Sometimes you realize that time passes and so do people, friends and years. Friends can be compared to a train, the train passes you went on it until your stop arrives and you get off and you are sure that one day you will never get on it again, then there are the trains that you miss those trains that could have made you different life, even just for a day or even for an hour, they get lost like a lighter, a hat, a photo or even like losing sleep, but sooner or later another train passes, you buy another lighter, buy another hat, and take another photo, even if you are aware that it will never be like the one before, people leave lagoons, memories, moments, unanswered questions, emotions.
Sometimes you just want to be hugged and reminded that you're not alone, but you've become so good at hiding your feelings that by now you don't understand what you really feel, hate?, resentment?, happiness?
The human mind is sensational all those various nuances, that way of seeing through things, those various memories stuck together as if they were a puzzle, the various memories you carry inside, broken hearts, emotions never felt, people never faced.
There are moments that grow and together with them you grow too, you learn to be arrogant and without a heart, then they ask you why and why you've reduced yourself to all this, but you know it's useless to try to explain it would be just words thrown away case because I can't find a logical thread either, so you keep smiling and repeat: "everything is fine, don't worry"
Our time has come.
Our own end in this strange fairy tale.
The greatest story ever told.
Dissimilar masks recite for the accomplishment of the same great work.
Tragedy and comedy.
Essence and existence.
Understanding and misunderstanding.
Elements of an orchestra too large to be understood by mere mortals.
Our time has come.
Guilty, innocent.
Actors, listeners.
Saints, sinners.
All together on the same path of stars.
If the word love is
a filthy rag,
if I have no other language to say what
I love, if the soul is now a hindrance
and the sky a place like any other
if we sleep and sleep
if my song is crushed in the canton
if my song or yours, if my song
if all the words of the wise are too much
slow for this ride on the pieces, if even
the beasts in their dying beaten
they don't even reveal themselves
if there is a cough if there is one
cough that encrusts the sky
and then spits it out
if we have enemies inside our heads
and broken cars
if the hand is grumpy to the hand
surly breaks the wave and the branch
breaks the wing and beak
if we have out of tune psalms
if the rubble on tired faces
make the weight of the whole story
if then no one comes
no one gets up from the soaked tombs
to deliver us a bunch, a cup
an oath to the light
if if if
if there is a thirst that makes us sick
if there is a sip for those who are thirsty
if it really really moves the sun
if it moves the sun and the other stars
if his great power, his great
power of ancient Love,
if our heart is immense
if our heart
sometimes it is immense, if the
stars are born, if it is true that they are born
even now, if we are powders at the
disruption, loose chains,I bless every inch of Love every
minimal splinter of Love
every vein or whirlwind of Love
every table and bed of Love
Love I bless
that of each of us in the chain
it makes flesh that shines
Love that you are my destiny
teach me that everything will fail
if I don't bow to your blessing
A few days spent well, and it took!
Clean air, tranquility and rest certainly helped to restore the nervous system.
Starting to savor the tub again, albeit of salt water, is served, as well as the
friendships intertwined and now dissolved.
But, after a day spent in a playful, albeit tired, wandering, this was what I craved:
reviewing the well-known shoe cabinet, finding the usual locker in which to place the few personal effects, throwing the bag over it so as not to wet it.
And then again the gestures now automatically acquired, but which in a month seemed light years away, the stretching of the legs and shoulders, putting on the cap under the warm shower, checking the glasses and cleaning them, diving in and off.
Follow your shadow that like a wedge stands out among the blue tiles, and see the strip of the lane slide with the 3-meter line, float lightly between whitish waves, veer looking at the ceiling lights blurred by the water above.
Review old and new companions, feel your shoulders turn at their best even without training, feel all the muscles and all the joints
enjoy this relaxation.
Rediscover sensations and moods, feel the body slip and notice how fast the lane passes by your side, the scent of chlorine and even flavor, when you catch the wave left by your partner while breathing.
Look at the seconds counter, its colored hands that had become a memory, flow inexorably, count mentally and engage in the exercise.
Be satisfied with such a profitable return.
Fall asleep happily in your own bed, again ...
I can never sleep at night because I never want to dream. It destabilizes me to think of myself in other contexts, perhaps because I’m not ready to take flight. Yet I seem so very brave, so badass, sometimes bold. I love to laugh, I laugh at stupid things, and at the same time I love to make others laugh. It makes me feel good. And for every laugh I get, I hear a “hey, you’re making me laugh, thank you”. At night I throw up everything I keep inside during the day. For necessity? Out of fatigue? Or maybe because I’m just a person. People never know shit about me, and I can’t blame them. How could I? I never expose myself, and when I have a dark moment, I isolate myself. And it is not true that I feel a burden for others, on the contrary, I feel that I am a burden only for myself. And I’ve understood this since I started looking at myself in the mirror again. But what do the others know? How many disarming cries, how many fights lost or simply how many defeats at the start that I have collected? What do they know about how I lie shamelessly when I say I’m fine? That I say it so many times that now I believe it too. But despite that, I’m still here writing. Luckily, I dare to say. Because the day I stop doing it, it means that I will have found the method to stop outsourcing anything. And then my heart will explode. And I, in my heart, care. Because I think it’s the purest and most beautiful part of me. Despite being crumpled, despite being chipped, scratched, abused or just used too much.
Linked to someone,
capable of healing and improving,
get worse,
despair,
cough, sleep.
Sleeping together in the sun.
Sleeping between the white curtains.
It rains when I look out,
it rains when I look inside.
The roof of my house is struggling to withstand the storm,
one day I will fly away too, along with the pieces of the ceiling.
Like a colorful kite, or perhaps all black,
like thunder,
far away, among the snow-capped peaks.
A white drop behind a black sky.
For some time now I have felt a ‘presence’ while I cook. I can’t explain but I know exactly who to connect it to. It makes me smile because if it were the thought of who I think, it would be quite strange. I do not have a good character, which is much worse alas, I am quite drastic when I decide to say enough, I rarely go back, men know that I am difficult, they consider me a piece of non-malleable granite. In fact, I can’t blame them, it’s better to give up someone like me, yet I haven’t always been so hard and adamant, I have a past as a ‘puppy looking for a master’. I wanted to be loved, like in fairy tales … stupid exactly like this sentence. The men I met made me realize that fairy tales are a collective deception, that princes and princesses are unlikely characters and that all of us, male and female, are just lower and sometimes very mean beings. Love is exploited, often used as the perfect shit gift one can get, the perfect rip-off. For love we do a lot of bullshit, we dress with good intentions those who have none at all. And so we find ourselves inside apparently wonderful stories, but that to see them like this, it is only us. What does this have to do with ‘presence’? It has to do with it because in 2015, while I was on the new social Tsu, I came across a very enigmatic man (eh I always fall for it!), Named P., he had a nickname that I loved mondomagico and who wrote wonderful things. I had met a unicorn, finally in the middle of nowhere! I put a lot of the things we said to each other here too, parts of chats and private messages, I also came to read on thce chat because my writing about ‘us’ made him happy. He was meditating, he had a sculpted physique, a beautiful voice with an Emilian accent and a top secret job, which I still don’t know about and which I will never know. We dated ‘virtually’ for many months, then things fell apart because too much mystery stops being fascinating after a while. I’m not the type who remains a thought, I want to become presence if, as they say, things are becoming serious, so the moment I feel a reticence, a deliberate lengthening, I tend to close the relationship. ‘If they don’t want you, don’t offer you’ is rule No. 1 now on my basic scale, so I told him we were fine like this, each in his own world. Too bad, I really liked his sweetness: he was able to hug me from afar, always making me feel his presence. And it makes me strange to hear it again, like this, after years. In the end, I hope he’s fine … better than me.Then the problem is not that there is no hope, it is that there would be nothing to hope for. Who among you can say you know this sense of irrelevant vastness of the world – I wish I had better words to describe it – this closet world, stacked things, bad pyramid under which the dead sleep unhappily. For years I have said to myself: the trick is to find a moment of acute pain, which lasts at least half an hour and it is done. If you start thinking about it, if you let yourself slip into the phase of emptiness in the stomach, of the perpetual squeezing of the heart, then it becomes impossible: life has its tricks, it is on you like a blanket of tiredness, like the working day for workers , then you go to bed and sleep and wake up and you’re still alive and so again, like an absurd vice. I think it’s been a year since I last hugged someone. The intolerable semantics of tenderness – this too is difficult to explain. A year has passed, the exams are back in high school – you haven’t returned, despite Nietzsche. My waist is light and awaits the wind like a feather on the back of my hand.
