him and she was thrilled. When she heard him speak she recognized Toreador's voice in him and was amazed. But now she was so in love that her voice, which she had never tolerated, became the most beautiful for her. Starry invited her to attend a fair with him. PALLA told him that his boyfriend would be pissed off. But Starry persisted. Palla thought that in fact she should have gone because her boyfriend was now playing and watching players play and neglecting her.
So he gave the welcome to PINCO. And one day PINCO saw his ex-girlfriend appear on Toreador's screen saying: “Hi PINCO, now you will always have to see me and listen only to my voice. ”And Toreador nodded.
PINCO put his hands to his hair and threw the joystick against the screen. He had lost his girlfriend and also the taste for playing.
“You loved her, didn’t you?” He sighed. “How can I answer you? She was crazy, ”he smiled, lost in some memory. She ran a hand through her hair: “God, she was all crazy. Every day I woke up next to a different woman, once enterprising, the other awkward. Once exuberant, the other shy. It was a thousand women, her. But the scent was always the same, unmistakable. That was my only certainty. It was the scent of the journeys he still had to make, he told me. I asked her what she meant but she never explained it to me. He smiled at me and knew he was fooling me with that smile. Because I swear to you that when he smiled I didn’t understand anything anymore, man. I didn’t understand anything anymore. I could no longer speak or think. Nothing, zero. Suddenly there was just her. She was crazy “she laughed” all crazy. Sometimes he got lost looking at a globe or a painting, it took hours for him to come to his senses. And that mania of hers for always wearing pants … I’ve never seen her with a skirt, you know? Sometimes she cried at night. They say that in that case the women just want a hug. Not her. She got nervous being near me in those moments. She got dressed and stayed in the garden all night, and woe betide her. She was ordering me to leave her alone. I heard her cry, even today I am convinced that she was talking to someone, in those terrible nights. There was something about her, my friend. I don’t know what, but she wasn’t a normal girl. There was something about her, or there were other girls about her, I still can’t tell you today. But I remember she was at my wedding. We were on the church square, she was hidden. She had her red suit, a suitcase in her hand, an elegant hat. What are you doing here? I asked her. And you, guess what she did? He smiled at me. I wanted to congratulate you, he told me. But I never invited you to my wedding, how did you know? I know everything, he replied. Yes, I know. Are you leaving? It was. Where do you go? Street. Street where? I don’t know, I’m going to dream about something. Can’t you dream here? I’m looking for dreams somewhere else. She was crazy, my friend. She was all crazy and had a smile to take your breath away. And what do I know if I loved her? How many women have I loved in her? I bet he still has that scent and that smile, and I bet he only wears pants even now that it’s been years. I also bet she is looking for dreams somewhere in the world and that I might find her in front of my house someday. It was terrifying, man. And I loved her so much.
Yesterday Virginia asked me: “Dad, but if you and your mother break up, who is it who has two daughters and who one?” I was in the kitchen slicing onions, the question took me by surprise. “In what sense, Virginia?” I said. “We are three sisters”, she said, “you can’t divide the third sister in half!” I felt like laughing. I was going to answer her: “Don’t worry, love, Mom and I will never break up”, but I didn’t want to lie to her, because I know that every relationship is made up every day, and the biggest wrong you can do to yourself, and to others, it is just that to believe you invincible. “Virginia”, I said, “if by chance my mother and I parted ways one day we would see you all three, a little bit me and a little mom, don’t worry.” “But in Mrs. Doubtfire the dad saw only the children Saturday, ”he said. “Virginia, sometimes when two parents break up things can happen,” I said. “Maybe they didn’t break up well, but arguing. But Mom and I have always agreed that, even if we break up, you will always come first. You have I got it? Always.” He stared at me in silence. “Dad,” he said suddenly. “But can love end?” I thought for a moment before replying. “Love doesn’t end,” I said, “it’s people who change.” “People?” He said. “Virginia,” I said, “adults grow up too, you know? You are now a big girl, seven years ago you were a little girl. It works a little like that for moms and dads too. When I met my mother I was a different person, she was too. The important thing, when two people love each other, is to be able to change together or respect each other’s changes. Parents, with their children, do just that thing there, but sometimes they can’t. It is for this reason that love for children is the only one that never ends. “But you,” she said, “when you met Mom, how did you know it was Mom?” I didn’t understand, “I said. “How did you know you wanted to love her?” He said. “Ah, that,” I said. “I figured it out after about ten minutes. “And from what?” He said. “When we first met, she pulled her hair up behind her neck, over her head, and pulled up a bun without even a rubber band, just knotting it,” I said. “So what?” He said. “And then I realized that she desperately needed a rubber band,” I said. “And I her hair.” “And you had it, the rubber band?” He said. “No,” I said, “but when Mom found out, she already loved me.” “Dad!” She said, “but then you cheated her.” “Maybe a little bit,” I said, “but the point is, Mom was the first one who ever made me want to look for a rubber band, you know what I mean?” He looked at me for a few seconds. “Here daddy,” she told me, pulling off the elastic that was holding up her hair. “So you and mom don’t break up.” She laughed, luckily I was slicing the onions.
