IN THE REAL WORLD

HAPPY 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'm locked up at home, maybe we should get used to it.

A dream is not valid but reality kills us.

THE GREEN EYED GIRL

The green-eyed girl watched the falling rain hit the window; the drops competed to finish first, it was like a competition and the first one that arrived disappeared into thin air.
A bit like life.
Life is a constant race of speed, only those who keep running find their way while the others get lost halfway and in order not to waste time they take another one that leads them to unhappiness.
Then there are those like the girl with the emerald eyes who from the beginning do not know which way to take and remain at the starting point waiting for someone to pick them up and take them on the right path.
But that someone will never come.

Her eyes slaughtered by the night.
She who in her eyes had the routes to the moon.
She who was cold inside, the cold that freezes your veins.
She who no longer believed in love, she didn't want a guardian angel.
Those eyes have seen too many things for the few years he has.
Her eyes always on the edge of the precipice.
Always ready for the explosion.
They say that crying is good, good for the soul
But when your soul is too tormented where nothing makes sense they are just wasted tears.
Like, have you ever confused the dream with reality?
Have you ever been high?
Did you believe that your train was moving while it was stopped?
Maybe I was just a little girl and that's it.

CONFIDENT GIRL

Did you realize that what you do is never enough? That nothing is ever enough? Have you noticed that even when you give everything to someone it always seems too little? That it is not enough to be kind, it is not enough to really believe in it, it is not enough to love without any restraint. It takes a plan, it takes a bit of organization even with people. It takes a tactic, a bit of logic and let alone if I can do it, under these conditions. It is obvious that I come out in a bad way from every day, as if in the evening I was removed from a washing machine that lasted about ten hours, with the spinning set at maximum power, and then they laid me in the cold, all wrinkled. It is simply that I have always thought “if I smile sooner or later they will smile at me”, “if I love sooner or later they will love me”, “if I do something with my heart sooner or later they will notice it”. And yet it is not said, and this is the most atrocious truth in front of which I have found myself bending. Love does not always generate love. Sometimes it generates anger, turmoil, and even hatred. My one hundred percent is worth less than zero to someone and there is very little to do. I would like to give up, sometimes, lately almost always, then I care about the world. I care about the music, I care about the poetry, I care about the sound of the rain. I was fooled by that child who told me the other day “of course I believe in Santa Claus, why shouldn’t I?”. And indeed, why shouldn’t you? Desires fool me, that two or three still resist; the kisses steal me, the memories of the days when I dragged myself unhurriedly from the beach to the sea, convinced that I had all the time in the world. I am fooled by the people who sometimes notice me, under my stage costume, and tell me “I see you strange”. They fool me because they see me, and it already seems a lot to me

I’ve always been a confident girl in the people around her. From an early age, every time, I noticed the good side of people. I was naive, yes, but a child always has that fragility and naivety that characterizes her. It is always based on the kind and caring part of people. Now that little girl has grown over the years, but slowly she had to change her mind about what she had seen in people. About what he had discovered about the world and the men who lived there. He had discovered so many fake smiles; many gentle but violent deeds; so many words of encouragement thrown to the wind just to be said; so many actions done with coldness without putting your heart into it. She was disappointed, shocked, saddened. Because the world she had imagined was not at all like the one her dark eyes saw around it. It was all more real, more violent, more serious. As if the eyes of that little girl from years ago had only seen the best part of everything. While now he saw only what little was left of it, after its impact with true reality. He had had to learn to adapt. To force her too to suppress the urge to scream at those who offended her just because she was different. Smile even at those who did not deserve. To be reduced to loving people only through words on a screen. Protect yourself with bitter words in an attempt not to get burned. But maybe he would have made it. Sooner or later, she would be able to bring out what was in the world. Maybe she really could have left a tiny mark that would have screamed at the world “Hey, she did this!” . Who knows, maybe that sign is already doing it. Who knows, maybe it’s just these words that remind you of the past a little bit that have left it to you.

NARCISISM AND POWER

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.

