STORY OF A FAILURE

What does a woman do when she has had a family, has wanted to forget her dreams, has decided that she no longer wants anything and becomes a shadow of herself? A woman who had a good career and who now has to take care of socks and sheets? We talk about how a woman is always brought or forced by some man to devote himself to the family and to abandon his career. Men never willingly accept a woman who is good and important. Let’s talk about how a woman feels when she looks back on her past and sees a different woman. A woman who was an artist and now no longer creates anything. A blocked, diverted and repressed creative nature. I am not speaking of a woman of the 19th century but of a woman of today, of this century. A woman who secretly mourns her failures and disappointments. The world has not helped her to be able to realize herself. Men have never given her a hand. He has never received help from anyone. A woman who feels alone and who has lost the desire to have a beautiful life. What would you tell her that you have had the opportunity to be able to stay on your path as men?

STORY OF A DECISION

I don’t want to try to live any life again. I got bastardized and the home is worse for me than the cauldron of cannibals. every day too many people ate my best meat and every day I fed their thoughts with succulent ardor and multicolored hopes. This lane no longer belongs to me, I am out of the white lines, I went beyond the yellow lines, I deleted the blue lines and I took possession of a space that has nothing to do with men. I jumped out of the lines of men and women ready for the handkerchief race. I saw my prize and refused it, even though it shone like pure gold. I am never the one who dwells in this non-existent rent. I sell myself to my thoughts. I sell myself to my breath. I sell myself to the stranger who lives in my houses. he has an immense need for inhuman pleasures. he is the worst of the inhuman demons. unfolds me on white sheets and folds my corners without hesitation, an origami of crowded evenings. I go to find the silence of the marble angels. I go where life no longer lives. I don’t bring flowers to anyone, I walk among my buried souls, I mix wet lands, replant dried flowers … I look at the photos of my deceased sisters, my soul mates … the others who were not as lucky as me to live despite my apparent death. They call me a vampire, they tell me a scribe, they think I’m alien. I can’t stand people paved with knowledge. reducing billions of sadness into sonic explosions leaping the pit of pain by stabbing black stars that fall like ash confetti. the apocalypse of sadness makes the angel more terrible and the trumpet sounds like thunder. the din of the mind increases, the detachment from human people increases, I am extinguished. I feel in the last non-stellar sky, on the top floor of inhuman pain, I feel myself going up and down for no reason, my love runs on black ice stairs, on roads that penetrate impossible, fearful darkness. fingers of flesh and wind slip into my torment. fingers of cardiac losses accumulate and open my chest. I open the doors of my feeling and immediately afterwards I regret it. I got a devil in every hair, a devil in my brain, a tiny tiny black elf that rubs itself on white surfaces to write his curses. two horns come out of the dream, two very long sharp golden tinsel. they turn to my power, they enter me without seeing any other direction. they come out of open walls, from walls of forgotten art, they come out of nights pierced by incomprehensible dreams. pearls come out of the darkness of nostalgia, they twist into pointed horns and I stare at endless nights. swamps smoke, the sun goes down, the pain disappears. the abysses fall! incredible crash of pieces of glass, of crystal wings, of metal hearts. my angels dance with dagger blades that become stems of roses without corollas. my angels protect my brain from the depths of steel, from the seas of gold, from cruel power. my angels crash into the walls of my pain, strangled by the love of living. they flee and return to their purple skies. voices intertwine, voices are released, from within and everything comes out, in a moment, in a single second, the world is torn apart and the killer enters the scene. no one knows his past, no one knows his pain, no one knows the subtle pleasure, the need, the desire … the instinct to kill. hidden inside is what triggered the bomb, what triggered the blow, what caused the nefarious fury, the sublime revenge … scenes and other scenes revisited in the imagination, scenes and scenes acted without script … what do you want to know? what do you want to know about a killer or a killer? Is the thinking distorted or is it in the world that everything goes wrong? when the hand is thrown choosing to give death it is the power of the man that holds the heart of the murderer in a grip of sublime pleasure and that makes him feel like any god, renegade or not. what thirst for knowledge burns in your veins? what do you want to know about the pleasure of killing? what brings you on the path of the unspeakable sin of the human mind? silence awakens me and silence doesn’t make me sleep. a crowd throngs inside my heart and I’m ready to strike again. is it me you were waiting for? here is the explanation for all of you, a confession opened from a cell without a lock, a superhuman torture because those who know the journey but never the destination! I didn’t know what I was doing, I didn’t remember I was another person … I was using another name maybe I was there and maybe I wasn’t there, a memory gap, for no apparent reason, something that you feel inside, something that doesn’t add up .., and yet it was I who had done everything, I had decided it a long time ago … or was it even before? I don’t remember, a memory lapse. but why understand? why ask again? there is no explanation for the pleasure of dying inside others. it’s another person, it’s not me. I was not there. I’m not… no voice, no voice anymore … from my silence. a word broke my voice, a word that doesn’t break my silence. never again no voice will come out of my throat. no voice, no voice. he killed the voice, he didn’t kill the silence … and I will kill him in silence … I’ll take away the one thing he doesn’t have … life. no voice, no voice I will give to my silence … nobody wants to know, nobody has to know the torment of being a killer. no more voice will tell you which is my favorite weapon, no word of mine will tell my wound, no voice for those who do not want to hear or hear … no confession beyond all daring! never again do men deserve to know, to know pain … no voice of me, no voice of me … it changes like a fish. no voice for those who do not want to hear or hear … no confession beyond all daring! never again do men deserve to know, to know pain … no voice of me, no voice of me … it changes like a fish. changes like an executioner inside his victim!

