LET’S SIT TOGETHER

I don’t understand those people who when they turn one more year get demoralized because they feel older and older or who say they don’t give a damn. Instead of focusing on the fewer years they have left to live, they should be happy that they lived up to that point. Each additional year of life is a wonderful milestone to celebrate, as every day of life should be. Just for the fact of opening your eyes and having another day to live in front of you, you should smile and try to feed that smile all day. When you are young, you take everything for granted, including your health, and you don’t fully realize the extraordinary power you have right now. We often focus on a happiness that will only be achievable in the near future, but the future is only our imagination. Today it is reality. The air we are breathing, the beating of our heart and the sweat of our hands, these sensations of the present are what we take for granted as if they were eternal but they are not. Our vital senses take on their true value only when we are about to lose them. Do not allow this to happen, whatever you are doing stop for a moment and completely forget about it, breathe deeply closing your eyes, listening to your beat, touching your hands but above all enjoying being alive with a sublime smile.

I look at your graceful figure and no fantasy is needed for me to follow the return to the origins, your morning toilet is of fine oyster cloth and you are an invitation to a mud bath, your blue eye stares at me through a milky keratome, with the stiff forefinger you push aside the yellow twigs of the weeping willow and you know well that you can expect all the worst things from me. Emotional flashes and a hundred and eight gold in the finish open the way to the sewer, to the sad weekend that I am now starting to live, the dress of which I dream is woven in the rice color of Siberian cellulose, the green hands of eight hundred girls are the foundation of a sweet confession, the isoipse of the rice solidify you with a courtesy mask and the ratchets of your porcelain ears are perfectly hidden in the listening bush of your oxide macerated hair. The spheres of things and events triggered, against the course of the clock hands, run at zero time, however a single day spent with the beloved girl on a Norwegian glacier is the love bag of all worthy people.

Splinters of smashed dolls hurt my soul, the caterpillar crawling right next to my eye is bigger than the express train that passes in the distance. I don’t know which mountain farmer when he couldn’t find work years ago he started talking to a sheep. I see how my life is sucked into my mother’s life, I see how I am wound back from the umbilical cord to the womb of the progenitor Eve. I see how the stained underpants are the imprint of infinity and the intestines stirred by noble horror lead to a higher vision, I see my semen as against the current being sucked backwards to the first pollution like a mountain trout, I see how from the organ sexual intercourse of all my ancestors are sucked back into the spermatic canal of the progenitor Adam. I live tactfully the resection of the rib that I still miss today.

And in the meantime this is your little waist and this is your pleated skirt from the belt to the delicate crepe and this is your toilet of the silky ivory color and it is an empire model and this is the confirmation dress kept as a souvenir and this is your back dappled by beer coasters and these are your loose hair and staves of music flow from your head. I see how naked you are now sailing under the dark beams, I see your rhythmic hands illuminated by the violent spray of the yellow chandelier, I see how from your little beating legs gush springs, beads that rise from all the pores of your body, you are immersed in a bathroom phosphorescent and vibrating ankles whistling rapids of seltzer, sparkling wines, sparkling fins, mineral feathers, flying fish wings, the flys that the beautiful and young Greek god Mercury wears on his ankles. The full moon shines with the footprint of Armstrong’s sole, but I was most moved by the news of the evening newspaper, a 68-year-old medical herb picker dozed off on a flowering meadow and was sucked into a lawn mower and her corpse escaped from the car along with the medicinal herbs and hay beyond recognition.

Along the belt of the streets I return to the origin of going, the revealing splendor of animal experiences wishes pools full of children to thirsty cities. Your myosotide eye broken by a sliver of Modra majolica now understands my cold gaze, rightly follow how the knife of my imagination pushes back to the sources of things. The last stream is sucked into the small river with the last drop, the last river is sucked into the ocean sea with the last clear cloud evaporating in the blue skies. I see how you follow this ascending fall with me, I see that not a single phase of this striptease has escaped you. Apparently I follow the memory of your white silk dress embroidered with gold, on the wrist the sleeve was decorated with slits for my desire, two hollow folds of cream yellow cashmere, but I follow all the more quickly as the pure source and the divine Needle they go towards spring and you smile at me when you see how I take handfuls full of creative clay in my hands and smelling the earth I smell you too. Meanwhile I feel only in my brain the screeching of your sweet limbs, the skin you have adorned with tender cracks, you are transported by the coordinates of cigarette smoke, Climb high like the bubbles of seltzer, the trees and flowers describe circumferences, an apple falls from the melo, already with the apples in the seed, the last ruins of the evening slip silently into the soft dust, but in the meantime I like the excesses and extravagances of the songs with poetry in the newspapers.

