STORY OF A TRIP

I was wondering “I, for example, why did I want to become a writer?
Indeed, for what reason the writer himself? "
I looked for the deep memory that was to be connected to this choice, one of those that embodies the moment of the "crossroads". I remembered my high school literature teacher who said he had to leave a mark or, perhaps, I made up this memory; probably, I was just someone who, like all the deluded kids of my TV generation, had found a job with which to become famous.
At the time, for TV, they were the footballer, the showgirl, the singer, the actor, the actress, the presenter, which was a bit of a sociological thing, indeed, precisely, it was often a real "sociological consequence", such as for those of the generation before ours, that of our parents who, after Apollo 11, all wanted to be an astronaut and the girls, on the other hand, all wanted to become dancers, probably because they saw the first true female freedom on one black and white screen.
Plastic dreams that smell like food until you start biting into them.
Generations and generations of astronauts and dancers, of footballers, of actresses and actors, of volleyball players thanks to Mila and Shiro, of dreams that have often been broken and that have not been realized.
Now there is another screen, full of colors, to always carry with you: now there is the internet, the phenomena of the web, the InstaStars, the TwitterStars, the fashion bloggers, the influencers and us who often do not we don't even have an influence on our life.
I wondered what this dream pursued over time of wanting to be a writer was, I wondered what it had brought in my pocket to follow it until then.
That day I had practically reached the breaking point of my life where it is as if I woke up to look underneath my dream in the drawer and saw that it said IKEA. 
The stimuli to write my first real book, in fact, had been lost, faded over time and, frankly speaking, after this dismissal at the hotel I was no longer even convinced if I had really been cut out to be a writer.
I had written the book “17 years, in the summer” which had sold a good number of copies, it sells some now and then even now. I had published it at 19 only because a publisher had smelled the scent of easy money for the "kids" target, but I am still ashamed of most of the text, since then I have only published articles in music magazines and my very first book , the one heard, the one on which you spit blood and sweat I had not yet written.
That book published as a teenager, on the other hand, was about revenge, drugs, alcohol, identity research at the end of school, but it was only a summer love story with the usual late-adolescent problems; reading it now would perhaps even be a bit ridiculous, perhaps even 12-year-olds wouldn't read it now. Many of those teenage problems, socially speaking, are over now, or at least they want to believe they are, because perhaps it is most of adolescence now that seems over. Now, adolescence seems more like a very early adulthood, there is a too strong gap between childhood and adulthood, or at least much faster, some things, some actions, even some mistakes must be made in the "wrong age" "Right; this was the basis of the book with which I raised some money to round up: "If you smoke a joint at 10 instead of 15, if you already fuck at 12 instead of a few years later, if you don't enjoy some things before you know how to enjoy others, then you skip the steps too much, my friend. "
There was such bullshit about this book published at just nineteen.
It is true that I still think so briefly, but with the maturity and non-pride of thirty, at this moment, I know that I am nobody to tell you how you should live your adolescence or your life, therefore of that book, the I repeat, I am ashamed, even if they are right things they do not reflect respect for others and this is worth much more. However, if a story is written in a certain way, even at seventeen and published at nineteen, it can be enjoyable for those who are going through those problems and emotions and also for those who want to remember them.
However, without the purity of time in recounting the events of the protagonists, that book would certainly not have sold more than copies equal to the number of my aunts who, even if buying it, would still have complained about the fact that I had not given it to them at Christmas.
Maybe it's that I was no longer hungry to write, maybe I worked too many years in that hotel among the rich, maybe I bought too many useless things, maybe I should find a good girl by my side and stop being infatuated with those a little more crazy, but I don't even want one that, as they say, “Where do you leave it”.
Leaving the hotel behind me, I said to myself: “Maybe I should send everything to that country and take a trip. Yes, a trip.

MISUNDERSTANGINGS

The problem between two individuals or a group of individuals, in general, is that there is a misunderstanding. If the intentions were black and white from the beginning, there would be no need to argue, to feel sorry, to put the word END to any type of relationship.
Misunderstandings lead to not understanding each other, lead to countless expectations (almost always wrong), lead to suffering.
Why can't we be clear from the first moment?
Why do we all have to pretend to be respectable with good intentions, but then act like people without a shred of goodness?
We deceive, we deceive ourselves and others for fear of accepting the fact that, almost always, we use others to achieve a purpose, we use others because we are used to doing so.
Then who thinks of the others?
First we hurt each other and then we throw each other away, as if we didn't want anything, as if it were a competition to see who is more of a SHIT. Well done!
Who won now? NOBODY. Because in being alone we only have to lose and because, as much as we can convince ourselves that we are well, a part of us will always be sick.
With time then the MEMORIES remain and with those we realize that we have FEELINGS, we realize that we are human. But the saddest thing do you know what it is? We would not like to have any feelings, to be able to simply "cut the rope" when it suits you, not to "stay dry" when others throw us away.
Oh yes, we are so WEAK actually!

