Let the memory frames run
not yet phoenix of a simulation
that perhaps it will never seem to be.
Effigy of me who do not exist
until they are.
It is only the urgency to avoid the present,
escape without conscience,
and life peels off
crumbling behind the shoulders.
We are all terminally ill,
suffering from an unknown syndrome,
an evil with an imponderable course
which can exhaust its cycle
in a few minutes or several decades.
And we sick, we stay
in an incalculable expectation.
I feel the movement of the wind, it creeps between my fingers, transforms my blue dress making it sway like sea water.
melancholy hits me, I close my eyes and breathe distant air. melancholy of places never seen before, of lights and colors; I feel them under my skin without ever having lived them. the murmur of the wind among the leaves becomes more intense, it cradles my faded memories.
I feel consumed.
- but who am I? a wrapper. an empty, jagged shell. I do not know. I don't know who I am.
a muffled melody, I barely feel it
and my body becomes stone.
and within that body of stone the pain that was awakens.
and I feel it squeeze my breath, hold it, scratch it, and my chest burns, torn and wants to explode, but it doesn't.
it was, but it is no longer.
I open my eyes, the sky clears up, I feel it calling me.
there is a perfume, when it is no longer night, but it is not yet morning. there is a tangible scent that the wind carries with it and in silence
I
I hear
peace.
and in the stillness of that juncture which is no longer night, but not yet morning, the words of the wind fly free.
the air is crisp, the grass wet, the trees sway and I seem to hear them talking. I seem to see them dance.
the wind is becoming, it is change.
the wind blows, while the sun rises on the horizon, brash, alive, passionate. it blows hard enough to lift my feet off the ground. and while the world still sleeps I fly over thoughts, dreams,
I fly
light
like
a
butterfly
towards the sky.
I become
of wind.
The sky written inside the chest, where a snake bites my heart. Outside breathes the gold but inside the blood languishes. I was like her treasure, I shone with crystal clear breath. Past. Turned. The soul counts the steps behind the anguish. He chases people and the sea of nothing. Spasms of the rain. The grass blades bend but tomorrow they will be straight again and the same as before. I turn my face, the body sends messages, the code is always the same. A part. One condition. Meditated with a strange thought. Like a karma video. It is important to look at it and understand what could have happened.It’s strange what I feel inside of me, I have this strange feeling that he doesn’t want to leave me. I don’t sleep, I don’t eat, I can’t understand what I’m getting. Anxiety? Could be. Nervousness? Mashed potato. Stress? I do not know. The fact is that I can not understand, I can not think and above all I can not speak. I don’t want to overwhelm people with my problems.Sometimes I think of those moments when I felt emotions such as sadness, melancholy, pain … Many of us push away these moods because they are negative, yet a smile is more sincere after a cry … Maybe it is it is the sincerity that is frowned upon, in moments of weakness we really show what we are and it is scary for many to show their face without being able to hide … This is why no one shows his mood anymore, we all now want to hold back the suffering within us, while this corrodes and poisons us.
Pablo Neruda, exiled from Chile, arrives in a small town on an Italian island. Neruda is very famous and the postman who brings him the letters is convinced that he too has become a poet, as well as his close friend but ….
Sometimes we think that knowing an important person will change our life. For example, I have a very famous relative in America but I never wanted to contact him in any way. These people usually seem friendly and loving but then .... I don't love the life I lead but I would never go and ask him for anything. Yes I know, someone else in my place would already go to Los Angeles to meet him. But I'm naive and don't believe in recommendations. This is why everything I write and do will remain in the trash. But it does not matter. My puppy Valkirya is important to me, she is worth more than all the famous people I know.