Graceful comes in the wave of the evening a lonely throb of a star. Gradually a light cloud the pupil closes them smiling; and as she passes with veils and feathers, in the great blue tremulous sparks they are born in swarms, they are born in garlands, are born in a hundred, are born in a thousand: but I don’t see you anymore, my star. Liable illusion How many anxieties you neglect. I woke up. Beyond the intoxicating essence of your insidious substance Vast expanses of multicolored black poppies They linger mischievous Willing to stem severely every unwary dream. Cleverly designed they will refute the insolent lie to which you are prone Allocating your vain shy escape to an inevitable departure. We cannot evade An intimate truth. Along the way we meet as graceful souls. Sensitive fairies. You covet butterflies and you love days sitting together.

THE GOLDEN AGE

I chased my shadow
down along the illuminated avenues
among faceless men and trees now condemned.
I ran after her
out of breath with only the sound of my footsteps
to guide me
on this degenerate journey
towards the unexplored abyss
In the middle of the day
on the broken stage of an old theater
turned to the abandoned audience
she waited for me wearing a golden mask
I gave my shadow a face
She didn’t forgive me

In gold I dipped your hair and your dreams.
I was good at making you forget the sun.
Dawn was ahead of us and you stared at me
like the only bright star.
You will have kisses and sweets
from the blue horizon.
Kisses and sweets from my blue lips.
We are drunk with eyes
and with those who look at us.
But we will go elsewhere while
the world awaits the golden end.

You dripped your sadness into my golden lake
but you didn’t make me sad.
I listened to your favorite cruelties but I didn’t get involved in them.
You have played with all the dice and numbers to be able to calculate our future but I am a more infinite puzzle than an equation.
The last blue night rises and stays inside green bottles.
Sleep arises and you sleep while I look at your dreams and make them come true.
I’m your lucky charm.

THE LADY’S PERVERTION

It was dark outside. I was getting changed to go out for dinner. I was almost in front of the window, because the mirror was between the two windows. Suddenly a red light out there grabs my attention. He is standing in the middle of the trees. I remain motionless. I know he is watching. He doesn’t want me to forget what happened, our years together, our perverse bond. He doesn’t want me to forget anything like he does. But he does it in a manic way. He keeps the memories of every second, every minute and every hour of his life in his inner filing cabinet. I rearrange my dress. I know he wants to see me shaken but I have to act like he’s not there. His love was not. It was control. I had the power but he wanted to control me from below. He now wants to see if I live happy. But he knows that I cannot be happy neither with him nor without him. The razor’s edge of our story was metal and dangerous. But he couldn’t imagine that I was really different from the others. What was dark in me he hadn’t seen well. This had been his failure. A Dark Lady is not that easy to spot and he hadn’t been able to grasp the details. When he realized he had lost the future with me it was already too late, I had decided his destiny and I had closed my heart forever. I was there, in my house, ate, went out, smiled and lived. He was there in the dark, without money and without a life. He was trying to still exist, to exist for me. Instead I existed for myself and I had broken his game. I had discovered his bluff. He no longer ate, no longer had a home, no longer had friends. He only had me. He lived only for me. Every night he stood there in that darkness that had created between us. And he saw me living without him. Sometimes I left the window closed. Sometimes I opened the curtains. I knew that his only life was there in my daily nothingness. His goal had always been to destroy me inside. Destroy my vital spark. But he couldn’t know about my destroying Demon. His was a fiction. But mine was real. By the time he realized the power of my mind, everything had already vanished from his hands.

