Well ... last week I launched the survey on water consumption in our homes.
Here are the results:
35.29% drink plain water from the tap
29.41% drink homemade sparkling water with the carbonator
23.53% drink plain water in plastic bottles
5.88% drink carbonated water from a plastic bottle
5.88% drink sparkling water in a glass bottle
Apart from those who drink tap water, those who make sparkling water at home and those who buy glass bottles, I would say that we should discourage the use of plastic bottles.
Here because…
Two thirds of the plastic bottles used for mineral water are not collected separately and end up in landfills or in an incinerator.
Furthermore, the annual consumption of 12 billion liters of bottled water involves, for the production of bottles alone, the use of 350 thousand tons of polyethylene terephthalate (PET), with a consumption of 665 thousand tons of oil and the emission of greenhouse gases. of approximately 910 thousand tons of CO2 equivalent. Finally, the phase of transporting mineral water has a significant effect on the quality of the air: only 18% of the total bottles on the market travel on trains, all the rest is handled on the road.
Next time we go shopping, let's think for a moment…. we think about the environment and leaving our children a cleaner environment.
We fell asleep in one world, and woke up in another.
Suddenly Disney is out of magic,
Paris is no longer romantic,
New York no longer stands up,
the Chinese wall is no longer a fortress, and the prairie is empty.
Hugs and kisses suddenly become weapons, and not visiting parents and friends becomes an act of love.
Suddenly you realize that power, beauty and money are worthless and cannot get you the oxygen you are fighting for.
The world continues its life and it is beautiful. It only puts humans in cages. I think it's sending a message to every human being: “You don't need to. The air, the earth, the water and the sky are fine without you. When you return, remember that you are my guests. Not my masters ”.
When the epidemic ends, it cannot be ruled out that there are those who will not want to return to their previous life. Awareness of the fragility and transience of life will spur men and women to set new priorities. To better distinguish between what is important and what is futile. To understand that time – and not money – is the most precious resource. Who, being able, will leave a job that for years has suffocated and oppressed him. Who decides to leave the family, to say goodbye to their spouse or partner. To give birth to a child, or not to want children. To come out. There will be those who will begin to believe in God and those who will stop believing in him. There will be those who, for the first time, will question the choices made, the sacrifices, the compromises. On the loves that he did not dare to love. About the life he didn’t dare to live. Men and women will wonder why they waste their lives on relationships that cause them bitterness. There will also be those who will revise their political views, based on anxieties or values that will disintegrate during the epidemic. There will be those who will doubt the reasons that lead a people to fight against an enemy for generations, to believe that war is inevitable. It is possible that an experience as hard and profound as the one we are living leads someone to reject nationalistic positions, for example, everything that divides us, alienates us, leads us to hate, to barricade ourselves.
The speed of the contagion of our change scares me.
The virulence of the spread of our fear terrifies me.
Tremble at the sound of the doorbell.
Startled at the sight of someone on the street.
Start thinking about life before, a first that has recently passed.
Hiding from the world, finally safe inside these empty and silent rooms.
But are we really that powerful?
But are we really that capable?
Resilient?
Changing?
Are we really so capable of forgetting?
What was it, who were we?
Because if so, really so, we can sleep peacefully and even dream that everything will be fine.
Because if so, really so, we can hope and smile confidently looking at the starless night from a still lit window.
Because if it is so, really so, one day, that day, we will go out on the street running without being afraid of being afraid of the other.
If so, that day, we will suddenly remember.
And, suddenly, we will recover from this disease.
We will be so powerful that we will embrace each other without shaking.
And then, only then, will we finally be healed.
The clock strikes 4.44. I breathe, I breathe. I am still and yet it is as if I had made a run, a run at breakneck speed. I sleep and I see it. I see her. Beautiful as always. Words, words, words, words, words. Words and voices that don’t go away. I believed those words, with and without a voice. They poison my mind. Ah my mind. A field after a battle. Swarming with things that are no longer anything. And they were everything. Enough, enough, enough, enough! A shadow. Here’s what they are. A broken and toxic shadow. Food for the night and its ghosts. Idiot! I am the ghost! A dead man who still wanders. Haunted by his nightmares. Yes, I am the specter. Idiot! It is so. I’m an idiot. But I can’t get out of it. I can’t find the damn door. Of this prison. Which is making me disappear.If pillows could talk, they will tell others how I am depriving myself of sleep, regretting past decisions while my “what if” scream in my head and they will also tell others that I wake up in the middle of sleep because I am haunted by unwanted memories, those undesirable memories that turn into nightmares. If pillows could talk, they will tell others those days when I questioned my worth, those days when I entrusted my happiness to someone who loved me and yet showed me how replaceable I am and they will also say how absurd I was to believe made up excuses for every call or every ignored message. If pillows could speak, they will tell others how often I feel weighed down by responsibilities I carry on my shoulders that I didn’t have to have. If pillows could talk, they’d say they’re sick of catching my tears every time I get scared, broken and tired because I’m weak. They will tell others how sensitive I am that I easily notice whenever there is a slight change towards me from those close to me. And if only pillows could talk, they’ll tell others I’m having a good fight, tell others how many times I’ve rebuilt, tell others that no matter how many times I’ve shed tears, I’ve never denied myself smiling and breaking my heart. life like I’m not exhausted. It’s a cycle, they burn me out, I wear out and then I get back to working.It doesn’t matter who you spend the day with. The important thing is who you spend the night with, when doubts, fears and worries are strongest. It is important with whom you spend the night because close to us you have the person who fills our heart, mends the most serious wounds and is that person who despite having seen our biggest defects has loved them all the same.