SLEEPING DUTY

Sleeping is one of those things that has always fascinated me. Why we sleep, I mean. We all have basic needs as living beings: we must drink, eat, carry out our organic functions and then we must sleep. Otherwise we don’t work, otherwise we go haywire, in short, we die not to sleep (we have to mention, what do I know, like Nightmare?), It is one of those basic needs. On average, we should sleep about 8 hours a day, which is equivalent to 1/3 of the day, which then means, in a nutshell, about 1/3 of our life. It is a lot of time to think about it, many say it is “wasted” time … maybe instead we have to stay awake and work for 2/3 of our life to get 1/3 of that absolute freedom. When we sleep we enter a world that is made different. We lose contact with reality, dream and re-process the information collected inside and outside of us in a completely personal way. And this step is necessary and fundamental in order not to freak out. Yet we take it for granted. We are what we are when we are awake, that is our identity, what we believe we are is represented by our conscious image and when we are awake and alert we worry about buying a comfortable mattress, arranging the bedroom furniture according to the Feng Shui, to change the sheets, to sleep well, in short. Because sleeping well is more important than eating well, for example. But we take it for granted. I emphasize this, because it is something that few people talk about. At work in the morning typically “what did you do last night?” “Well, I was tired, I had dinner, I saw a movie and then I went to sleep” and then that’s it, life ended there when you closed your eyes and starts again in the morning when the alarm goes off. We recharge our batteries every night, but we don’t talk much about it.

Everything that the human being designs has this mechanism inside: we are always convinced that whatever we do must somehow recharge or rest. We consider it a primary need even for inanimate things. We cannot design or conceive of something that is in perpetual motion. Something that is always on, something that can work perfectly forever. Everything we design has our own basic needs inherent. Only when we have a very bad dream or are unable to sleep does the topic become public “you know, last night I had a terrible dream!” “Ah, don’t tell me, in the last period I haven’t slept so much I was stressed from work, I woke up every 5 minutes!”, Only then do dreams and dream imaginary interfere with our everyday life otherwise nothing, we take it for granted. Sometimes I like to think I have a parallel life. At night, just as it happens in reverse during the day, I am unaware of what I did when I was awake, I wear different clothes and wake up on the other side, where I have another life. They interfere with each other only when there is something serious that does not work on one or the other side of that thin horizon. Otherwise they continue independently, like two parallel lines. Maybe in my dreams I do a different job, I live in another house, I have other animals, other friends, maybe I also have a husband and children, who knows … I am unaware of my daytime life just as I am unaware of mine during the day dream life. It’s not a very original thought, I know it from myself. But it still fascinates me terribly.

I DIDN’T KNOW REALITY

I have lived for half of my life in my art world. Then I got out and discovered reality. Unfortunately for me, not knowing the rules, I didn’t know how to behave, so I was always spontaneous, sincere, without ulterior motives. Instead I had to learn that reality is artificial and that people are almost always constructed and false. I had to suffer criticism because I am too “sociable, open, convivial, affectionate ..” Think about how a person who always has everything with his heart and hears certain things can be. So they explained to me that I have to follow certain behaviors to be accepted by people, people who are all cold, detached, always with a mask and not at all spontaneous. I refused, rather I am alone with my dog ​​and my books. We wrote, sang and danced and the inevitability of the black future was tangible. We looked too far away. We didn’t touch a drop, no substance but our minds were so full of things that we were unstoppable and unstoppable. At night we wandered into philosophical discussions and our intent was not to explain things but to express our experiences. We went to the most unknown alleys of Palermo, wandering in search of wonderfully unknown corners. We sighed as if we were in love with the air itself. How can one continue to live after having touched eternity? How can we expect a future that was invisible to us? We were our infinity.

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!

I’M A NAIVE

I am still naive. I discovered reality at 22. They tell me that I am too spontaneous, I have no malice, I am like a child. Many people have exploited, used and abused me. Sometimes I don’t recognize evil, I trust others a lot, I’m a white dove but the others are all snakes. I always pray to God to give me a good heart, only this I need but my good heart causes me a lot of damage because people take advantage of me. There is no girl as naive as me. I tried to change but I couldn’t. I try to help others and in the past I have thought more about others than myself. Art has carried me with it for many years and when I entered the real world I did not know the rules and so I was bewitched by certain people who did not deserve anything of me. I have been wrong so many times and I did not know why, I did not know I was different, because I had been far from the world and I had lived only among the colors. It was very difficult to get close to the real world because I was a poor naive.