I write. When you have inspiration, you don't have to block it. It's like blocking a raging river, an erupting volcano, a band of protesters during what can be called a revolution.
We all lead a life that sooner or later will have to undergo analysis. This can be defined as the right moment, indeed the perfect moment, that is the night.
I stop, I look outside, the night upsets me too much. These stars are too beautiful. The sun goes down and thoughts rise. I think the night is the sweet spot for everyone.
Wise friend and kind adviser and at the same time despair of insomnia and unexpected nightmares. The night.
I am writing by interrupting myself very often, making many full stops, leaving what should be obvious and obvious slightly in suspense. But that's how it is at night.
You want to clarify, wriggle between your problems and your paranoia but she makes you a barrier of stars, engulfs you in her luminous shadow and takes you into her galaxy.
He puts a full stop and removes that strange squiggle that makes up the question mark. It ends your hopes and fuels them at the same time.
He does some strange things tonight.
God, thank you for having created the night, a forbidden and inaccessible place for those who do not dream and a place of enchantment and wonder for free minds. For brave, bold and fearless spirits.
Give me strength tonight too.
Tonight I know that you are my friend, sweet darkness, cradle me and put me to sleep, take the reins of my life and take me far where no one knows.
Make me yours and make me a star because I want to shine and bring peace.
In the wind that tells the air,
I am surprised to stay still,
not to fly away,
to anchor myself to the roots of the restless earth.
The waking hours, at night at 4,
when the kitten meows,
the hours out of the dream of the stairs that go down and up,
they are so white, so stellar.
A distant movement of clouds, noises, hisses and breaths,
while I imagine the night as a light traveler,
without baggage, without destination,
towards a horizon there,
behind the mountain peaks.
I got up,
with a candle in hand,
as in dreams,
like someone who wants to see in the dark,
and I saw the air, clear, very clean, transparent,
but I saw it and I was inside that air,
as if you were something touched, caressed,
and I had no fear of death.
What purpose would I exist if I were all contained within myself?
But I am contained by the air and this invisible container
I saw it for the first time last night.
Like looking through a transparent, crystalline glass.
The world is immensely foreign to me,
because I look beyond the peaks and see,
I see through the rock,
I see the breath of the animals in their burrows,
the men in their shelters, doubtful and insecure.
A dove's wing moves,
his presence sounds in the silence.
I go back to bed, I blow out the candle,
I get back into the air and sleep.
It doesn't matter who I am.
It doesn't matter what my name is.
I have seen the air and the fire of the eternal soul,
inside a breath of wind that was going away
but I stay here, on the bed,
and I dream of being able to save trees.
Memories, one of the things that causes the most mixed emotions. Some people, those who have lost everything, can be kept alive by memories. But is theirs a real life? Or is it just fear of looking ahead, latching onto the past? Well, some feel it is better to delude oneself and continue living in the past. But what is the past in the present? A ghost. Something whose presence can be felt, but not seen. A thing that haunts at night. Something that is not well defined, the limits of which we cannot focus on. Something that is not easy to get rid of. Ghosts are scary.
Eyes of the heart inside a ring, They wrote sad words of sin: The wrong time, The wrong beat, The wrong night It was raining and you were crushed. The wind was deserted, the night dark, You had a thought that warmed up, You took it with you inside the hotels of iron. And then he came, with a shadow in his heart, devouring donuts, devouring the dust of ancient houses. You wanted to escape the grave, and your rose was still alive. Then the flower turned daisy yellow, Wine had the last drop on his heart And the car went into the ravine.
It's a cold day inside of me today, I realized when I woke up, and the first thing I did was pull back the curtains and admire that beautiful sun.
He tried to warm me with his powerful rays but failed.
Today is one of those days where I think everything I do is in vain.
I've spent the last few years working on myself. To protect me from everyone.
And if I had opened that window some time ago, that sun would have warmed my heart, I would have noticed the lady who lives right in front of me, I would have noticed every detail. Like her blonde hair always in warp even after she just woke up. The way she observed passers-by but suddenly turned behind her and went away, I would have seen her go away to enter the kitchen, to help her husband who was asking for "help" for a failure in the TV remote control.
And I would have smiled.
I would have noticed the bits of dust floating in those bright bands of sun.
But I didn't see any of that this morning.
All I saw was my empty bed, worn out by a devastating night.
The pillow wet from the dramas, the sheets impregnated with mistakes, the book reread a hundred times on the bedside table full of burnt hopes.
I close my eyes for a moment and I see him, I see someone on my bed asking me to lie down with him, who between one caress and the next, every drama goes into paranoia and leaves the room. That between a kiss and a look, given this way, almost without thinking about it, I see a rose blossom on that bedside table, making that cigarette that stinks of regrets and wasted efforts disappear.
But then I open them again, look down and see only those tattoos on my arms that are there to never make me forget that certain battles are too difficult to win.
And I also smile, yes, because sometimes I really believe in the bullshit I say to myself to cheer myself up, that after three minutes, it has the same effectiveness as a television teleshopping, one of those with low budget.
That you see them, and you think “do they really think they make me believe that those knives are capable of cutting even a diamond?”.
And you believe it, you fake it.
Finally, I make my bed, change the sheets, arrange the books under the bed.
