I move slowly. A step at a time. At this rate, I wonder if I will ever really be able to grow and mature. I always find myself chasing the best version of me who in parallel becomes stronger, more confident and more competent in what they do and believe.

I am there to chase it but as far as it seems to me to go fast, it always manages to distance me and sow me.

It is when I truly feel it far away that I fall into depression and return to my cave. but like every other time, without knowing why, how, when, what the fuck of external or internal lighting, I get back on track and try again.

I try again to chase myself, to improve myself, to grow up for a good and holy time. I am still unaware of how many attempts it will take before I can unite with the other half and become one complete and consistent entity. but I know I’ll keep trying.

Because I’m stupid to take it for granted that I can get it over with when I want and easily. And why, one of the few things I believe in, is in that solid, consistent and full of life part that I find myself deep inside.

Even if it can be just a crumb around all nothingness, the oblivion of which I am made. As long as that little light exists I know I can make it. a distant but splendid day.


Art is his need. An instinctive need to create. An instinctive need to be and communicate one’s being to others. Affirming its existence with the creative act is the only way for Amleta 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. Being a river in flood, dangerous for others, not accustomed to strong liquid currents, but a natural and splendid element for her. Art is its power. The power to create from nothing. To give life to what has never existed, which has never been seen, which has never been read. A sublime, divine, most envied power. Art feeds on souls. Art is insatiable, it is its fierce demon, and it has walked this path all its life looking for an escape. But you never get rid of art because only art makes it free and alive. It is like a second skin and if you take it off you become skinned and you cannot live anymore. Amleta has art in every cell, like a deadly virus, which never becomes a disease but which accompanies it throughout its life as a faithful travel companion. Art grinds the flesh, the spirit, the whole life. He raises it in the highest sky, being able to see without eyes, hear without ears, draw without using his fingers; and then makes it descend into the most terrible depths of the human abyss. Art is a miracle of life and death. Whoever possesses the gift is condemned to a parallel life. Amleta goes in and out as if from a window. She enters and exits herself, feeds herself to the pigs, gives her vital breath, remains in pieces and then begins again. Who would ever want such a life? Yet many envy it and do not know what it means to have the fire of inspiration that consumes! Art is its condemnation. She didn’t choose to start drawing, then painting, writing and playing at the same time. A dark force took his hands, and guided his dark energy. He was thus able to empty the pain he felt while living and to enclose it within his creations. Nothing remains of that period: everything burned. Unfortunately, something was saved from his subsequent dark periods, still not gone and up in smoke. Hamlet was born on a cursed island, in a sick country, and soon she got rid of her life and the pain took her far away, where she continued to suffer and create, create and destroy, herself, paintings, installations, plays, notebooks, sculptures, … Amleta creates and destroys what he creates. Hamlet is and is not at the same time. He yearns for this perennial creation and has tried several times to free himself from his prison without success. This gift, this power, this torment of colors and words, is the nectar of his days. Everything else is just a bitter side dish.

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