The footprints of the night walk beside me. I meet the eyes of tomorrow and call in silence the actions, the waves, the tracks of the sea wind. I remain leaning against the clouds, my face sways, he tells you lashing words. Blue candy floss night. I have a root in my heart. I have roots in the mind. I have roots that germinate blue flowers. My face in clouds. My space inside. Remember the stone. The stone in the blue sea where I seat and think about your galaxy. My blue eyes see your nitght flowers.I often stay staring at the sky while I’m in the car or just when I’m walking around. I look at the sky because from there my mind opens and makes me reach the sea of stars on the expanse of salty, clear water, full of star reflections. It reminds me of winter evenings, when with very few degrees I was short-sleeved on the beach taking pictures. As I looked at the immensity of the sky, I imagined people who, like me, looked at nothing like a dreamer. I imagined people looking at the stars immersed in black to return home or as they looked out on the balcony or the bedroom window with a cigarette between their lips or a steaming cup, and in taking their time to think, they lost themselves looking at the sky with eyes and heart full of anger or sadness, letting oneself be engulfed in the bubble leaving the world outside, and who knows, maybe we are all astronauts but with the fear of leaving the earth and entering the darkness of the universe among the planets and the stars.During the day I manage not to get lost in my thoughts. I easily evade tedious issues, impending responsibilities, troubled problems. But in the evening, how the fuck is it done? What is the reason that leads us to reflect more than necessary? Why does the setting of the sun urge us to express our concerns, to accumulate our disturbances? It is late at night and, while I let myself be carried away by this inexplicable introspective flow, I have not yet found the answer.I think that in twenty years of existence – let’s call it life, if you like – I still haven’t found half a person willing to look at me for a moment and – why not? – to look inside, and not stop outside. I have so many things inside that I don’t say, I don’t do, I don’t share with anyone because no one in my opinion can understand them as I see them. And it’s always the same story. I’m not saying I don’t love my friends. I couldn’t say it and denying it would be a lie. They are an essential part of my good mood. But I don’t know, sometimes these people seem unknown to me in spite of everything, because they don’t see things as I do, and it’s a bad thing because it means that I can’t really get to know myself probably and it makes me wonder if these people would like it. same good to another me, more personal, iridescent, perhaps crazy. I just want to be myself even more and I just can’t take so many things inside me anymore that are filtered before I speak, think, act in the company of other people. Ask me something, whatever interests you looking at my blog, I am in a moment of absolute truth.
We are the ones that the night swallows, those that the sound pushes away the unlit lights come on we fly over the extinguished flames We are the ones who lost their wings while they were not flying We are light as feathers and we listen to the wind. We are the ones who don’t dream at night, sleep doesn’t touch them, life doesn’t even touch them. We are free from any vulgar emotion. We walked with Arthur while he wrote, and we were crazy, and he screamed. But we are no longer the poets of the past, with drugs in ink. We saw the world as it became and we hated it until we didn’t write anymore
I am an Italian artist and also an art therapist. In my country, Italy, so full of art, we artists are seen as useless people. However, we have some nice things. But our economic value is zero. We are a nullity to this company. I had an art blog and I deleted it. I had a poetry blog and I deleted it. Poetry and art are considered useless things in my country. If you produce you exist but if you don’t produce you don’t exist. It is really sad but now this is the situation.
Is it the blood that makes us the same? Does the blood relate to us? Do mother cells bind us or separate us? The ways out of a parasitic heart. The windows of the soul become opaque and without curtains. What does our existence prove if the value is given by fake smiles? The dark side of our biology. The pain of collapse. The taste of the night. The noise of an affection built from the unknown past. It was dawn when my heart stopped beating. nd a defibrillator did not and did not serve life. I was sorry to leave this planet. But I had become different. I had become a lonely man. Plants and birds kept me company. But I no longer had my mother Earth. no longer saw a grain of sand in my shoes. I was not honest with anyone. They asked me how I was and I always nodded. We who are love. We who are hate . We who are all things together , The worst and the best. We who are on the razor’s edge that does not cut. Which remains suspended above the sun. We who are good people. We are screwed by ourselves. We are not different and finite in infinite worlds. We are weird things stuck. We are the good and the bad. We are forgotten fibers. We ended up being divided. Seeds fall into the ground and do not grow. Seeds fall into rocks and grow. We are rocks that receive water and do not serode. We must always be alert to defend the world. nd spread our wings without anyone seeing them. We are Alpha and Omega without eyes. ( FAIRY QUEEN)
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 