A LOOK AT THE SEA

Do not take anyone to see the sea, which is an important thing, it is not a trivial matter. Going with someone to see the sea is not like going to the bar, to see the shop windows in the square or to get an ice cream. It really is so much more. To look at the sea bring us someone who shares the silence with you, it is difficult to find it, but if you find it you have no escape. You see it as if you were in another world, a world where silence is enough to understand each other. A world of your own. Bring us someone you don’t have to talk to, because the sea is a silent film that surprises you for the colors, for the sensations it causes in your stomach and for the noises of the waves that make you feel in a balanced situation. But what really counts, of the sea, are the nuances. As with everything beautiful on the other hand. Bring us those who have been able to show you that you are worth much more than what you think, than what you would expect, someone who makes you a priority and not a pastime. That person who can hear your innermost tragedies, without thinking that they are trivial and irrelevant things. To see the sea bring us those who can understand you without speaking, who will pick you up if you go away, who gives you the opportunity to lean on his shoulder when you fall, who if looking into your eyes, incredibly notices a bit of the sea in you too. That person who, when he looks up to the sky, reads your name. Bring us someone just like that, who makes you feel chaos inside and a magical person outside, full of life. You will seem to see something amazing, shocking, fascinating and for the first time in your life it will seem like you are seeing the sea, because you have never seen it like this.
I leave you everything that I don’t need, that slows me down, that saddens me, that weighs me down. Everything that is too little, too tight, too warm, everything that creases me even if at times it softens me. I leave you some silver until you can completely heal that wound on my heart, and I also leave you a little bit of what I carry is silent in my heart. I leave you the disappointment and indifference with which you forced me to dress, I leave you the forced smiles, the tears in the dark timeless nights. I leave you a piece of me, another piece of life that once again taught me the value of life. I carry with me, the change, the enchantment, the wonder, the desire to surprise me again, the strength, the resilence, the sincere smiles, the full-mouthed laughter, the deep breaths that take your breath away, the becoming, discovering yourself every day, that hunger for life that never leaves me. That dream that I tied tightly to my finger. All the best in me.
Every now and then they ask me why I’m like this. They do not know that I have never had anyone who cared about making me feel good, that I always had to organize myself, be alone as a friend, as a confidant. I hate surprises because I’ve never had one, I’m afraid to let go because no one has been there to catch me, it’s always so damn obvious that I can solve everything by myself, I’m the one who’s always fine and if she’s not fine it will pass by itself. Learn to let go Get away from your own mind All those images That little by little they will become weak Let it flow on the face The tears that will be thrown into an ocean In which we will have to learn to swim Leave those shores behind Traveling to discover new lands And don’t hold back anything The heart will know how to keep what really matters The memories, the precious ones Able to make us survive And live Continue to grow, mature Blossom like tulips And learn to let go when the rainy days return And start again All over again.

TWO FACES

I have too many thoughts, too many things that I miss, passages that I am going to look for and that in reality I have no interest in looking for. Paranoia is like a mother who is convinced that you do drugs and looks for the reeds in every dress you put on, a try, anything and instead you have not touched anything but for some inconclusive reason you have anxiety. There. This is what happens in my head when I try to understand why I have anxiety even if everything is ok. What am I trying to find? Why do I always have to feel guilty? Why does my past affect me so much? I would like to be quiet as I have always been but maybe I just have to force myself and look in the mirror for what I am without veils. Without what there have never been. I have to believe in me.
In all these years I have probably experienced too much internal noise, thought too much, I put too many problems, many non-existent ones, I have never actually given myself a moment of peace, of silence. Sometimes it seems that I don’t do anything, that I don’t even move, that I stand still in front of books, in front of the screen, in front of a sheet, a canvas, and instead I never stop away from the eyes of others. The only time I stop is when I look at the sky, or at the sea, when I want to understand what it has to look at, what it is, and why. Because the universe is stressed, because the sea is always pissed off. I just want one of those clear-cut explanations, such as those given to children, those full of imagination and reason. But I have no peace in my soul, I always try NOT to adapt, not to homologate, not to stay in it too much, I want to look at the world with different eyes, I want to feel free and light.I don’t mind celebrating what is not a goal for me. I never want to celebrate anything because the real event for which to do it has yet to come. I want to be with her and look at the world with different eyes, I want that for once I can decide and celebrate MY choice, not that of others, not theirs, not yours. I don’t want to celebrate my achievements, I didn’t choose to participate in the match. This is not what I want. After all, I will just want a moment of silence, have dinner by the sea and be in silence, alone with you.

INTO THE DARK SIDE

Its dark side always stands out. For Amleta it is a constant struggle. It sinks and resurfaces. You continue to breathe while remaining at the bottom of the sea. Submerged by 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 his veins, he tried to purify it, eradicate it, erase it from every vein, from every cell of mine. But it always remained where it was, even when it seemed to disappear. Each time it takes over 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: it rides on the lost hours of its inhuman time and gets lost in the shadows that are drawn in its secret garden. A little girl comes out of the past, brings flowers to a grave, that of her grandmother, and says her name is Hamlet. That child was her, at the age of eight, when she was reciting death on the Persian carpet at home. Soon Hamlet appreciated the silence of certain places where the only living presence were the marble angels. The scent of rotten flowers followed her steps. She had never felt so happy as her first time in 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 her in the wind among the cypresses and only she could hear them. The candles fascinated her, if she wanted to take them home, her mother scolded her, you can’t steal from the dead! He told her. She was upset, for her those were the flames of their vanished hearts and she wanted to keep them safe in her home. Then, when she was finally big, she bought as many as she wanted and her room glowed with flames. Those red flames were so happy for her! People did not understand the beauty of light, they believed them candles of the dead and that’s it. She misses the cemeteries. It has been a long time since he went and nowhere has he found that silence again. Perhaps one day not too far away, when this struggle of yours will also end, she too will be able to rest there and be only a stone angel.
I have lived half my life years now. I have traveled the world. Saw many good and bad things. Experienced with good and bad people. I was abused at 4 years old. But I was saved by art. I loved it very much. People and animals. So much so that I was able to save a lot of people except myself. I have always done everything following my heart but my heart has taken me to a country where I am dying out. I am dependent on vital drugs for me and I cannot marry from this damn nation. I hate being here. I hate my beating heart. I see too many people just looking for money. That’s why I’m alone here. Many have used and exploited me. But I said enough. I have given too much of myself. The world will perish and there is no Gandalf to screen Evil. No brave group to take out the orcs. We human beings are finished now. Machines own people. When I talk about real life and not virtual, they laugh in my face. All. It is normal for them to be on the web 24 hours a day. They consider me strange to me because I prefer to go out and live outside and not inside a screen. But unfortunately there are few left without cell in hand. We are just white flies. The trouble is this. See how life goes. You see that working does not bring happiness. Not even love gives happiness. Neither are friendships. And neither does the money. So what’s the use of all this play? Adaptation to society. From an early age they tell us that we are here and we must do as they tell us to do. And we all to obey. Whoever escapes is lost. Lost or free? Boh. Freedom always has a price. But in the meantime we are in a cage like lions and have to be content with this stupid survival? I am tired.
I’m remembering myself. I’m remembering who I am. Jasmine scent. Sometimes the neigh of a horse woke me up in the morning. The open cracks let the sun’s rays pass through and that dust looked like magic dust in the air. The voices of the neighbors, the morning television, the news. The heat already after the early hours of dawn. The scorching heat. The life that melted inside the water bottles. Ice cubes on your fingers. On the deck chair reading a book, chasing away ruinous flies. Then the dives in the sea, every day, every summer month, every year in the villa by the sea. I hated that season. I hated the heat and mosquitoes. In my literary solitude I felt detached from life outside. I didn’t know what human comedy was still like. I didn’t know sex and I didn’t even know love. Me on the deckchair, with my Flaubert and Miss Felicita and her parrot. My elementary teacher loved me. He gave me that book because I was good. I was always studying and always finishing my homework. I drew a lot. Notebooks full of drawings. Trees, flowers, animals, …. masks. That book stole my soul. That book stole my life: “A simple heart” was entitled. I didn’t even know who this Flaubert was. I also really liked the illustrations of that girl who lived alone with that bird. That girl who then died with a smile in her mouth. The smell of jasmine mixed with the scent of fried fish. The smell of jasmine that filled the summer nights. The sweat of being able to touch my pain made word. The pain that made me alone. I spoke English, nobody understood it. It was not modern English. It was the language of another life of mine. I’m remembering myself. About that little girl sitting in the deck chair. How I read that book without knowing who Flaubert was. I was only 11 years old and I didn’t know what love was. I didn’t know what life was. The pages were full of illustrations. Such beautiful designs!

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!

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