ADOLESCENCE

I remember my adolescence partly carefree, because I studied, made music and painted a lot, and partly painful, because I had to listen to my mother’s problems, I didn’t know how to deal with mine and she wanted my help and I gave her advice but she did not listen to me, I only served as a container in which to put all her suffering. So I had loves but I didn’t even talk about it to my sister because she was smaller and shy, she wanted to copy me in everything, I was flattered but then it was a disaster when I left because she felt abandoned, and I didn’t have it done on purpose but I had dreams that I wanted to fulfill and she still had to finish school and could leave the following year but then she didn’t come to me anymore and I was very disappointed. I was a happy and angry child, I had long hair and blond curls, I made faces at my waist but I always knew how to collect tears. I was so afraid when I lost the caresses of the hands of those I loved, the beautiful eyes that were the background of my dreams. I have always responded with elegance to offenses, without ever taking away and without giving too much. I tied to silver threads hanging from the sky, notes of soul to make poetry rain, to protect me from the world. I took a train in my mind and walked miles to kiss you and tell you I love you, because I don’t know how to shout. I scream in the silences. I put aside my insecurities to warm my heart, to take cover. I ran a lot in my dreams, to catch up with you and I would always run, because they taught me that love is the only thing worth fighting for and continuing to breathe.
I was an insecure, anxious girl, a good girl, one who always did what was asked of him, who never went crazy, who watched others live and she always remained on the bench, who dreamed of meeting great love. I have lived like this for 15 years. Then something happened. I fell in love. A year spent behind a boy, dignity under his feet, his heart punched, of which only scattered fragments remained. When it was all over I was destroyed. I said to myself “enough is enough! Time to change! ” And so it was. You know, you change by choice, not by chance. You change when something breaks and you are faced with a choice: change or fall behind. I have always hated being left behind, I have always loved running, and so I did, I ran, chasing the girl I had been all my life away in a corner of my mind. I started drinking, smoking, even what I could have avoided. I started to go dancing, to collect meetings, guys that after one evening I would never see again. I just wanted to have fun, feel like a teenager for once. This is what happens to those who spend a lifetime doing the right thing. The day will come when he decides to put a point and break everything. But I assure you in the same way that the day will come when all this will no longer be enough. Where your heart of ice will hurt too much in your chest. In which neither cigarettes nor straws will be able to calm the anxiety that arises inside you, which torments you like a hurricane. In which vodka will no longer be able to make you happy. In which you will understand that all those guys have only used you as an object: taken, used, thrown, replaced, and your insecurity will become unbearable. In which breaking all the rules will make you feel wrong, and more alone than ever. Because you see, you can never allow anyone to love you unless you first learn to love yourself. Another year has passed. And now? Now I am a confident, determined girl, one who does not do what is asked of her, nor who disobeys him in the name of some principle, now I decide my life, I have stopped being on the bench, I have stopped looking love and I started looking for myself, to love me despite all my infinite defects and you know what? It was then that love found me. Love each other. It is the only rule to be happy.

WOMAN IS THE “N” OF THE WORLD

Even now women are victims of a system that oppresses them. War is one of the many means by which the oppression of women takes place who are considered spoils, slaughter fodder, their abused bodies. This violence has no limits, it is the worst form that exists. Women who see their freedom canceled. Useless years of study. Unit sacrifices. Useless jobs. Useless clothes. Any free choices that women have made until now are useless. The war - and the men who fly it - have taken it all. They steal and erase female freedom. Men who have the power to annihilate women, their stories, their choices. The influence men have on women's lives is frightening. They are the masters and exercise this power of life or death with extreme wickedness. They are women whose life is over. Many will be sold. They will be given in marriage by little girls. They won't go home. They will end up in prostitution. They will be forced into the worst violence. And they will have to undergo everything in silence, in the blackest terror, without any hope.

I am furious because now I am sitting on my beautiful sofa writing a stupid papyrus which is useless, which will not help any woman. I'm furious because I can't save any woman with words. Because using a fucking keyboard is useless. And while I choose which stupid shirt to wear, a hundred other women will suffer and die because others will choose for them.

A strong thought full of pain and hope goes to Afghan women with the hope that one day the world will accept all of us women as an integral part and not as a category to be oppressed.

