But we, after all, are all works of art. We are art when we tie the long hair that covers our faces in a ponytail or when we listen to that song that makes our wrists tremble and makes our eyes water. We are art when we dance, alone, in an empty room, following a music that runs through our veins and makes us feel free. We are art when with our tears we write poems on our cheeks, on our arms. We are art when we fall asleep over our favorite book or stay awake, late into the night, with a thousand sighs stuck in our throats and open cuts on our skin that burn, lashed by the air, relieved only by the vision of the stars, which burn, in the freezing January sky and we, enraptured by their beauty, just want to shine with them, like them, away from that cold balcony where we stare at them. For us the universe is art. The planets are art. The stars are art. Not us. We who are scribbles, intricate, twisted tangles, made on dirty and damaged sheets. Yet if only we could see each other when we talk about who or what we love. Our eyes shine with a light identical to that which the stars give off. And it is not a reflection, it is not external to us, but internal, it is hidden in our heart. Because we are nothing but simple fragments of fallen stars that have never lost the strength to shine. We are art.
I fought white ghosts to come and find you, Jesus,
I crossed my inner deserts and all fears,
to come and discover you, and I'm tired,
I walked too much,
I broke many shoes and lost a lot of water on the long journey.
And I didn't know where to go, I'm a homeless girl,
with a star on my forehead,
and they call me Comet,
and I don't know where to go anymore
and I follow your star because Christmas will come
but I will die in a dumpster or maybe at the sea,
maybe not you will see me among the sheep and the shepherds,
perhaps I will be elsewhere and I will finally have found the end of my pain.
Dear Jesus, here I am, I'm a girl destroyed by life,
and I'm not a beautiful presence in your crib and I won't be able
to stay there or will you welcome me anyway?
They say you were a friend of the poor
nd I have nothing to give you, and my heart is tired,
and I'm tired,
and the journey is over and still deserted inside me,
no plants, no flowers, I woke up this morning moody.
The sky is gray inside me and I have only one thought
and will that star shine for me too that night?
It will probably be the last thing I will see in this life.
It is not easy to explain, to open up, to write with your heart in your hand. Especially if done publicly. No, it is not at all. But, I got bored. I have reached the limit. This is why I decided to go to the beach. The place where I can scream, cry, despair, destroy myself. Immediately after looking at the sea and feeling alive again. The only place that reminds me of home. It is while I am sitting here that I write, it seems to help me. In front of me I have an expanse of blue waters, a sea that hurls itself against rocks, waves that wet the sand and are then claimed again by their master. And the wind that cradles me, gently, like a caress, while the ink stains the white paper. I'm here to write something, something too much. I am here because people listen little and perhaps by reading they will understand more.
During these years I have met many, but many people. Galore, I'd say. But, how many are left? I look around and I wonder too. Almost no one. It is said that the ones that remain are the most important. There have been some people who have remained, yet only until recently. The rest, all in passing, after making you believe the existence of the unknown. Get out, go, run away. Like a shadow in the night. A trail in the sky. A flash in front of the eyes. They weren't even afraid of being infected with a deadly disease.
And now, I still wonder how long this story will last. What do you think I am? A cigarette that you can light, smoke and then throw away? A dirty glass to leave at the bar, to wash and reuse? Or a simple mat on which you can clean your shoes, easily replaceable?
I am human. I am made of flesh and bones, too. And I have a heart. Is it so difficult to believe? I have a heart reduced to infinite microscopic pieces.
Because I too have feelings, I too would like to trust those around me, I too am afraid of losing people. I can hide it. I did it. And it didn't help. People just felt entitled to hurt me even more. More and more. They don't give up. They don't give up until they see you bleed, crawl. "She doesn't care anyway, she never cares." Who knows if they really believe what they say.
The truth is that I am not infallible, that weakness is within me, it lives within me. I fight it every damn day, every single moment. Weakness leads me on dark roads, dark thoughts. Only my head knows how horrible some have been. It pushes me to make absurd decisions. Weakness is a strong rival. Unbeatable. As strong as I may seem, as strong as I may believe I am, I easily collapse when my roots are uprooted from the soil.
The truth is that every time it is more and more destructive, that it is not true that sooner or later you reach the point where nothing hurts you anymore, nothing touches you anymore, nothing demoralizes you. It is not true that we become imperturbable by everything, it is not true that we finally come to live in apathy. Those are all fairy tales. We create apathy by ourselves, as an escape from feelings. As an escape from ourselves, we lie to each other. We delude ourselves. We screw ourselves. And, we get to the point of believing that the best choice is indifference. It is not true. It is not so. Being indifferent is not the best weapon. Being indifferent is the most destructive weapon. It destroys you inside, slowly. It consumes you without restraint.