NEGLECTED WOMEN

Neglect in a relationship is no different than neglecting something or someone in general. It is a situation where you care very little or do not care about your partner at all.

Intentionally or unintentionally, avoiding someone’s needs leads to a feeling of physical or emotional absence, which can be felt by either partner in that relationship. Neglect is when you promise your woman something and do not keep up later.

When she needs to talk, are you mostly busy? When it’s her birthday or your anniversary, do you find it hard to remember the date? What about that time when she planned a candle light dinner, and you didn’t show up?

Neglect could also be about when you got promoted, or something big happened in your life, but you did not share it with her for whatever reason or rather forgot to tell her. Do you help her with household chores or share equal responsibility?

LONELY WOMEN

In Gail Honeyman’s popular novel, Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine, the protagonist describes loneliness as the new cancer, “A shameful, embarrassing thing, brought upon yourself in some obscure way. A fearful, incurable thing, so horrifying that you dare not mention it.” We don’t talk about it, and yet one in four adults is lonely, according to the Australian Loneliness Report. I’d describe my own loneliness as somewhere between sadness and a deep ache. Although the circumstances that brought it on – stepping out of an incredibly social career, moving to a new neighbourhood and having two babies in quick succession – mean I’m exposed to many risk factors for loneliness, it still took me by surprise. I love my own company, crave alone time and have happily lived by myself in the past.
But, finding myself longing for support and connection – and not being able to get it – led me to a frustrating place where I was left asking: what is this feeling? Is it an emotion? A life state? And why does it feel so awful?
“I think loneliness is an innate signal that a need is not being met, similar to hunger or thirst,” says Dr Michelle Lim, chair of the Australian Coalition to End Loneliness and a senior lecturer in clinical psychology. “From an evolutionary point of view, we are designed to be social, to thrive in groups and develop meaningful connections. The way we’re living now, many of our social needs are not being met, which triggers a stress response.”

https://www.womenshealth.com.au/how-to-deal-with-loneliness

WOMEN ARTISTS AND RIGHTS

Louise Bourgeois – Femme Maison, 1946-47

Feminism’s most powerful tool for transmitting the message was surely art, in all its forms. It is true that women were present in art history both as artists and models, but only the latter is widespread and offers plenty of information, while the former barely stands ground. It was the men who painted women, often objectifying and misinterpreting them, and the topic seems to be more than recurrent.

While there’s no doubt some of them are world’s greatest artworks, it was time to bring to light also the achievements of women in the field, and to do it now.

https://www.widewalls.ch/magazine/how-art-fought-for-womens-rights-feature-2015

MORE BEAUTIFUL

What do you ask the people of this society? To be efficient, brilliant, beautiful. What’s so much about the women of this time? The trick. Because women always have to be perfect. They always have to be beautiful to be noticed and to be considered. women can never forget in their lives that they must always be beautiful. If they do not show themselves at their best they are considered witches, mussels, zombies. In short, women are always required to take care of their appearance. And women spend a lot of money to buy make-up products. They spend a lot of money going to the gym. To make destructive diets. Women are required to have an image always suitable for their role as females. If they don’t show this picture of themselves then they’re lesbians, or crazy, or depressed. A woman who neglects is considered depressed. If you don’t reflect the current fashion model then you are out of every pattern and therefore out of every round of friendships and stay alone. If you don’t talk about all the topics women talk about, then stay alone. Women themselves marginalize you, women themselves are the cruellest throws at other women.

MEN ARE SELFISH

I have always been an altruistic person and I have always helped many boys and men to find work or to make their dreams come true. But no man has ever given me a hand to make my dreams come true. No man has ever worried if I had something to do. Women are always willing to help but a man always thinks only of himself. I’ve always been amazed at male selfishness. My mother told me I was good with others but I spent a lot of time in my life making other people’s dreams come true and my dreams are dead.

MURDERED BY HER FATHER

She was killed at just 14 years old, 
by the man who was to love and protect her.
 Her name was Romina Ashrafi a
nd it is the BBC to tell her story,
 who has traveled around the world from Iran: 
the young woman had fled from home with 
a 35-year-old man she loved and wanted to marry,
 but my father has punished by killing her horribly, 
beheading her with a scythe
 while she was in her bed.

https://www.leggo.it/AMP/esteri/romina_14_anni_scappa_di_casa_col_fidanzato_amore_papa_la_decapita_sonno-5253124.html

FEMININE CREATIVITY

Creative recycling is something
that helps the environment 
and makes sure that many things
not used are thrown away but 
reused using imagination.
Women are very brave in this.
Here are two old lamps that 
I had in the attic, decorate 
with colored ribbons and 
pendants. 
They are very beautiful for 
a bedroom or study. 
I made them a long time ago 
and I am very happy with not 
average throws.

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20200221_124809

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BE CAREFUL!!!!

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