Germaine Greer wrote: "Women have only a small idea of ​​how much men hate them."
Limited education, prohibition of certain types of clothing, restrictions on freedom of movement. To fall under the control of the Taliban again means this for Afghan women, who have taken to the streets to oppose the advance of Islamic fundamentalists. In the days when the foreign armed forces left the country, they marched along the city streets in the north and center of Afghanistan carrying rifles. The most popular demonstration in Ghor, where hundreds of women, marching with weapons along the streets of the center, chanted slogans against the Taliban. “There were some women who just wanted to inspire the security forces, only symbolically. But many others were ready to go to the battlefields, ”said Halima Parastish, head of the women’s leadership in Ghor, in the statement reported by the Guardian. “I and some other women – she added – we told the governor, about a month ago, that we are ready to go to fight”. “I don’t want the country to be under the control of people who treat women the way they do. We took up arms to show that if we have to fight we will do it, ”a reporter later declared.
It is not obvious to say that war, like evil, only brings out the worst in people, capable of showing their true nature without hesitation, in a state of suspended judgment. The strongest oppress the weakest, it has always been like that. And in the whirlwind of clichés, one from last August 15th echoes more than the others. With the takeover of Kabul by the Taliban, women are in grave danger. Everything that the Afghan women are or have conquered is raided day after day, in an all-encompassing process of depersonalization; they are objects for man’s use and consumption, they must satisfy their pleasures and to define them as sexual.
It is not obvious to say that war, like evil, only brings out the worst in people, capable of showing their true nature without hesitation, in a state of suspended judgment. The strongest oppress the weakest, it has always been like that. And in the whirlwind of clichés, one from last August 15th echoes more than the others. With the takeover of Kabul by the Taliban, women are in grave danger. Everything that the Afghan women are or have conquered is raided day after day, in an all-encompassing process of depersonalization; they are objects for man’s use and consumption, they must satisfy their pleasures and to define them as sexual.
Islamists have given “numerous warnings”: women and their families are threatened with death or torture if they go to work. The fighters do not warn twice, they go directly to action, staining even the most wicked acts such as necrophilia. All this seems to be confirmed by the warlords’ order to hunt girls aged 12 and over to make them sex prisoners, after the surrender of the Afghan government and the abandonment of the last US military troops. Rape, in reality, could only be the beginning of a long hell. Then, after the sexual violence, the same can be sold or sold as part of some commercial negotiation, such as weapons or drugs. Omar Sadr, who is a professor of politics at the American University of Afghanistan (no one knows how much …) argues that “the Taliban fighters feel authorized to do all this on the basis of their rigid interpretation of Islam, which sees women as kaniz », that is as a commodity.

I WASN’T READY TO SEE YOU

I wasn’t ready to see you, but in saying it, or rather in writing it, I already somehow realize I’m lying to you. Actually I hadn’t wanted anything else for a long time, only that I didn’t dare to confess or rather I didn’t dare hope that life would offer me a new opportunity to see you. I know I have no right to say this because I have behaved terribly to you. If you wiped me from your mind you did very well, if you have a grudge against me, I can not help but understand. I disappeared from your life without a shred of justification. In hindsight, I can tell you that I was living in such a confused state that I was not aware of my actions. When an animal is afraid, what does it do? If it is strong enough it attacks, otherwise it flees. Or pretend to be dead. I couldn’t pretend I was dead because I had been inside for a long time. That’s why I ran away. I felt trapped. You wanted things from me that I was unable to give you. I was afraid of realizing too late that that step you were asking of me was a wrong step. Many ties may be wrecked because of this, because, in the wave of sentiment, one is captured by an enthusiasm that has nothing to do with reality. If we both fell into that trap, what would we do? We would have ended up biting each other like rats locked up in a cage that is too tight. At first they would have been gentle bites, warning bites but then, over time, we would have gotten to eat us and I loved you too much to drag you into a life you didn’t deserve. And then there was another ghost in my life. I felt you were becoming too important to me and important relationships made me – and still do – fear. As long as you are alone, it is enough for yourself, but when another person enters your life and conquers it inch by inch, what can you do? If the person suddenly changes his mind and abandons you or dies, what can you do with the part of you that remains empty? If I wrote this letter it is only to ask your forgiveness. You have no guilt, no responsibility in the end of our story. The weight of the loss will forever weigh on my shoulders. It helped me to understand that it is not possible to create paradises on earth. I don’t know if this letter will reach your hands. If it arrives, if you read it, it will perhaps end up torn or float for a while in the murky waters of the port. Seeing you shocked me, so many things moved inside me and I couldn’t help but write to you. Forgive me for this too.

