I HAD TOO MANY THINGS

My mother told me that I filled the house with stones, shells, feathers, dead insects found around, dried lizards, beetles, … I could be a naturalist but I didn’t like it. I found those things and thought them beautiful and put them in boxes and our salon looked like a museum. My mother prefers knick-knacks and porcelain objects. She wanted me to paint pictures for the living room and she wanted them dark. It was always an argument with her because she didn’t like what I did. She wanted “still lifes” but I painted living things. Then I put the rolled up painted fabrics, sometimes I threw them away, when he criticized me and made me angry. I threw a lot of things that I kept in my room. I then took some of them to my house afterwards. But then I burned it all because they were bad memories of anger experienced because of him. When I was sick I painted. It wasn’t therapeutic. After that I felt drained and weak. My energy was all gone into the painted canvas.

PANDORA’S SECRET

Using teeth and throats,
lips for breath beats, the flesh to whisper,
storm of veins, paw, sweat.
In the shell of your eyes winters a hard star,
an eternal gem.
But your voice is a calm sea, ancient shells,
pieces of reason,
mind in fragments of the sea.
The palm of the hand in the sky he marvels, the sun darkens,
to be able to look at you better.
You are also a grass, an orange,
a cloud, a rock on which to crash. The world falters at the kidneys,
the pleasure of the inner sediment contracts.
The heat of the heart expands, twisting towards the atrocious futures.
We sat exhausted in the rubble of your body,
we sucked the liquor from your brain,
and not only that, and we had to keep walking jumping over obstacles of love.
You are suspended on the circle of life
and you hold your skull well polished like an ancient object,
you cover it with your hair, you put it back.
Put on another wig and you are another different woman.
You have only indulged in your perfume of infinity.

CREATIVE SHELLS

When a predator enters the shell in an attempt to eat its contents and does not succeed, it remains inside a part of it that injures and irritates the meat of the mollusk, and the oyster if it closes and must do I continued with that enemy, with the stranger. Then the mollusk begins to release layers of itself to the intruder, and they were tears: mother of pearl. A tight concentricity built in a period of five or five years, a pearl with a unique and irritable character. What initially serves to free and differentiate the shell from what irritates it and distributes various ornaments, a precious and inimitable jewel. So is beauty: it hides stories, often painful. But only the stories make it interesting.
The waves of the sea break slowly on the beach, one after another, and every now and then they find a shell and try to take it away, to take it with them. The waves of the sea remind me so much of me, and you are the shell. With every smile, every kiss, every glance, I tried to take you away with me and for a while I succeeded. But then the low tide pushed the shell away from the wave, and made another wave take care of it, and the wave was very bad, and it stretched a lot, a lot to reach the shell only to find out that it now belonged to another wave. Eventually the wave withdrew. She will miss her shell so much, she will miss it forever.
Observe a child collecting shells on the beach: he is happier than the richest man in the world. What is its secret? That secret is mine too. The child lives in the present moment, enjoying the sun, the brackish air of the beach, the wonderful expanse of sand. It is here and now. It doesn’t think about the past, it doesn’t think about the future. And whatever he does, he does it with totality, intensely; he is so absorbed in it that he forgets everything else. The secret of happiness is all here: whatever you do don’t allow the past to distract your mind and don’t allow the future to disturb you.
We should learn to listen better to ourselves; and I don’t mean to hear what we say, I mean to explore ourselves, understand our fears, our needs, understand what and what is really worth fighting for; like when picking up a shell from the beach we bring it to our ears like children, thinking we hear the sound of the sea, and instead we are listening to our blood flowing. What I mean is that we perpetually live in the illusion of feeling something; but in reality we cannot understand what we are going through either, perhaps simply because we cannot describe it. I believe that the day when, in addition to giving a name to the feelings, we will be able to explain them; it will be the day when all our emotions lose their importance; like when you bring the shell to your ear: if you think you hear the sound of the sea it intrigues you and you keep trying; but in the sound of the blood flowing in your veins you find nothing interesting, and you leave the shell there, on the table, along with the previous hopes
In the last months / years, I found myself in close proximity to myself, I had to make happy and many painful decisions to be able to put myself at the center of my world and not in a corner where I have always been; it’s complicated if you don’t even know where to start. Yet here I am, I have already achieved some set goals and I am punctually creating small goals to be able to remember the fatigue and satisfaction I felt. It’s nice to be energetic, with the desire to live life and always fill it with new things to see / do and zero boredom as usual I was and I’m used to, but it’s also just as nice to rest, get lost in memories or in that exact moment , not counting the minutes or the hours, realizing that in that precise moment, in this little big world, you are there too.
Memories always stop at the limit, like shells at the foot of the sea, just a breath of wind and the waves immerse them and what was outside is now inside, like emotions, when the memory passes in the eyes, Emotions bathe them, And what was inside is now outside.

%d bloggers like this: