We have called "time" the fact that we see things changing in only one direction. If you take an egg and crack it to make an omelet, it won't come back no matter what you do. Everything in the universe started from a single point of energy where every single thing that exists now existed, and it started to expand, this led to more and more change of this kind (called entropy) where we go from very ordered systems (see a point) towards messy systems (a cracked egg). In the case of the universe, it will lead to a universe with only atoms scattered around.
The other thing we see is the arrow of time, and the fact that everything goes towards what we have called the "future". Nothing can ever ever ever go back.
What humans have invented are systems to measure all of this and concepts to define them.
No, time doesn't always flow the same way, there are days that are so thoughtful, but so heavy that you carry them on even when they're gone. That time keeps flowing inside you even if it doesn't flow outside anymore.
I think it happens even to the best to crumple their life as if it were an old sheet of paper, a bad copy of something we consider important, words that are sought to describe the beauty of an emotion, but too ephemeral to reveal the perfection of a concept.
It happened to me too.
I lost control of myself relating to others. I lost it slowly, like when we let go of a rope because we can't handle the weight of our fears. I've lost it every time I've been disappointed, hurt, abandoned by who I thought was my "forever". I lost it and never looked for it again. For a long time. I just let it go. I let it go and sat at the bottom of the abyss becoming someone I hated.
Then I took several planes to random destinations: Venice, Milan, Amsterdam, London, Paris. And everywhere I let go of feelings I was tired of feeling. I abandoned my bad days, long faces, meaningless nervousness and even apathy. And even though I didn't realize it, I found it. It was hidden in every spontaneous laugh, in every heartbeat that got a little more intense, in every drop of rain that fell on my face, in the grains of sand that slipped from my hands, in a sincere hug that I wore like a blanket. He was there staring at me and I didn't recognize him. My ego has become a silent travel companion and can't wait to be reunited with me.
Each of us has a code of behavior, our own ethics made up of unwritten ideals and well-defined rules.
One of these for me is never betraying me, ever. For nothing and for anyone; in fact, when you betray yourself, you always do it in relation to an expectation that the outside world has of you, a wrong awareness, an unfounded prejudice.
This is why I find one thing fundamental: waking up every morning and being able to look at myself in the mirror without feeling too betrayed by those insecurities that want to shape me as another person or, simply, want a kind of perfection aimed at acceptance.
But does he really get to betray himself for being something he really isn't?
I have a strange relationship with doors. I never lock them. Rather I approach them. It’s a flaw, I think. Lack of courage, perhaps. But I happen to not close the doors. I let events do it. After all, who am I to determine who has to get out of my life forever? Generally, those who take another path do it alone. Very quietly. A step at a time. One choice after another. So, I leave it open. Because you never know. Maybe one day whoever had gone out, shows up in front of that door, and finding it open, sits down for a coffee. And if enough time has passed, enough pride, and enough pain, I’ll ask – How much sugar? My dear friend clear your mind of all “can’t”. This sentence was said by a stranger, but I think it was the sentence that had the most impact on me. It is not a very compressed aphorism, it highlights a truth without too many words. All the “I can’t / I can’t / I can’t” are just walls that we build and that don’t allow us to succeed. Success is not necessarily being rich it sucks to be successful is something easier and more beautiful, success is in the little things. We must be happy with ourselves when we set ourselves a goal and we manage to achieve it, the key is precisely this, to complete not having reached perfection. If only I could walk between the chiaroscuro of your irises, light up my days with the lights of your every memory, if only I had the key of that French garden which makes the contours of your face guiding breath for each completed painting; if only i could stay there, stop, waiting for your name, your veins like purple wisteria, your skin like peony petals, and listen to the rhythm of your beats touch the shores of the lake and make them tremble in the reflection of the other half of the sky.
It is fascinating. Nature is wonderful, she has managed to create beautiful things by herself, of perfect symmetry, all so calculated and precise. The leaves, the flowers, us, even if not perfectly. But it’s all calculated right? We were created to be imperfect and however we try to achieve perfection we will never be, neither physically nor morally. What then, who decides that something is perfect or imperfect? Which is right or wrong? What is good or bad? Who is stupid or smart? What is weird or normal? What is it that really makes it so? It’s just our idea. So theoretically symmetry does not exist and exists. Perfection does not exist and exists. All in contrast with everything. The stars are fascinating. They are very large, much larger than our planet and yet they are there, bright dots that shine in the sky, a hint of color in the dark, forming constellations, forming dreams, galaxies, galaxies of dreams. They are there in the sky, so far away, so close, that if you put yourself on your toes, it seems that you can touch them with your hand, but you cannot. The water, what the hell, is beautiful. The surface tension, its clarity, its necessity. But I don’t understand why nature hasn’t made it available to everyone. Then the matter, that everything is made up of everything.There is no end of matter, a thing created first of all. The universe, which cannot be infinite, come on, everything has an end. Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring, Life, The Earth, Stories, Kisses, Friendships, Loves, Roads, Travels, Holidays, Nights, Days, Weeks , Months, years, sheets, notebooks, the most beautiful books, everything. And the numbers? How can they be infinite? They are not. There are many combinations, Infinite, But we manage to pronounce them up to a certain point, then we start with the astronomical unit, with the light years. And then nature has given us everything, even the possibility of hurting ourselves, it is up to us to choose what to do, it has made us totally free. Have you ever thought about all this? To fate? Exists? In my opinion, yes. A story written somewhere. Two people destined to meet, two people who will fail together, but not alone, two people who together will overcome everything. A person destined to be born to change the world, a savior on this unjust and infamous planet. But who created all this? And remember that the case does not exist, it is not that one day two planets decided by CASE to collide and create the Earth, right? You see, it’s all so wonderful, fascinating, twisted. All so beautifully beautiful.
But why does the narcissist seek power? Because it is fragile, because its feet are made of clay. Alongside the grandiose image that he exhibits outside, coexists the image from which he desperately tries to escape: that of being a nullity, without any value. The narcissist fears judgment and fears criticism, even constructive, because it calls him back to reality. But reality, for him, behind the grandiose mask, is emptiness, the nullity of feelings, insignificance. The narcissist is afraid to reveal himself, because deep down he feels unacceptable. If the negative image rises to the surface, he feels lost. Pain and a sense of humiliation resurfaces: he feels weak, exposed, afraid.
The narcissist despises the feelings of others because he despises his own feelings, the authentic ones, those feelings that lead him to recontact the original pain and depression. He detached himself from those feelings, choosing the schizoid path of alienation and covering them through anger.
If we look at the surface, we see the narcissist's arrogance and arrogance towards others. If we look deeply, through the eyes of the soul, we see that he practices the dance of arrogance in the first place towards himself, towards his tender parts and his most intimate feelings. The heart of his soul, the flow of deep feelings, is hindered and imprisoned. A jailer of himself, he has become a captivus, a villain. By separating, alienating himself from himself, he betrayed his own soul. Having abandoned the sinballein, the divine spark, the ubuntal conscience, the trust in everything, he entrusted himself to the diaballein, to the devil, to the great internal liar.
Narcissistic people, in order to bear their weakness and to enter a state of grandeur, to deny reality to some extent and to feel more stimulated and stimulating, often drink and use drugs. They need to get stunned, to increase their energy through alcohol: they are braver if they are tipsy. In fact, the use of stimulants helps them to face the great and dangerous world, but risks making them even more detached from the sense of self and therefore even more ruthless, critical, oppositional. Sometimes they feel naked without barriers and defenses. In those moments, they feel a great fear of living and begin to feel sorry for themselves and to make victims. "How I have reduced myself," a desperate man will say because he feels abandoned by his lover who acted as a great mirror for him.
That of the perverse manipulator is a perversity akin to the depravity of moral sadism. The perverted character (perverse manipulator) has a conflicting personality, while the perverted narcissist is more subtle, acts without arousing the slightest suspicion, indeed manages to arouse compassion. The perverted character is more presumptuous, more uncompromising and aggressive. He reacts to frustrations in an exaggerated way and takes pleasure in humiliating his victim. After all, the pleasure of domination is only a typical perverse feeling. The perverse manipulator shows a clearly morbid attitude, a destabilizing behavior, a strategic ideation. It goes in search of destructive stimuli, has no scruples, remaining immune from feelings of guilt. Since he does not trust anyone, he has no friends, but accomplices. Sexual depravity exudes it in raw and coarse language, frankly vulgar, but, what is worse, it actualizes it in rape and incest. In the differential diagnosis, however, they can be clearly distinguished from paranoiacs, as the mental structure of the latter is an impediment to any emotional relationship, while perverts of character use the narcissism of others, and manipulate it, to strengthen the incompleteness of their ego.