LISTEN TO ME

The other day I was on the street, with headphones in my ears, and I was listening to a song that I like so much. As always, when I listen to a song that I like so much, I escape from singing. I always sing: in the car, on a moped, on foot, in the shower, while I do the cleaning, while I am doing an exam … I am very annoying. In the evening after dinner, sometimes, I lock myself in my room, put on a base and sing. To the delight of the neighbors. Anyway, closed the parenthesis on my disturbing harassment, when I’m on the street I’m a little ashamed, in short, I don’t want to look crazy. So, the other day, when I realized I was singing out loud, I blushed a little and lowered the tone. But then I realized that no one had turned around hearing me sing. In short, if I heard someone singing loudly in the street, I would turn around. Then I realized it: no one had turned around because no one had heard me. They all had headphones, just like me.
And then I thought that it is really true that we are islands. We are closed universes, mostly parallel, with our internal worlds and our headphones. Is not beautiful. It is not nice that we are no longer willing to listen to the world around us, it is not nice that we are no longer willing to enter a universe that is different, foreign from ours. Even when we talk to each other, we continue to be islands. We never really listen to anyone. We remain in stand-by, while our interlocutor speaks, until he says something that sounds familiar to us and that allows us to reply with a very self-centered “yes, in fact, me too …” or that gives us the opportunity to show off our very just and absolutely not required opinion.
In short, at the end of the fair, most of us don’t listen to understand, listen to answer. Maybe I’m telling you something super interesting about a new scientific discovery on a topic that should involve you and you, instead of listening with a bit of healthy curiosity, attack me, interrupt me, reply to cazzium dogs, because you feel your own undermined cupboard. So it turns out that you remain ignorant, while I come out a little offended by the way you have pissed me in the face.
Or maybe I just need a real friend who just listens to me, because I’m going through a terrible time and I get the impression that nobody in the universe cares and you, instead of giving me my 10 minutes of genuine attention that I’m looking for. , you listen to answer me, to give me advice, to tell me what to do and where I’m wrong, or to tell me that you understand me why you went through it too. But I didn’t ask you for this. In fact, I didn’t ask you for anything at all. It would be nice if we all, out of the blue, took off our headphones and started listening to each other.

LISTENING TO THE MUSIC

do you know why music is so important to some people? Music is not ready to Judge you for come dressed, for come you speak, for come you act, for me you are a hobby. the music is always there, close to you, prompt to cheer you up, prompt to let you vent, to make you cry when you really need it. it is the music that makes a person’s life better, not the singer, I know, that contributes enormously to all of this, but it is the only fact that it is the music that makes the person who listens feel alive.
Concerts have something magical about them. For days this idea has been floating in my mind, and the more time passes, the more it becomes a real conviction: there is really magic in listening to live music, something inevitably imperceptible through filters, barriers to radio, computer, cell phones or mp3s. I was there, with me a friend and thousands of other boys. Back to pieces, aching legs and muscles now destroyed by the interminable and, almost infinite, hours in a row, of spasmodic waiting. Exasperation and a sense of frustration to the stars, boredom, resignation, an imperfect mix of unhappy emotions, hovered in the sultry atmosphere; evening fell, impatience was added to the mismatched mix; then the music, that music, the voice of the long-awaited singer, pronounces the first words of the opening song. It is a moment. Here is the magic. The X ingredient that added to the mix takes it from imperfect to explosive, gasoline thrown on a dying bonfire. A thousand and more voices intone the notes of the song, a thousand and more exhausted boys, terrified by the wait, who jump, rant, reach out to grab as many emotions as possible, to fill the gaps with the memories of what will not be remembered as an evening equal to the others. It goes on for a couple of hours, between screams, tears, jumps. Then even the spell ends, the last note of the last song marks the end of the spell. Magic, like everything, ends, but it doesn’t break. The aching legs, the back to pieces, the stress of waiting are gone, the excitement, the goosebumps, the chills, a moment of happiness as long as the songs played remain
My body and soul are accomplices of music. Always. Thanks to the vinyl collection of my parents, young people who lived and played a leading role in the global revolution of the 70s in Italy, in the years when composer’s music told the story and the feeling of that time. I remember how it was yesterday, when I was a child I put my ear to the big chest of my beloved vintage Marantz while I listened, I laughed with the loud volume while my heart vibrated perceptibly. The sun came in without a filter, in the center of the living room, I closed my eyes and flew Elsewhere. That Elsewhere where I often go back to drawing in my mind what emotions tell me, rediscovering the pleasure of my passion to which I dedicate my happiest and most authentic time in the name of a great chance. Listening to music. In this space I will try to collect mostly Independent Author Music because only as independent do you exist and resist, because it is the urgency to communicate and share elsewhere that reveals the unexpected wonder of a soul that in melancholy returns free and in light. . Writing words and sounds with a gentle and respectful hand is my mission to reveal the added value of an art steeped in authentic life.
It is not easy to be a Musician. It is not easy to invest all your time and resources in something that many – and often those closest to us – consider a pastime. It is not easy to maintain one’s direction towards the dirt road when shortcuts open before us to live a life of stability and a fixed salary. Yes, maybe it’s easier, but it wouldn’t be the life we ​​want to live. It is not easy to give up on outings, birthdays, parties, trips and holidays because we have to study for a concert or an important rehearsal. Precisely for this reason it is not easy to find a partner who can understand all this. The musician is that person who puts a little color on gray days and is the one thanks to whom you shed a tear while watching a moving scene from a movie. Finally … The musician knows that he has to fight daily against a basic ignorance and he knows that he is not as indispensable as a mechanic or an electrician, so he must be doubly good at knowing how to promote and see himself. In short, if you meet a musician, think you have a rare and particular person in front of you. Beethoven said that architects are respected because they are able to design bridges to join opposite banks of a river. The musician, on the other hand, must be respected even more because he is able to unite souls and hearts.

