STORMBREAKER

And then I took my heart in my hand.

Throbbing and bleeding, like all hearts that have lived long enough to feel more than one emotion. Maybe a few too many. If only he had throbbed less.

Now it's here, in my hands. It no longer belongs to my body. It doesn't have to belong to me anymore. I look at it as a foreign object. That blood is not mine.

There is a crystal case. As fragile as it is insurmountable. That's where I put the pulsating organ. His heartbeat is no longer heard inside. Go dumb. And I am deaf.

How sweet this silence is.

I want to be deaf forever.

My heart has stopped belonging to me.

Stay there, you stray! Never again will the poignant litany of your beats be music to me.

Your melodies are omens of death. And I've died too many times.

And now you are dying, by my hand.

My revenge is complete and eternal endures.

Pain is eternal. SILENCE.

BLACK TEAR IN THE SKY

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.

I WAS A 16 DREAM GIRL

I was a girl in the rose garden.
A nymph. 
Almost a ghost that was disappearing.
I was a 16 year old girl
expanse. 
I crossed the desert
quickly, almost flying,
a stone statue of the Buddha
sleeping, a Buddha of ashes.
I have been a hanging woman.
I have been a tough and strong man.
An eccentric with a fish in her mouth
and then the emperor's child
of the oriental garden. 
A tree maybe. 
A mouse. 
An elephant.
A hare. 
I have been camp of battle and a prayers. 
A poppy.
A whole planet. 
Maybe a star.
A lake. 
I've been water, I know this. 
I have been water storm. 
A rain on something that I had been long ago.
An oath. 
A wait.
The race of the gazelle and bullets.
I have been, perfect arrow shot, catacomb. 
A creed - a lament.
A vessel among very high waves.
Maybe even the sea.
And so - what should I be afraid of
now?

MY GARDEN WITH HOLES

My garden is full of puddles, holes made by dogs, pieces of branches flown in the storm, bare trees and no flowers because the mice have eaten the bulbs. And I'm very sad that I can't have a nice garden but the weather is awful here. It is very cold and there is already snow on the mountains and yesterday it was only 4 degrees. The house is very humid and even if we heat it later it becomes cold again, it does not keep the heat, it is an old house and it is a torment. Here in my area life is very sad now, especially for me because I don't have the green pass and I can no longer go to the gym, to the theater, to the cinema. I always have to stay at home. Our Italian government has taken away all freedom from us and people like me, who cannot get the vaccine, are limited in everything in life. I am getting depressed and I can't stand this deprivation of freedom. Now in Italy there is this dictatorship that is destroying the country's economy and the people.

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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