There is always an anchor. A detail that we keep. A voiceless message. A stain. A harmless visual detail that remains detached from all the pain. A light that survives a farewell. An image that passes directly from the transience of the moment to the fixity of memories. An image that becomes for us a vehicle of the hidden indexicality of those we have loved.
That image accompanies us over time. We recognize it from the contours even from a distance. It flickers in us like the flame of a candle but does not seem to go out. Even his absence becomes unthinkable. Every time we try to turn it into a shadow and let it go, its melancholy and circular appearance triggers an emotional return in us. As if by magic, the image re-emerges, appears before our eyes and forcefully reaffirms its presence, unraveling in a tangle of blinding lights that remind us of the subject of our love.
I too have kept an image of you, immersed in the yellow glow of the Sisto bridge lamps, suspended in the glow of those lights like a small fire that, regardless of the wind, continues to burn.
Occasionally, that image is briefly visible; others, it spreads out like a bright patch of sun with defined contours, edging the animated streets with its light. There are times when it skilfully camouflages itself in pools of water with yellowish reflections, times when it swings gently in rounded shadows and times when it spreads out in numerous irregular stripes, branching as far as the eye can see and casting its light even on the sharpness of the stones.
Every single time, however, your image brings up at night everything that remains hidden during the day: the clear light of a love that, like a golden sky, continues to survive the uncertain shadow of its sunset.
On social media, speaking above all of influencers and models who often publish their photos showing themselves beautiful, thin / me with a face practically without imperfections, it has now gone to establish an exaggerated and in my opinion also dangerous exposure h24 to fees too tall and often not authentic. It must be said that for the publication of these photos "filters" are often used to remove the imperfections of the body and thus make the person in the photo more beautiful. A smooth face for example is often caused by these "effects" that are applied to photos.
Why do I say that these canons of beauty can have dangerous implications? Because in a world where beauty is understood above all with thinness, smooth faces, etc., many boys and girls (teenagers in particular) take all this as a "standard" by not appreciating their body and ending up in the midst of psychological discomfort too. deeper. In fact, we know that the adolescent period is not always rosy and in itself the discomfort for one's body often comes out. So be careful not to increase it.
"Look at this model what a nice slim / dry body she has, mine is more plump and sucks", "look at this influencer what a perfect face she has while mine is affected by acne and it sucks" are simple examples of that that guys can think even just looking in the mirror.
The message that must pass on the web (and fortunately there are some famous people who do this) is that everyone has their own body that must be cared for and loved. The message that to be beautiful you must necessarily have a "standard" body must not at all pass.
Let's take advantage of these blessed social networks because they can also transmit positive teachings, even more so in this area as now everyone (or at most almost everyone) has already used them from a very young age.
Everything has now become a struggle. Against someone, against something, against the rival, against the rich, against those who do not do, against those who do, against the beautiful, against the ugly. Against judgment that shows just as much judgment, against reason that shows just as much compulsion, against the true, against the false. I saw an advertisement for a woman who “has been fighting obesity for years”. Against. Those behind the scenes know very well what it means to animate the feeling of struggle instead of confrontation. They know that counter strengthens and expands exactly what it is believed to be fighting for. Going against a physical problem, instead of understanding it, as with everything else … gives you back tripled. Keep fighting, keep going against you.Aren’t we also like that giant of the forest? Sometimes we survive the rare storms, the avalanches, the harsh blows of existence, and then let our hearts devour the little insects of worry, insects that one would be able to squeeze between the thumb and forefinger. Anxiety is not mine, I know. It is something that lives outside, but which I have brought inside and which has now made its home inside me. Anxiety is not mine, anxiety is not me. It is not a war against myself, it is a war against what is around me. I was too, you know, tired of fighting against life, of always having to find a shortcut, a way out, of feeling inadequate, of looking for an alternative to the future, of not knowing how to be myself because it would not have been. popular; tired of the past that slips into the chest like blades, of indecision, of the emptiness inside that seems to speak, that seems to say: “It will all end”.I feel alone, I stare into space, I wonder how long this will last, I hug the pillow, I cry in silence. They tell me to do it alone, to pull myself up and fight, but the weight I carry is too heavy and only makes me sink lower and lower, deeper and deeper. I find myself in total darkness and no one cares, there is no one there, I only hear the sound of my breath. Memories crowd my mind, my chest hurts, now I even struggle to breathe, I feel like a body without a soul, I feel trapped in a cage. You have to fight, they said. You have to fight they say. But they don’t know, they don’t know that girl no longer exists. That girl, that I was, stayed there in that room.