MUSICAL MEMORIES

I know that I often play the “know-it-all of music”, I regret it a little. I grew up in a family where music is worth a lot: pop, rock, rap, instrumental, house, alternative, blues and so on. In my house there has always been a sweet background music of some artist, who craved art, and we have always appreciated it. I had (like everyone) my preferences. The object in the photo is mine. An old cassette tape. My father spent hours recording various kinds of songs, mixtapes for my mother. Perfection I believe. So I know that I often do the “know-it-all of music”, I regret it a little, but when I do some mixtapes for someone too, I will do it with artists who crave art.
The importance you give to a song is solely derived from the person who makes you think of it while you listen to it. I’ve heard so many songs, it’s a life that I listen to songs, every day, every hour. I love that it always remains my favorite song. Among the millions of songs I have listened to, it is always her, she who is capable of making you take a sigh and say goodbye to what you were, what you are and what you will be, remaining unique, for those three minutes. Thank you so much for letting me have a favorite song!
Do you say we would be happy? Together I mean … I have my music, you have your passions. I’m not ready to risk everything, anything that makes me say “this is what I am” to another person. So I understood, the perfect fusion between the happiness I feel with you and why I am in the world became my creed, my mission for years! All this to say that “this is what I am: happy” puzzles don’t stick to one piece. The beauty of the game is to complete the work!
What sound do you prefer songs from the past that you would like to listen to again?

EVERYTHING N FIRE

It's true I often burned my paintings, notebooks, books, I burned to forget that I was an artist. To forget the power to create from nothing. It was exhilarating, demeaning, tiring, it was destructive to me too. But my life was fire, fire lit every day. Now there is not even the ash left. I have burned souls, I have burned whole nights, burned words and loves. All together incinerated in a moment of sublime beauty. The green fire.
My green fire guided me. It was night, it was day and for me it was always life. But it doesn't burn forever. Eventually we turn off.
Eventually the coal becomes blacker. Very black. You find it in the walls, inside your inner walls, and you always get dirty every color you try to trace on your door. But Black crosses the threshold, reaches you, takes everything, burns you completely.
She was the one in the photo, holding a bouquet of flowers and a red hen’s crest on her head. It was she who acted among the frightened girls. Hamlet hadn’t hesitated either in his gestures or in his voice. And she continued to play a role that was not hers: the good girl who goes out of her way to meet her father’s expectations. A studious pupil, a caring daughter. Never any drift or dangerous friendship. Never any friends who are too annoying or a boyfriend who is too jealous. Never any of that. Only music and art, mixed with the tears that often bathed his pillow. He loved his mom and dad. He went out of his way to make them happy. And her little sister also loved and often played with her and never teased her. Growing up he had kept that naive and innocent look, that beautiful vivacity of one who has not known evil. Yet Hamlet knew evil from an early age, when a man took her innocence. Her nightmares were frequent and she did not know who that man was and she could never see his face. Maybe it was the shadow that appeared in her paintings or maybe she lived next to it without knowing that her executioner was the one who fed her. The executioner was always present. The executioner who had destroyed her at the age of 4.
The needs of an artist are different from all those of others. Of course an artist eats, sleeps, goes to the bathroom. He may have things and people he cares a lot about. May have interests and hobbies. But one thing distinguishes him profoundly from all other people: the need for stimulation. An artist feeds his art from himself and from what he sees, knows and experiences. Visual, mental and empirical stimuli are deeply necessary for every artist because in the absence of these his creative lymph dries up. In fact, if an artist is not put in the conditions of being able to have these stimuli that satisfy his needs, he will slowly fade away. His imagination, not being nourished, will become dry and will find it difficult to give him the input for artistic creation. Just as an animal dies in its instincts if placed inside a cage, an artist dies in his creative life if he is put in conditions that are not favorable to the expression of his artistic talent. Fantasy is like a plant and must be fed with the water of stimuli. If these are lacking, the substance for dreams is missing. It lacks the energy itself to create other dreams and other works. So for this reason it is sometimes said that an artist cannot live life like the others and the same things that others are enough cannot be enough for him.

