RISE FROM THE EARTH

Divine Mother, majestic land in which we are all born,
forget our karma,
sparkles of radiant lives,
you, divine light brighter than the sun,
golden water.
Where the petals open our spring,
rise from the end of the black age.
Magnify the heart,
amplify love,
becomes birth again.
Mother of us all,
blue flame of the sky,
defeat the color of Death.
Open your roses,
stretch out your hands,
scatter your heart inside the branches,
fruit be given to each weary breath.
Lady of the golden earth
walk with your feet
over the terrible devils and kill them all.

SUDDENTLY

The fundamental problem of humanity for 2000 years has remained the same .. love each other. Only now it has become more urgent, much more urgent, and when we hear again today that we must love each other, we know we don’t have much time left now. We always love too little and too late. Let us hurry to love. Because at the sunset of life we ​​will be judged on love. Because there is no wasted love, and because there is no greater emotion than feeling when we are in love that our life totally depends on another person, that we are not enough for ourselves. And because all things, but also inanimate ones, such as mountains, seas, roads, but more, more, the sky, the wind, more, the stars, more, the cities, the rivers, the stones, buildings, all these things which in themselves are empty, indifferent. Suddenly when we look at them they are charged with human meaning and fascinate us, move us, why? .. Because they contain a presentiment of love, even inanimate things, because the planking of all creation is love and because love matches the meaning of all things. Happiness, yes, happiness, speaking of happiness, look for it, every day, continuously, indeed anyone who listens to me now is looking for happiness now, in this moment because it is there, you have it, we have it , because they gave it to all of us. They gave it to us as a gift when we were little, they gave it to us as a dowry, and it was such a beautiful gift that we hid it, like dogs with bones do when they hide it, and many of us do. they hid it so well they don’t know where they put it, but we have it. You have it, look in all the closets, the shelves, the compartments of your soul, throw everything away, the drawers and the bedside tables that you have inside and see that it comes out, there is happiness, try to turn around suddenly you might catch her by surprise but she is there, we must always think about happiness, and even if she sometimes forgets us, we must never forget her. Until the last day of our life, and we must not be afraid even of death, look that it is more risky to be born than to die eh .. we must not be afraid of dying, but never begin to really live, jump into existence now, here.

THE SHADOW OF THE KEY

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.

FINGERS OF NATURE

It is fascinating. Nature is wonderful, she has managed to create beautiful things by herself, of perfect symmetry, all so calculated and precise. The leaves, the flowers, us, even if not perfectly. But it’s all calculated right? We were created to be imperfect and however we try to achieve perfection we will never be, neither physically nor morally. What then, who decides that something is perfect or imperfect? Which is right or wrong? What is good or bad? Who is stupid or smart? What is weird or normal? What is it that really makes it so? It’s just our idea. So theoretically symmetry does not exist and exists. Perfection does not exist and exists. All in contrast with everything. The stars are fascinating. They are very large, much larger than our planet and yet they are there, bright dots that shine in the sky, a hint of color in the dark, forming constellations, forming dreams, galaxies, galaxies of dreams. They are there in the sky, so far away, so close, that if you put yourself on your toes, it seems that you can touch them with your hand, but you cannot. The water, what the hell, is beautiful. The surface tension, its clarity, its necessity. But I don’t understand why nature hasn’t made it available to everyone. Then the matter, that everything is made up of everything.
There is no end of matter, a thing created first of all. The universe, which cannot be infinite, come on, everything has an end. Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring, Life, The Earth, Stories, Kisses, Friendships, Loves, Roads, Travels, Holidays, Nights, Days, Weeks , Months, years, sheets, notebooks, the most beautiful books, everything. And the numbers? How can they be infinite? They are not. There are many combinations, Infinite, But we manage to pronounce them up to a certain point, then we start with the astronomical unit, with the light years. And then nature has given us everything, even the possibility of hurting ourselves, it is up to us to choose what to do, it has made us totally free. Have you ever thought about all this? To fate? Exists? In my opinion, yes. A story written somewhere. Two people destined to meet, two people who will fail together, but not alone, two people who together will overcome everything. A person destined to be born to change the world, a savior on this unjust and infamous planet. But who created all this? And remember that the case does not exist, it is not that one day two planets decided by CASE to collide and create the Earth, right? You see, it’s all so wonderful, fascinating, twisted. All so beautifully beautiful.

I BECAME WIND










I feel the movement of the wind, it creeps between my fingers, transforms my blue dress making it sway like sea water. melancholy hits me, I close my eyes and breathe distant air. melancholy of places never seen before, of lights and colors; I feel them under my skin without ever having lived them. the murmur of the wind among the leaves becomes more intense, it cradles my faded memories. I feel consumed. - but who am I? a wrapper. an empty, jagged shell. I do not know. I don't know who I am. a muffled melody, I barely feel it and my body becomes stone. and within that body of stone the pain that was awakens. and I feel it squeeze my breath, hold it, scratch it, and my chest burns, torn and wants to explode, but it doesn't. it was, but it is no longer. I open my eyes, the sky clears up, I feel it calling me. there is a perfume, when it is no longer night, but it is not yet morning. there is a tangible scent that the wind carries with it and in silence I I hear peace. and in the stillness of that juncture which is no longer night, but not yet morning, the words of the wind fly free. the air is crisp, the grass wet, the trees sway and I seem to hear them talking. I seem to see them dance. the wind is becoming, it is change. the wind blows, while the sun rises on the horizon, brash, alive, passionate. it blows hard enough to lift my feet off the ground. and while the world still sleeps I fly over thoughts, dreams, I fly light like a butterfly towards the sky. I become of wind.