Not safe as help, as to save you, perhaps from the very beginning I could not save you, from your mystery, your thoughts … bastards able to obscure all that was beautiful around you. I didn’t rush to understand how you didn’t rush to see how I saw you, fragile, alone, confused, but you loved and I didn’t have a message, I didn’t send a message when uncertainty prevailed. Some of the most famous, mysterious, mysterious. Secondly, I was just a fragile troop for this world, a world that is not capable, which is not in the degree of good luck, and you are why I do not love, but you love me, that it is part of this world, so tell me, how is it possible? I would like to feel you at the same time love you.I fell into one of my pathetic periods of closure. Often, with human beings, good and bad, my senses simply detach, they get tired: I let it go. I am polite. I nod yes. I pretend to understand, because I don’t want to hurt anyone. This is the weakness that got me the most trouble. Trying to be kind to others I often find myself with a ribbed soul, reduced to a kind of dish of spiritual noodles. It does not matter… My brain shuts down. I listen. I answer. And they’re too dull to realize I’m not there …Porcupines huddle together to fight the cold. Their body, however, is covered with sharp spikes, which causing them pain, forcing them to move away. This is the paradox of porcupines, their need to be close to each other while hurting themselves. Schopenhauer tells it and then Freud is also interested in it, because the same happens in human relations. The closer we get to another, the more we risk being hurt. The pains of one become the pains of the other, the quarrels hurt like quills, and force one to leave. But during the winter, the cold continues to loom, and porcupines left alone risk dying. They then decide to huddle, even though they are aware of getting hurt. The dilemma arises from the paradox: what is the right distance to keep from others? Porcupines will stop suffering when they find the correct distance, not too far away so they don’t freeze, and not too close so they don’t get stung. Even if it hurts, we need others. The closer another person is to us, the more we open up to them and let them be part of us, the more we risk colliding with pain. The more we love, the weaker and more at risk we are, but despite our wounds, love saves our lives. We need to have someone close, but without straying too far from ourselves, from what we are and what we want.Men were born and raised in a cave, they are chained, then forced to remain imprisoned there, always in the same position. Behind them is a fire that reflects before their eyes the shadows of what is happening in the outside world. This is all they see. One of them, however, manages to free himself and comes out, he is dazzled by the sunlight and sees nothing, he wants to go back to the cave, since he believes only what he had there is true and good. This tells the myth of Plato’s cave. The cave represents the daily life in which we are all imprisoned. The man who comes out of it sees the truth of things, but does not understand it. If none of us are aware of what is in front of us, it is as if that did not even exist. It is not easy, but how many times, perhaps, we find ourselves in front of a happiness, a satisfaction, a kind gesture, a truth, and we do not realize it because it is easier to settle down in our daily life, in the thought that everything is wrong and wrong . It is easier to be sad than to struggle to be happy. It is a gesture that requires effort, violence, but it is definitely worth it. In fact, Plato continues to tell that if man were forced to stay outside and open his eyes to what he sees, over time he would be able to recognize everything, the sun would no longer blind him. And once he saw it, but never would he want to go back to the cave. Even if he did so, the other prisoners would not believe him, they would even be willing to kill him. This is because it is a choice that depends solely on us. We must learn to love what we have and which, too many times, we don’t even recognize. Happiness is a choice, we must have the strength to make it, only in this way will we find our sun.
Feminism’s most powerful tool for transmitting the message was surely art, in all its forms. It is true that women were present in art history both as artists and models, but only the latter is widespread and offers plenty of information, while the former barely stands ground. It was the men who painted women, often objectifying and misinterpreting them, and the topic seems to be more than recurrent.
While there’s no doubt some of them are world’s greatest artworks, it was time to bring to light also the achievements of women in the field, and to do it now.
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 