I wasn't like that before, I was a flower, simple, unaware,
easy to love but also to walk on, I was free from fears and prejudices, I was beautiful in my naivety; I looked at others thinking that they were like me, I saw the good everywhere, I did not perceive the back thoughts, I did not understand the distorted perspectives, the evil end only in itself. I was clean, too transparent, I let anyone into my heart. I loved in the only way I knew: instinctively and completely.
Then that flower was mistreated, ignored, laughed at, hurt, rejected, abandoned.
It lost its beauty but remained firmly planted on the ground because it had strong and long roots.
But nothing has been the same as before.
I surrounded myself with obstacles and walls, higher and higher, I closed myself so as not to reveal the thoughts of my heart to anyone. I hid, as best I could, so as not to be found. I attacked because I had no other weapons to defend myself.
And now I have become a flower covered with thorns, perhaps I am no longer beautiful to look at. Maybe not even to love.
But I await those who patiently know how to extricate themselves, who will accept to get hurt, who will not look at the thorns but will see beyond, who will simply free me.
Throw it away, that stone. Take it and launch the way with all the strength you have in your body. And, while you’re there, tie all the pain I carry inside me together and hurl it against the water. The sea will know what to do with it. Take that pain away from me that stone that blocks the mechanisms of my heart. Never tire of collecting the stones of my soul. Never get tired of cleaning my heart every time it gets dirty with something that makes it beat less.
My soul has no peace. In the anguish of a depressing afternoon I see the corpses of this war all coming forward, helpless, and calling me, as if they wanted to take me with them. My soul cries because the wars are here too, the deadly stabs, the absolute pain, the defeat. My heart cries. There is too much pain and one day my heart will quench its beats. The human being strikes again and again and again. It affects itself. Devour life. Eat the heart. It kills everything.
Pain twists my hair during a chess game with common sense.
The handles remain lowered, the doors open and the holes closed.
The galaxies of logic reject any rational explanation.
A ship can sail even without an engine, a ship can have sails.
Gray open by blue, fears covered by yellow.
I can picture myself curled up on your sofa while you travel you can arrive on my sofa.
It is an exchange of minds and ancestral poison.
Archetypes to avoid, emulation of adults,
prime spirits:
feel my pain,
release my pain,
feel my heart,
free my heart.
Turn to me Lord,
shout my name.
Dominate, feel my pain,
King.
Feel my skin tonight.
Don't get me up.
Let me wake up my dream soul to defeat death.
( ITALIAN RHYMING VERSION)
Il dolore attorciglia i capelli durante la partita di scacchi col buonsenso. Le maniglie rimangono abbassate, le porte aperte e i buchi scoperti. Le galassie della logica rifiutano ogni spiegazione razionale. Una nave può salpare, anche senza un motore, una nave può avere le vele. Grigiori aperti dal blu, timori coperti dal giallo. posso immaginarmi raggomitolata sul tuo divano mentre tu viaggi posso arrivare sul mio divano. È uno scambio di menti e veleno ancestrale. Archetipi da evitare, emulazione di adulti, spiriti primi: senti il mio dolore, libera il mio dolore, senti il mio cuore, libera il mio cuore. Porgiti a me Signore, grida il mio nome. Domine, senti il mio dolore, Re. Senti la mia pelle stanotte. Non mi rialzare. Lasciami svegliare la mia anima onirica per sconfiggere la morte.
After the moment of terror caused by the experience of the clarity with which I see myself, I can then ask for help, to learn to truly love myself completely, to recognize every matrix that still binds me, every wound that still resonates in me and that, even now, it causes me pain. I feel I have transformed my life, and it is, but the path of awareness, and the need for self-awareness, never ends. There are many emotions that lie in a place so far away that it is difficult to reach with the mind. The path is like a spiral, you always seem to go back to the same points, but in reality it is always at a different and higher level. Keeping in mind the change and the path made in the past is the anchor that gives us the confidence and security of being able to continue doing at least the same now and in the future. Some lessons are more challenging than others. There is a process of exponential acceleration in the work on oneself, as we proceed we become more essential, and the remaining disharmonies resonate much more intensely. This does not mean that the work done previously has not been successful, it is just that there are traces left that we can dissolve more and more definitively.
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 