THE ROOM OF MEMORIES

I have seen hands get lost as the hours go by and eyes laugh before bringing smiles to the lips. I find it hard to talk about beautiful things sometimes because the heart keeps them jealous for itself and doesn’t leave me many adjectives. However, I thought about how certain encounters manage to fit together well and give relief, hope and even happiness. what a kindred soul can give in a disinterested way, as if it were natural. good generates well and for a moment, while I was putting the keys in the door, realizing that my eyes were shining, I thought of bean seedlings, the way they cling to a support to climb upwards. yesterday something in me did the same, finding the way to take a step. even if only for one evening and never again, thank you for this gift. I will keep it as the most tender of memories. I gave up many times without saying it out loud, always paying with pieces of soul. and this is because every time you let go, that you let go, that you simply don’t react, it withers. And to regenerate then you need nourishment, you need to get away from that which “dries up”, that does not “cure” you, that wants to have you around only for a while and only when you are “healthy” and beautiful. I learned to count when I started sorting.
There was a moment in my life when I felt invincible, when I thought I could do anything, but most of all I had the determination to do it. Now in front of me there are only cardboard walls and a post apocalyptic scenario. It is as if I were in the desert as always, but without looking for water wells that can keep me going, I am letting myself die without really seeking death, not even suicide interests me anymore. I try to retrace the steps trying to understand what happened, what went wrong, but no answer, only memories that melt in my fingers, only thoughts that fly away, that I can’t stop. They are a field of good intentions planted like flowers and as such withered, there is no more salvation, I cannot find it even in the people who were for me an escape route, an escape from my pain. My words feel the discomfort that I carry inside and come to the surface, they take me by the hand, caress my face and tell me: “We are there for you.” I don’t answer, it wouldn’t make sense, they know how much I love them, how much they are my whole existence, after all, it’s true, they always pulled me out of the quicksand of life. It’s beautiful when I don’t have to chase them, they are beautiful when they tell and draw in their heads unknown settings and new legendary places.
Limited as we can feel so many emotions, it is really absurd, inconceivable, I hate it when I can’t give an explanation to the things that happen, but I can never do it so I stand still, with my eyes fixed on the void, the tense muscles and the storm in the soul. At fourteen I started writing a book that he never managed to finish, my usual flaw, I start the fifth and end up in the back. I called it “storms of the heart” I think about it often and I think it would have worked if only I had finished it. limited as we can feel so many emotions, it is really absurd, inconceivable, I hate it when I can’t give an explanation to the things that happen, but I can never do it so I stand still, with my eyes fixed on the void, the tense muscles and the storm in the soul. At fourteen I started writing a book that he never managed to finish, my usual flaw, I start the fifth and end up in the back. I called it “storms of the heart” I think about it often and I think it would have worked if only I had finished it.
My existence is dripping with particular periods that I never explain because I hate talking about myself with those around me, I don’t like to expose myself, I don’t want them to know where to strike, I would give them a too strong weapon, capable of destroying me, they are already been hurt too many times. These are just the thoughts of a girl who will never find her place in the world, who will never be fully understood. These are the thoughts of a girl with red lips and black hair, with a dull spirit who, however, has shone in the past. These are the words of this girl who has death in her heart and darkness located between the folds of her soul, who hides in her lyrics the desperation of a battered and wounded, disillusioned and torn heart. This is the blog of the one who has the meaning of her name “daughter of the sea” even if she is afraid of the sea.
This young girl that I was couldn’t go underwater. This girl started swimming 5 years ago and she loved swimming so much that she became a swimmer. This is the soul of a girl who is like a piano, who has too many doubts already in the name, which was drawn by a drugged angel who at that moment felt in the mood to play a joke. That joke is me, that joke is here and now it’s slowly dying. Sometimes I don’t understand myself, you know? I aspire to perfection but most of the time I’m satisfied with normality, I’m not talking about school income or being a good son who goes to church on Sunday, I speak temperamentally, the main problem is that I’m fucking “sensitive and fragile” I hate being it, because then anyone who observes you will say “here’s another one to save, here’s another too good in a world too bad” sometimes I would like to be strong, strong for anyone, I would like people to look at me and say “damn nobody knocks that down” I don’t understand Why do I have this constant need to cling to someone’s pain, to feel loved, perhaps not to feel mine? maybe just to distract me? most of the time I am paranoid, I analyze everything, a sentence written quickly, a forgotten comma, an accent not put that changes the meaning of the sentence, and I go into paranoia … fuck I’m really sick, it’s normal for people to move away then, initially it will be sweet to be next to someone who needs to be reassured and pampered, but after a while it becomes just a habit, you get tired and with your heart in tears you walk away, I feel like the defective toy that all children leave for last, that toy that is left behind in the basket because it doesn’t work so much, these paranoia this fragility is only the cause of past events, yet when I try to say it nobody believes me for the others I am a “problematic” nobody stops to listen to what you have to say, nobody will understand you my people , no one has experienced your pain, every pain is modeled in our heart based on your character and your strength, there are those who let themselves be devoured and there are those who believe that they will be saved but that in truth they will ta already making it pulp.
I want to tell her I don’t want to bother her, I don’t want her to go away, so I keep everything inside and believe me it’s not easy at all because the words would like to explode from my mouth the tears would want to pour from my eyes but then I think I have to stop being so paranoid I think that I have already been through the worst that this life could offer me, but I am regularly contradicted and life offers me a mix of brand new pain and paranoia, all this for what? I want to tell her I don’t want to bother her, I don’t want her to go away, so I keep everything inside and believe me it’s not easy at all because the words would like to explode from my mouth the tears would want to pour from my eyes but then I think I have to stop being so paranoid I think that I have already been through the worst that this life could offer me, but I am regularly contradicted and life offers me a mix of brand new pain and paranoia, all this for what?
for what purpose ? simple fear of talking, simple fear of not being enough, I am afraid that there is no place for sentimentality and passion in a world now made up of a ladder, where everyone follows a task and we all play a part, play a life and sometimes even play a love, but how can you pretend to love? tell me please, am I the only one waiting to say I love you so as not to spoil its meaning? Do I only value eyes that look at you? only my heart and mind go crazy dreaming of a beautiful life when i’m in my girlfriend’s arms? I wish I could be enough to be able to no longer be paranoid to know how to love without obsessing, I wish I wasn’t me, I wish I wasn’t so damned caught up in events and emotions.