I dress.
And I wear it. In all its beauty.
With all its sweetness.
I wear a smile, and even for today, the outfit has been decided.
Embellished with uncertainties and mistakes, persistent paranoia and perennial anxiety that I carry with me as if it were my favorite necklace.
I can’t really explain the pain I feel. I can only tell you that I try to live but this life is really not for me. I swing from moments of extreme anger to moments when I have no reason not to throw myself off the balcony. road without hoping to be hit, I don’t light something without hoping to die from electrocution, I don’t take medicine without hoping to die of an overdose, I don’t smoke or drink without hoping that that substance will kill me. ‘is no one with whom I can share my weight.My head and body are so far apart, I have the heart that every second that passes an extra crack, I have a thousand thoughts that I try to escape but lethally devour me every part of I don’t see reasons for just another breath and the more in vain I try to find reasons not to go, the more the world or life gives me some to really leave. I try, but maybe for some life is not, I’m sorry to disappoint those who perhaps still believed in me. I can’t really stay, if they asked me why are you so sad? he is distant and I die waiting. I loved you, and how real are the tears that now would like to fall from my eyes, how real are my absent and dull looks, how real are panic attacks, how real is the commitment that I put into it, so it is always was my love for you or for you true. I leave my place in this life to someone else, I do not deserve or want to live it. I have become just an empty shell that walks and breathes. I died long ago, my soul died long ago. I’m not a princess, he won’t trigger him to save me, he really won the bad this time around.My sensitivity is my gift and my cross. Where the many are barred, I am allowed to feel. I feel the shades of the soul and I see its colors. My wonder of a wildflower and I cry in front of the sea. I see no heart for the scar and no tears for tears. I feel joy and pleasure, pain and suffering. This is my gift, this is my cross. Music has taught me to be curious. A love cannot take something away from you. Those who say they sacrificed themselves for love make me laugh. Too bad for them. Fears are needed. It is not useful to chase them away. I’m afraid that fear will paralyze me one day. This yes. But it doesn’t just apply to me. It scares me that it could happen to anyone. ou, queen of few words, heal my soul. Let the darkness peacefully lull her into the day. Luminous Queen, common point between distant souls, let me free myself from the chains of distance that men have not yet been able to destroy. Let him be able to rock me one more night, and another. And if you can’t leave us together, enlighten us also tonight and cradle and our souls that meanwhile dance a nostalgic waltz on the edge of the precipice of human will. And let this dance be eternal. Let at least our souls be together, distant queen.
Long before the white man arrived,
in a Cheyenne village lived a little girl whose
name was Nuvola Fresca.
One day the little girl said to her mother, Last Evening Sigh: "When night falls, a black bird often comes to feed, pecks at pieces of my body and eats me until you arrive, light as the wind and chase it away.
But I don't understand what all this is.
With great maternal love Last Sigh Of the evening reassured the little girl by saying: "the things you see at night are called dreams and the black bird that comes is only a shadow that comes to save you" Nuvola Fresca replied:
"But I am so afraid, I would like to see only the white shadows that are good".
Then the wise mother, she knew it would be cruel to close the door to the fear of her child, invented a round canvas with which to fish the dreams of the night, then gave the object a magical power: to recognize good dreams, that is, those useful for growth. spirituality of the little one, from the bad ones, that is, false and deceptive.
Last Sigh of the Evening built many dream catchers and hung them on the cradles of the children of the village.
As the children grew, they embellished theirs with expensive objects and gradually the magical power grew, grew, grew together with them ... Each Cheyenne keeps its own dream catcher for life, as a sacred object bearer of strength and wisdom.
Even today the Cheyenne Indians build a dream catcher every time a child is born in the village and place it on his cradle. With a special wood, very ductile, they shape a circle, which represents the universe and inside it a web similar to that of a spider. The cobweb will therefore be entrusted with the task of capturing dreams. If it is a question of positive dreams, the dream catcher will entrust them to the thread of the beads (forces of nature) and make them come true. If, on the other hand, he judges them negative, he will entrust them to the feathers of a bird and have them carried away far away, scattering them in the skies.
There are people you have known for a lifetime, who have no effect on you, and people you have recently known, who make you want to hear them all the time: they leave that smile on your face before going to sleep and with the knowledge that when the next day you will wake up, you will think about them. These people, I think are the best. In a short time they make themselves known better than anyone else. They manage to make you feel good with little, like no one ever has. They can make you smile and cry at the same time. They bring out the best in you, without doing much. Just a smile from them and that’s it: it’s like arriving in heaven without flying, all at once. You come up and no one can get you off anymore, no matter how good you feel. ‘Stè special people, they give you two or even three words, including trivial ones, and you spend whole nights thinking about it. Sleepless nights asking you questions. Sleepless nights waiting for some message from them, just to make you move a smile on your mouth, even if that is the last of the day, because then you sleep. These are the real people. These are the people you generally meet in the dark times of life and they cheer you up, like a coffee in the middle of the day, or a hot tea in the evening, when you are tired. There is no explanation. They just pick you up. They sit next to you and listen to you and it doesn’t matter if it’s day, night, sunrise or sunset. They don’t watch the hours. They listen to you and you finally exist.
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 