The sky written inside the chest, where a snake bites my heart. Outside breathes the gold but inside the blood languishes. I was like her treasure, I shone with crystal clear breath. Past. Turned. The soul counts the steps behind the anguish. He chases people and the sea of nothing. Spasms of the rain. The grass blades bend but tomorrow they will be straight again and the same as before. I turn my face, the body sends messages, the code is always the same. A part. One condition. Meditated with a strange thought. Like a karma video. It is important to look at it and understand what could have happened.It’s strange what I feel inside of me, I have this strange feeling that he doesn’t want to leave me. I don’t sleep, I don’t eat, I can’t understand what I’m getting. Anxiety? Could be. Nervousness? Mashed potato. Stress? I do not know. The fact is that I can not understand, I can not think and above all I can not speak. I don’t want to overwhelm people with my problems.Sometimes I think of those moments when I felt emotions such as sadness, melancholy, pain … Many of us push away these moods because they are negative, yet a smile is more sincere after a cry … Maybe it is it is the sincerity that is frowned upon, in moments of weakness we really show what we are and it is scary for many to show their face without being able to hide … This is why no one shows his mood anymore, we all now want to hold back the suffering within us, while this corrodes and poisons us.
As a young girl I imagined a different future and being an artist (I don’t get high nor smoke or drink, I’m an atypical artist I know) I thought that my skills, both artistic and intellectual (I always had excellent grades in school) would have me taken far, in every sense. I have always dreamed of a life off the cursed island, Sicily, because as soon as I grew up a little and became old enough to understand certain social dynamics, I felt suffocated in my aspirations. My parents wanted me to finish my studies, find a rich husband and get married and bake some grandchildren for them. Instead I didn’t do any of this. I have not followed any rules of social life that tradition imposed. Immediately after high school I went abroad to pursue my artistic dream but I was forced to return because my mother was sick and I took on my responsibilities as a daughter and still do it today and in return I do not receive than criticisms and always negative judgments. In part you are right, I have not been able to get even the minimum of what I aspired to in my artistic life but on the other hand I have a situation that everyone envies me.Of course, after having understood how things are going, after having discovered that “either you follow the rules of the market or you stay out of every field”, the choice to continue on the difficult and fruitless path of art is truly crazy. But I can’t turn my back on myself and my fantasy, and especially in recent times if I hadn’t had all these dreams with me yet, I think I wouldn’t have been able to go on. Sometimes instead I say to myself, trying to convince myself, that it would have been better not to have these dreams at all and not to have all these creative abilities, since up to now they have not brought me anything concrete because I do not compromise for any reason and I do not I want to sleep with anyone to get credit. This crisis due to covid pays for itself first of all precisely those sectors of genres that are considered unnecessary, and art is one of them. Certainly having a nice painting hanging on the wall does not fill people’s stomachs so even I wouldn’t feel like persuading someone to buy a painting rather than buying groceries. First of all, I myself have had to give up those beautiful things that make life more pleasant (dinners out, accessories, hairdressers, cinema, theater, concerts, cosplay fairs, …) and so why shouldn’t others give it up too ?! The covid spared no one. So what’s the point of creating so many beautiful things if they have to remain closed in a box or drawer? Being an art therapist seems nonsense. Working with autistic children seems inconsistent. Yet it requires a lot of patience and a lot of control. But I never talk about my passion for saving children.
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 