STORY OF A SUNFLOWER

Imagine for a moment a sunflower, a yellow so beautiful that you would look at it for hours; imagine it in a greenhouse, with artificial light, non-passing air and strategically placed sprinklers. The sunflower still there, always remains true and clean and absorbs nothing but hot condensed air between the glass of the greenhouse; he lives in something unnatural, in order to be cut off when he grows perfectly, almost to seem fake. Everything that goes around it is artificial and makes it grow in an environment that is too protected and built up. But will he ever know what freedom is? The beauty of the sunlight beating on the petals and the passion that drives him to turn towards him following him everywhere; the pain of the hail that tries to bring it down. The flower, that of the field, grows stronger and more resistant; maybe not so beautiful because it was forged by time and bad weather, but what about the greenhouse? Oh no, he will be beautiful, he will be an enviable flower, fake but weak and that can easily be razed to the ground and not because someone decides to pick it. No one would pick a sunflower with a few missing petals and a slightly darkened stem. And our world is exactly like that, it's a world of fields and greenhouses and each one grows in one of two places. It is up to us to move and explore, we who can come out of the shell and take our freedom, breathe the air and really savor everything that knows true, of life because those flowers, all flowers will never have the opportunity to do so. , but think about it if they had a choice? I'm sure that if they could they would run away, far away, where they could grow as they were originally created. Free to color the world.

ON THE RIVER

What if it was all in vain? Do you still want to swim, go to the sea, see that marvel of transparent nature. I saw a dolphin come back and the turtles find silent places, the blue becomes deep and the clouds protect us from the heat. It was a wonderful dream but you know, then you wake us up and you find yourself on a beach full of bottles, masks and gloves, the turtles have just suffocated, the dolphins float after having worn out your mask and the clouds do not exist, the heat has become too much for me. I stay closed at home maybe we should get used to it. A dream is not valid but reality kills us.
The more the pain sinks into you, the less you see the wound. Like certain rivers that flow underground, pain, when it is true, is water that slips away without making a sound, a force that erodes and that over there changes the shape of things but, from the outside, they are only stones and silence, the sound of footsteps on the gravel, dry smell.
At certain times of the year and with the right conditions, they swell.
They grow huge, seethe with rage,
charge up and get impetuous, overwhelming anything in their path.
So frighteningly powerful, careless and deafening.
Alive;
In other periods, however, they become small, shy, thin and calm.
We see them creating new paths among the pebbles,
frightened and lost, inside a bed that until some time before was so full of their own furious being.
Without NEVER interrupting their continuous flow.
Don’t stop, that’s their imperative;
Towards their goal. Towards the sea.
That’s why I like them.
Two faces of the same revolution.
I watch them, listen to them, admire them, in awe of their determination.

LIVE WELL?

Some people think they live in disadvantage.
But they don't know how to live in the rest of the world.
You are tired, stressed, depressed. You think your life is the worst of all. You have to put up with cruel colleagues, disgusting table food, hypocritical friends, terrible parents. But does your life really suck? Have you ever seen how people live in certain places far away from you? Do they have everything you have? Are complaining? Are they crying? Do they get depressed?
It seems that now no one can do without something. It seems that the food is just that of plastic, tasteless and odorless.
Many people cannot do without technology, they are slaves to material objects and things.
They have become obsessively collectors of many things that don't have a practical function in real life.
How many people still live in a primordial way? How many people barely have a roof over their heads?
Many children don't even have a bed. They have no food and live in huts made of scraps.
How long would you resist? Would you be able to live without all your usual things?
Sometimes they show you those poor people on TV while you are eating or playing with your cell. Can you imagine not having all the things you have today? Can you imagine if they were taken from you how you would live? Would you be able to resist poverty?
Can you imagine your children rummaging through the garbage for food or clothing?
Can you imagine them without Play Station?
What do they know about the world?
nd what do you know about the world?
Is what you have really so little that you feel unhappy?

DAMNED ART

my dark side always stands out. it is a constant struggle. it sinks and resurfaces. you continue to breathe while remaining at the bottom of the sea. submerged in torment, chained to the passion that takes away a piece of me every day, I fight an existence of continuous death. a black blood flows in my veins, I tried to purify it, eradicate it, erase it from my every vein, from my every cell. but it always remained where it was, even when it seemed to disappear. Each time it regains the upper hand and holds me prisoner in its claws. The night is nothing, it is during the day that the atrocious suffering of being and not being at the same time begins. Like a crack in a well-programmed clock that has this little detail. I ride on the lost hours of my inhuman time and I lose myself in the shadows that are drawn in my secret garden. A little girl comes out of the past, brings flowers to a grave, and says her name is Ophelia. That little girl was me at the age of five, and I was reciting death on the Persian carpet at home. I soon appreciated the silence of certain places where the only living presence were the marble angels. The scent of rotten flowers followed my steps. I never felt so happy as my first time at the cemetery. Was that the paradise everyone was talking about? there you could stay like that, just as you were. He didn’t have to talk to anyone, he could sit and stay for hours with them, the stone angels. They whispered sweet words to me and I alone heard them. The candles fascinated me, I wanted to take them home, my mother scolded me, you can’t steal from the dead! She said. I was upset, for me they were the flames of their lost hearts and I wanted to keep them safe, in my home. Then, when I was finally grown up, I bought as many as I wanted and my room glowed with flames. They were so happy to me, people didn’t understand light, they thought they were candles of the dead and that was it. I miss the cemeteries. It has been a long time since I entered it anymore and nowhere have I found that silence again, perhaps only when my struggle ends will I be able to rest too and be just a stone angel. Art is a need. An instinctive need to create. An instinctive need to be and communicate one’s being to others. Affirming one’s existence with the creative act is the only way 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. Art is power. The power to create from nothing. giving life to what has never existed, which has never been seen, which has never been read. A sublime, divine, most perisolos power. Art feeds on souls. Art is insatiable, it is a ferocious demon, and whoever takes it is doomed and for all life seeks the escape route but one never gets rid of art. It is like a second skin and if you take it off, you skin down and you can’t live anymore. You have art in every cell, like a deadly virus, which never becomes a disease but which accompanies you throughout your life as a faithful travel companion. Art grinds your flesh, your spirit, your whole life. It crushes you and lifts you into the highest sky. you can see without eyes, hear without ears, draw without using your fingers. Art is a miracle of life and death. Whoever possesses the gift is condemned to a parallel life. You enter and exit as if through a window. We go in and out of ourselves, we feed ourselves to swine, we are left in pieces and then we start again. Who would ever want such a life? yet everyone envies us and do not know what it means to have the FIRE that consumes you!

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