DAMNED ART

my dark side always stands out. it is a constant struggle. it sinks and resurfaces. you continue to breathe while remaining at the bottom of the sea. submerged in torment, chained to the passion that takes away a piece of me every day, I fight an existence of continuous death. a black blood flows in my veins, I tried to purify it, eradicate it, erase it from my every vein, from my every cell. but it always remained where it was, even when it seemed to disappear. Each time it regains the upper hand and holds me prisoner in its claws. The night is nothing, it is during the day that the atrocious suffering of being and not being at the same time begins. Like a crack in a well-programmed clock that has this little detail. I ride on the lost hours of my inhuman time and I lose myself in the shadows that are drawn in my secret garden. A little girl comes out of the past, brings flowers to a grave, and says her name is Ophelia. That little girl was me at the age of five, and I was reciting death on the Persian carpet at home. I soon appreciated the silence of certain places where the only living presence were the marble angels. The scent of rotten flowers followed my steps. I never felt so happy as my first time at the cemetery. Was that the paradise everyone was talking about? there you could stay like that, just as you were. He didn’t have to talk to anyone, he could sit and stay for hours with them, the stone angels. They whispered sweet words to me and I alone heard them. The candles fascinated me, I wanted to take them home, my mother scolded me, you can’t steal from the dead! She said. I was upset, for me they were the flames of their lost hearts and I wanted to keep them safe, in my home. Then, when I was finally grown up, I bought as many as I wanted and my room glowed with flames. They were so happy to me, people didn’t understand light, they thought they were candles of the dead and that was it. I miss the cemeteries. It has been a long time since I entered it anymore and nowhere have I found that silence again, perhaps only when my struggle ends will I be able to rest too and be just a stone angel. Art is a need. An instinctive need to create. An instinctive need to be and communicate one’s being to others. Affirming one’s existence with the creative act is the only way to live. Feeling such a force within oneself, an energy, an immense explosion, a storm that never settles down. A sea that is always stormy to its depths. Art is power. The power to create from nothing. giving life to what has never existed, which has never been seen, which has never been read. A sublime, divine, most perisolos power. Art feeds on souls. Art is insatiable, it is a ferocious demon, and whoever takes it is doomed and for all life seeks the escape route but one never gets rid of art. It is like a second skin and if you take it off, you skin down and you can’t live anymore. You have art in every cell, like a deadly virus, which never becomes a disease but which accompanies you throughout your life as a faithful travel companion. Art grinds your flesh, your spirit, your whole life. It crushes you and lifts you into the highest sky. you can see without eyes, hear without ears, draw without using your fingers. Art is a miracle of life and death. Whoever possesses the gift is condemned to a parallel life. You enter and exit as if through a window. We go in and out of ourselves, we feed ourselves to swine, we are left in pieces and then we start again. Who would ever want such a life? yet everyone envies us and do not know what it means to have the FIRE that consumes you!

NARCISISTIC WOMEN

SIGNS YOU’RE DATING A NARCISSIST

• You often feel manipulated
• You never feel good enough
• You feel exploited and used
• They lie without remorse
• They are arrogant and demeaning
• Their life and history is chaotic and messy
• They attack you and attempt to bully you
• They ghost you and disappear from your life

When we think of sociopaths and psychopaths, we generally think of men. The Golden State Killer, The Night Stalker, Jack The Ripper—all men. But what about women?

Anti-Social, narcissistic and Machiavellian behavior that is found in women generally flies under the radar. 

Narcissistic women aren’t using outright aggression and violence to terrorize their victims. Instead, they use manipulation and covert bullying to terrorize the people in their life.

The female narcissist is the true personification of a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

She appears in the form of a sweet, innocent girl, a kind-hearted mother, a vivacious, energetic, joyful woman, a kind, old grandmother—yet her motivations are often sinister and dark.

Deep beneath that sweet exterior lies something much more sinister: there lies a desire to destroy, hurt, and manipulate.

So why do female narcissists behave this way? What do they want? And what feeds this darkness within their soul?

Narcissistic women want, in no order of preference: power, dominance, control, wealth, status, resources; and, most disturbing of all, a desire to inflict pain on others, which leads to a sense of fulfillment and deep satisfaction on the part of the narcissist. 

It should be noted that both men and women find themselves victims of the female narcissist, although usually in different ways.

Female victims are used to serve, feed and support the narcissistic woman’s ego, to serve her bidding like a servant serves its master. 

While male victims are used to provide the narcissistic woman with attention, status and resources until the man is milked dry and is of no further use.

https://www.developattraction.com/narcissistic-women/