I weave my hair, letting the unruly locks frame my face. The same ones that you rolled around your fingers, before placing a soft kiss on my constantly chapped lips. My dark eyes become shiny and my reflection takes the form of a blurry mass. I tie the braid with the usual damaged elastic, which I always keep on my wrist. I hug tightly in the sweatshirt; suddenly I got cold. I sit at my desk. I think, letting myself be enveloped by that sense of emptiness that suddenly filled my chest. Yet, after you, so many things have changed. Even if the others don’t notice when they see me arrive, with my backpack full of writings on my shoulder, and my faded Nikes on my feet, nothing is the same anymore. My way of walking has changed, because after you every step of mine has become uncertain; I’m lost. And the hazelnut color that fills my eyes has become so thick that it doesn’t allow any emotion to leak out. My playlist has changed, but all the songs keep bringing me back to you. And even my smile, which once drew a web of wrinkles in the corners of the mouth and eyes, is now always forced, so much so that it looks like a grimace. I open my diary, letting my fingers savor the pages soaked in ink and tears. My way of writing has also changed; my words are so irregular and flickering that they give the impression of falling into the void and shattering into a thousand pieces. And here, at some point, our last photo together. The only one I printed. The ruined edges, the crumpled and creased paper. With my index finger I slowly retrace your image, in the illusion of being able to feel the softness of your lips and the way they bent to pronounce my name. I continue, towards your freckled cheekbones and, if only I could go back, I swear I would memorize every single constellation they formed. I keep going, until I get to your hair, and the memory of how much I liked to ruffle it makes my heart tremble. Everything gets too blurry and shaky, so I hold the photo tightly to my chest and start crying like a baby. My head is full of unanswered questions, and anxieties. And I know that no one will come to hug me and will be able to tidy up that tangle of thoughts, just like you knew how to do. Between the terror of forgetting the sound of your laughter and altering the tone of your voice, I don’t realize how much my hands are gripping our photo, and the fear of having ruined even a single frame of you petrifies me. I put it on the desk and watch it. Two years. Two years since the last time your perfume remained on me. From the last time your clear eyes looked at me, in the way that only you could do; as if despite all my mistakes, you continue to be perfect. Because for all the mistakes I made, you were able to make me feel right. Two years since the last time my fingers squeezed yours, that your lips tasted mine, that you whispered “I love you” in my ear. Two years since we finished. Two years that I continue to be stuck in the past, refusing to live in a present without you. On my cell phone, your last message is a voice note. You were saying “in 10 minutes I’m under your house.” And you don’t know how many nights have been spent listening to it, and listening to it again, and listening to it again. You don’t know how many times I’ve waited for you, outside the gate, just like last time. For 10 minutes. Which then became 20. Then 30. Then an hour. But you never came. When I learned of the accident, everything became dark and silent, and I no longer felt anything. I remember the car ride with dad. I remember the swearing to find the keys and start the car as quickly as possible. I remember my sweaty hands rubbing undeterred on my jeans and my heartbeat pounding against my rib cage, so hard I thought it might break. I remember the road that seemed longer than usual and the rain falling too hard. Then I remember the ambulance lights. The police car. And another car inside the ditch. And finally your car, with its crumpled hood and shattered glass. I remember when I opened the door, a strong sense of nausea began to rise from my stomach and that my legs were too fragile to support the weight of my body. I remember my eyes were so swollen and I had lost so many tears that I didn’t cry anymore. The frost inside me. I will never know that was the last thought that embraced your mind before going off with you. I will never know the last thing your eyes saw, or the song you were listening to, or the last words you said before leaving the house. All I know is that something broke inside me, creating a chasm, which from that moment began to grow in me. I locked my heart in the safe, and then myself, to the whole world. Once on Sunday morning you always brought me a rose, with a small cream-colored note tied by a white ribbon to the stem. There was always the same phrase “Whenever you need me, and I can’t be there, breathe the scent of this rose, and I’ll be in you. And you won’t feel alone anymore.” Now, every Sunday morning I head to the cemetery, clutching a rose. Who would have thought that in the end I would be the one to bring flowers to you every week, huh? In my note, with my terrible handwriting, I always write the same phrase : “
Not even in the perfume of this rose did I find you. I feel so alone. Please fill my lungs again, because without you, even breathing became difficult.
Some of you will know that I don't like romantic films (in fact I prefer thrillers and horror) and that the only love films I like to watch are period films, based on novels, in the original English language. So when they recommended this film to me, I was amazed. However, I decided to see him and in the end I was very excited and even moved. He is truly magnificent and I really recommend you to see him. Because it can happen to you too to feel something dormant emerge from your heart and you will have a big surprise.
For some people, fooled into becoming adults, dragons died out millions of dreams ago, but the worst is that for many other people, deluded by rationality, dragons never existed, while I have one right here, by my side.
He thought that there were no more dragons, because loneliness had extinguished them. He thought that one cannot live century after century, harboring one’s own magnificence and solitude. He thought that the important thing is not things, but the meaning we give to things. Sooner or later death awaits everyone. More important than postponing death is to make sense of itYou know when you are in the water, you try to dive and touch the bottom? At some point you feel you have to go back up, because there is no more air. And you push yourself higher and higher, but you don’t move. And then you close your eyes and you say to yourself “come on now I resurface, resurface, just a little while .. god how much I miss the air” and instead you never reach the surface? When you are there to let yourself go to the force of the waves, but suddenly you come up. Breathe. Feel life again. Here, you are this. I resurfaced, with you, I breathe.
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.”
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 