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.
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, hold out your hand,
waiting for your name,
your veins like purple wisteria,
your skin like peony petals,
and listen to the rhythm of your beats outside the heart,
touch the shores of the lake
and make them tremble
in the reflection of the other shore where I wait for you to blossom and we are alone on a branch of blue star flowers.
How do you learn to walk? How do you learn to be reborn? It starts from a shell, the armor that welcomes the soul, a fire that becomes embers continues to feed a force, it is expanding energy, it is a reaction that causes a flame, it brings back life. It is a crust that breaks, the shell that lets in a crack; it is the moment in which what is inside presses, takes possession of its space, the lung that absorbs oxygen and swells with each breath, it is the sleepy eyes that wake up slowly, morning dew, breeze that carries perfumes, silent communications of nature, everything slowly returns to be heard. It’s having patience, being born and screaming, and crying, and giving voice to emotions, being afraid, too afraid, and not having the courage, and being afraid. Smell life and be afraid of it. How I suffer while I am reborn! I suffer from love and repressed feelings, I suffer from tired anger, I suffer from memories left in the past, they tear the last flaps before granting me relief. I bless and I curse, I curse and I bless. I laugh with pain, I cry with joy. And I’m afraid. I keep my eyes closed in the light that makes its way between the thin eyelids, the clearness of the skin reveals the green, purple veins, a new blood flows strong: rich, healthy, uncontaminated, vaccine, vial of life, antibiotic that burns and melts what rotten stagnates. everything returns to bloom. I begin to live again.
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.
Nefele was sitting in her garden. Nephele watched the green walnuts fallen on the grass. She was bored and sad. By now he had had no contact with his parents for seven months. He did not know how to resist memory and nostalgia. He felt an enormous weight on his heart. Having to pretend nothing was terrible for her. When Thomas called to remind her of the party that evening, Nefele snorted. She was tired of all those parties. They all looked the same. She wanted something different. He got up from his chair and entered the house through the French door that opened onto the garden. Then he went up to his room to bathe and choose a pretty sexy dress for the evening. But he had no desire to show off. Then she chose a black dress and a rock crystal necklace. He looked in the mirror and gave himself a touch of purple lipstick. Thomas was ready and went into the room shivering. 《You are my divine sister tonight. ” Nefele turned and looked at him well. 《Save compliments on your pick tonight.》 At each party Thomas eyed a girl and seduced her. It wasn’t a difficult task since he was a beautiful boy.
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 