The relational manipulator is a narcissistic, self-centered pathological personality type; a psycho-affective vampire that feeds on the vital essence of its prey. He criticizes, despises, blames, blackmails, reminding others of moral principles or the pursuit of perfection, but this only when it comes in handy. And to achieve his goals he resorts to deceptions, pseudo-logical arguments that turn situations upside down to his own advantage. Often its communication is paradoxical: opposite messages in double bind, to which it is impossible to respond without contradicting oneself; or it deforms the meaning of the speech. He commits himself, takes no responsibility, does not formulate explicit and clear requests. Yet he does not tolerate rejection, he always wants to have the last word to draw his conclusions, even if they are not shared. Change opinions and decisions. Above all, he lies, insinuates suspicions, reports misunderstandings. Simulates somatization and self-depreciation, but substantially demonstrates emotional disinterest.
In short, it is a question of disturbed and disturbing personalities, with which one can bond emotionally in order to be inevitably destabilized by their perfidious influence.
Some time ago I was in my room and among other things I was reflecting on love, or rather on how we expect romantic love to be, on how they told us it should be and on how it really is. Ever since we are little they tell us more or less implicitly that love coincides with falling in love; the irrepressible physical attraction, the pupils that dilate, I want us to do bullshit after bullshit on bullshit to show our feeling to the person we are falling in love with. All these things in the collective imagination are love, then everything is seasoned with the idea that in the universe there is a person who completes us and with whom things are easy. Still, the more you grow up, the more shit is not true. The fact is that after a certain number of relationships, more or less adult, more or less lasting, you realize that it does not work according to that implicit idea you had of love, which in fact coincides with passion, with infatuation, and above all that that first year, those first years when everything is easy, do not last; and when that feeling of lightness and fluffiness disappear, we all find ourselves disoriented like ‘but is it really all over?’. Whether it happens after a couple of months or after a couple of years, the result is always the same. Suddenly all the excitement that enveloped the relationship with the other disappears and in its place there is an emptiness that then and then also seems worrying and that we believe is also for this reason that when we think about our past relationships, many times we fail to explain them. How many people have wondered ‘how did I manage to be with that person? What did I find in that person? ‘ The fact is that we are still pushed to throw ourselves into relationships to chase that dream there, the one where all things stop being monotonous out of the blue. We fall in love and the routine no longer seems heavy, the world seems to have secrets that we did not know before; but is love really that thing there?Not that it is absolutely wrong to look for butterflies in the stomach, but I think it is better to confuse butterflies with what in reality is love, which we fear is much more like a deep friendship rather than a situation of perennial chemistry to celebrate. altered. Several years ago, when I was 16, I was talking to a 40-year-old writer who had just broken up with his partner after a dozen years of engagement, and I asked him if falling in love had lasted so long; I mean, 12 years is an eternity of time to be in love. And he looked at me for a moment and replied ‘absolutely not. I began to love this person the moment I stopped being in love with him. For the first time in my life after that moment, I seemed to be able to really see her, to spend time with her without being distracted by the irrationality of falling in love ‘. At the time I didn’t understand it very well, in fact it seemed like a phrase from my grandmother, and I said ‘fuck but how is it possible, what is another reason that can push two people to be together besides the romantic urgency?’ The fact is that in my opinion, after a bit of experience, this writer I had talked to was right. Infatuation can be felt towards 1000 different people, people who at some point will turn out to be wrong, not because they are absolutely wrong but maybe because they are wrong for us. Maybe the life they live is not really the one that goes well with ours. Maybe over time it turns out that worldviews are too different and so on. The infatuation in all of this has a time that can be more or less short but that surely ends at some point. So when I was in my room and I was thinking about this thing, I came to the conclusion that infatuation is cool, but that it also has very little to do with love. Love is perhaps just that feeling that one also feels towards friends or family, that kind of low and loving hum that pervades the time you spend with someone, the beauty of being in silence while being together, accompanying each other while doing the shopping, accompanying each other to do boring things without expecting fun, but with the sole purpose of taking care, sometimes, even with the ability to get bored together.I was thinking about how important and useful it would be to have a slightly deeper vision of love and therefore to see life in a less distressing way. Infatuation is beautiful, but with the expectations and promises it brings with it it becomes distressing, premises like the idea that the desire lasts forever, that the other person is always perfect, that being together will never be disappointing, making long-term plans and so on. If you confuse infatuation with love, then you experience the infatuation itself badly which by its nature should be kept light and shiny; ‘What if the other leaves us, if all of a sudden he changes his mind, if at a certain point he doesn’t love us anymore?’. The fact is that infatuation does not necessarily imply love, unconditional affection, complete acceptance: love, familiarity and affection do. And if that kind of intimacy has developed between two people, it will certainly not be discovered in the first months, in the first years, and that writer is probably right; it turns out that you love and only when you stop being in love.
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 