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.

LOOKING AT THE SKY

They will think you fell

That you are in pieces, broken, fractured

And maybe maybe

Destroyed

They will think you will need help

But they won't come to help you anyway

Maybe they will feel sorry

Don't care

Never give explanations

To those who do not ask questions

Who doesn't care

To those who do not seek it

They will think of you as weak, fragile

Not suitable for a life like this

Not suitable for clashes

Not eligible to be first

Never heal yourself

Whose eye

He doesn't have a hand

Ready to give everything

They will think you fell

And instead

You're just looking at the sky

IN THE BLUE NIGHT

The footprints of the night walk beside me.
I meet the eyes of tomorrow
and call in silence
the actions, the waves,
the tracks of the sea wind.
I remain leaning against the clouds,
my face sways, he tells you lashing words.
Blue candy floss night. I have a root in my heart.
I have roots in the mind.
I have roots that germinate blue flowers.
My face in clouds.
My space inside.
Remember the stone.
The stone in the blue sea where
I seat and think about your galaxy.
My blue eyes see your nitght flowers.
I often stay staring at the sky while I’m in the car or just when I’m walking around. I look at the sky because from there my mind opens and makes me reach the sea of ​​stars on the expanse of salty, clear water, full of star reflections. It reminds me of winter evenings, when with very few degrees I was short-sleeved on the beach taking pictures. As I looked at the immensity of the sky, I imagined people who, like me, looked at nothing like a dreamer. I imagined people looking at the stars immersed in black to return home or as they looked out on the balcony or the bedroom window with a cigarette between their lips or a steaming cup, and in taking their time to think, they lost themselves looking at the sky with eyes and heart full of anger or sadness, letting oneself be engulfed in the bubble leaving the world outside, and who knows, maybe we are all astronauts but with the fear of leaving the earth and entering the darkness of the universe among the planets and the stars.
During the day I manage not to get lost in my thoughts. I easily evade tedious issues, impending responsibilities, troubled problems. But in the evening, how the fuck is it done? What is the reason that leads us to reflect more than necessary? Why does the setting of the sun urge us to express our concerns, to accumulate our disturbances? It is late at night and, while I let myself be carried away by this inexplicable introspective flow, I have not yet found the answer.
I think that in twenty years of existence – let’s call it life, if you like – I still haven’t found half a person willing to look at me for a moment and – why not? – to look inside, and not stop outside. I have so many things inside that I don’t say, I don’t do, I don’t share with anyone because no one in my opinion can understand them as I see them. And it’s always the same story. I’m not saying I don’t love my friends. I couldn’t say it and denying it would be a lie. They are an essential part of my good mood. But I don’t know, sometimes these people seem unknown to me in spite of everything, because they don’t see things as I do, and it’s a bad thing because it means that I can’t really get to know myself probably and it makes me wonder if these people would like it. same good to another me, more personal, iridescent, perhaps crazy. I just want to be myself even more and I just can’t take so many things inside me anymore that are filtered before I speak, think, act in the company of other people. Ask me something, whatever interests you looking at my blog, I am in a moment of absolute truth.

 

MY NAME IS AMLETA

Art is his need. An instinctive need to create. An instinctive need to be and communicate one’s being to others. Affirming its existence with the creative act is the only way for Hamlet 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. Being a river in flood, dangerous for others, not accustomed to strong liquid currents, but a natural and splendid element for her. Art is its power. The power to create from nothing. To give life to what has never existed, which has never been seen, which has never been read. A sublime, divine, most envied power. Art feeds on souls. Art is insatiable, it is its fierce demon, and it has been walking this path all its life looking for an escape. But you never get rid of art because only art makes it free and alive. It is like a second skin and if you take it off you become skinned and you cannot live anymore. Hamlet has art in every cell, like a deadly virus, which never becomes a disease but which accompanies her throughout her life as a faithful travel companion. Art grinds the flesh, the spirit, the whole life. He raises it into the highest sky, being able to see without eyes, hear without ears, draw without using his fingers; and then makes it descend into the most terrible depths of the human abyss. Art is a miracle of life and death. Whoever possesses the gift is condemned to a parallel life. Hamlet goes in and out as if from a window. It goes in and out of itself, feeds itself to the pigs, gives its vital breath, falls apart and then begins again. Who would ever want such a life? Yet many envy it and do not know what it means to have the fire of inspiration that consumes! Art is its condemnation.
She didn’t choose to start drawing, then painting, writing and playing at the same time. A dark force took his hands, and guided his dark energy. He was thus able to empty the pain he felt while living and to enclose it within his creations. Nothing remains of that period: everything burned. Unfortunately, something was saved from his subsequent dark periods, still not gone and up in smoke. Amleta was born on a cursed island, in a sick country, and soon she got rid of her life and the pain took her far away, where she continued to suffer and create, create and destroy, herself, paintings, installations, plays, notebooks, sculptures, … Amleta creates and destroys what he creates. Hamlet is and is not at the same time. He yearns for this perennial creation and has tried several times to free himself from his prison without success. This gift, this power, this torment of colors and words, is the nectar of his days. Everything else is just a bitter side dish.

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