SAVED BY A WOOLF

I sit by the river, the sun is shining, the clouds dance to the rhythm of the music, the fish swim in a happy circle, the butterflies come out of the cocoon. I raise my head and my eyes cross the river and reach the other side. I see a girl crying in the middle of a swamp and crocodiles just waiting to devour her. I immediately took my bow and shot arrows at the crocodiles but they were too far away. Taken by anger, I reflected in the river and saw a transformation in me. I had become a yellow wolf with a red aura. The fish formed a platform and I crossed the river. The butterflies formed a silver-colored sword and the clouds became a shield. In a flash I swept the crocodiles away with my sword. But from the bushes a huge creature with huge jaws and a cuirass of quartz appeared. I took a step back and watched the girl sink. My aura turned into a golden breastplate and with fire in my eyes I threw myself at the creature. But it was too strong for me. At one point the girl threw me a lock of her hair and said: “tie it around the sword and it will help you defeat him”. As soon as I tied the lock the sword became crystal and there was a heart set inside. With my last strength left, I leapt towards the creature. He curled up to protect himself but the sword managed to break through his armor. The creature fell into the river groaning in pain. The water turned green and soon after it became a meadow full of flowers, including the swamp where the girl lay. Exhausted from the battle, I fell to the ground. The girl came up to me and gave me a kiss and I became human again. The girl told me: “it was a long time that that creature held me prisoner waiting for someone to help me. By now I had lost hope and I thought that my life was forever enveloped by this creature, instead you had the courage and you defeated it. Why did you risk your life for me? In the end, I’m a stranger to you. ” I looked into her eyes and said, “I have been wandering in the woods for a long time without a purpose. As soon as I saw you, the flame inside me took off and released my true being. Now I know why I was wandering. I was looking for you, my love. “She hugged me tightly and told me:” I dreamed of a wolf but I thought it was the evil that enveloped me, instead it was you, my love, now I will take care of you, I will heal your wounds and I will hold you close to me . “

MOMENTS OF SAMADHI

Happiness can only be in the present moment, regardless of circumstances and turbulent times. Our true nature is love and awareness. We are the ones who can choose whether to hate or love, whether to live in happiness or in perennial dissatisfaction. It all depends on us. We cannot change external circumstances, but we have power over our choices and the attitude with which we respond to external stimuli and facts.

IN MY HEART

The smell of wet asphalt takes me back in time … When I was happy. When I was without cracks. When in the evening I was on the balcony relaxing looking at the stars. I’ve always loved that perfume. It tastes of peace. As if everything around the world slowed down. Like when it snows and you watch the flakes fall gently floating. Slowly. Pure peace, serenity. I miss her. I miss the serenity. “I discovered that it is enough for myself, that I can live alone. But I’m not sure it’s a good discovery, a test of wisdom. Loneliness is a luxury that should be enjoyed in small doses and short gulps. Woe to you if you indigestion, instead of being enriched, that is to say reassured, you find yourself impoverished and less wise. Man cannot live for too long alone, that is, drawing only on himself. Man needs others, that is, to think together with others, to act together with others. Dialogue and companionship are water for a soul parched by loneliness. In short, I’m talking about balance. A tree with too much water ends up rotting, but a tree without water ends up dying. “

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