GOING OUT

After about two months of forced distance, today I went back to walk in My Beloved park and it almost did not seem real to me that I could see with My eyes, My beloved trees and bushes that I have missed a lot, just like being in contact with Nature while I immerse myself in its colors and its unique smells that do so much good to My increasingly stressed and restless spirit. While I was walking rigorously accompanied by the pressing and unmistakable rhythm of My Beloved Music, the sun wide open on My face and the imagination at hand, I had almost the perception that everything suddenly stopped, as if these two months had never passed. actually existed, picking up where everything left off. The only difference is that this time I was wearing a mask, which contrary to what I expected, did not bother me particularly, as did the thousands of pollen scattered almost everywhere. They did not prevent me from fully enjoying that moment so long sought and uniquely Mine. Yet this time I began to let my mind pervade the various accumulated doubts and perplexities, to try to group them and let them escape. Now more than ever I feel the need to empty My Soul, like a trash can full of waste paper to throw away to make some space – and as I listened to the noise they made as they were thrown away, I began to feel a lot relieved, because they weighed on My imprisoned heart like a real boulder. The feeling of liberation I feel every time it happens cannot be described. I walk at a fairly high speed, I don’t want to exaggerate, I just want to walk, to enjoy that long-dreamed and desired peace, thus rediscovering the joy of doing something I love and that for a very long time I was not allowed to do, thus rediscovering it and loving it as if it were the first time. At a certain point on a bench I find a little girl sitting with the tool in her hand to be able to make soap bubbles, and immediately my childhood comes to mind when I also liked to do them. I am amazed that they still exist. Exactly like I did, you too love to blow into it to discover the effect it has. And just as it happened to Me, I was ecstatic to see on his face that veil of disappointment to discover that he had no possibility of command over them. The bubbles wander in the air without anyone being able to grasp them, and when they feel they have no air thrust, they go out by themselves. In short, they are without masters, completely free to fly and to choose as they want. So My life comes to mind and I think she is the same too, although she is Mia I feel I have no control over it, free to do and act as she sees fit, without ever deigning to ask me for an opinion at least. I can and must only accept what he proposes to do, thinking that whatever it is, he does it for My Good. For everything there is a why and I have understood that My Life intends to make me discover them little by little, without going around them so much, direct and straightforward as it has been from the beginning. However it is fantastic to be able to regain possession of My Normality, albeit with the right and due prudence. It was hard to leave when it was time to go home, maybe because I’m afraid I may have taken it off again, the very thought makes me tremble. I really hope it won’t happen, even if the imprudence of others does not give me hope! Better not think about it. Better to keep thinking about that soap bubble that wanders in search of its freedom, between memories and a lot of desire for redemption.

WHAT A WOMAN WANTS

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I would like to see the waves of the sea again. I would like to be a child again and play with sand. I would like to believe I have a nice future. and my fathfather and my past. I lost all of my past. I feel empty. I can’t wish for anything but the sea and its strong smell and the smell of fried fish that my mother cooked and it was beautiful. and it was a simple and beautiful life. I would like that life again.er helping me make the sand castle. but all this is over. I didn’t lose a boyfriend. I’ve lost my life. I’ve lost my hope to go away from here.  I ask help to other women but feminist are ghosts now? Yes, feminist are ghosts.

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