For a few months now I have been feeling a little better, despite the spring.
I have been in my personal "dark timeline" which in my case is apparently all roses, flowers and perfumes, like in science fiction movies, where you land in the new world or on the new planet and everything seems perfect before you realize that in reality you are in the belly of a disgusting alien monster.
All perfect, but all rotten from the marrow, you realize it when you look to the side, while you are turning around, and you notice that the facade collapses, goes out, like a holographic image that disappearing reveals a dark, gloomy and rotting cave.
I'm back here.
It all sucks the same, but at least you can see it right away.
At least my inner monster always has the same gaze.
Winter is coming even though it is midsummer and sweat is the new rain.
An innocence stained by a dark past. I can still hear the devil whispering wicked advice into my ear. My heart gradually became corrupted until it became a black hole. All that remains of me is a ravenous monster, haunted by a visceral desire to harm someone. The stomach quivers, eager to taste the taste of blood. The hands tremble with a knife, while gently brushing the delicate skin with the sharp blade, fully enjoying every moment. The cries of pain are music to my ears; an intoxicating melody that inhibits the senses. It is an iniquitous and malicious gesture, the fruit of a mind devoid of sense and a soul infected by the evil one. It takes little to shatter such fragile bones. With one creak after another I reduce you to dust, a putrid mass of dreams and hopes shattered under the weight of my shoes. There are those who would hope for a faster death, but you beg for torment; the more harm I inflict on you the more you ask for and I gladly grant you an atrocious end, because it wouldn’t be fun if you finished too quickly. Ah, the harm I could do to you if I only wanted to. In this sensitive and naive world it is so easy to break such a delicate heart. But the part of you that is dying is only your innocence, because soon you will become like me: a vicious creature, stirred up by a blind rage to bring about extermination and desolation. How sweet is the taste of death on my lips, it is a kiss of Judas what I give you. I reach you with the promise of a love, but the gift you will get will be only that of regret.
There was a time when I had an Italian blog and I wrote poems, personal things, I showed my paintings, I talked about my problems. I didn’t talk about gossip and fashion and therefore few people commented. The thing that amazed me most about people who didn’t write me half a word of encouragement is that these same people filled other blogs with sweet words, looking like sensitive and empathetic people. I was left in absolute silence. I still see these people writing beautiful things commenting on the misfortunes of others. So I wonder, what did he dislike about me? My spontaneity? My knowledge? Why have they never seen my pain? I could have died and no one would have known. I can’t understand why these people write so many words to others and never write half a word to me. Yet I wrote comments in their blogs and I always participated and tried to read everything but this was useless. I remained invisible to them. Yet for others they have many kind words for everyone, they show a lot of affection to other Italian bloggers. Even now I don’t understand what was in me that he didn’t like. It seems so strange to me to see them write affectionate words to everyone and instead they did not deign to me and I never had even a word of comfort. They say that Italians are warm and affectionate, well as an Italian hostess I have to deny this version, because I have never had any comfort from any Italian user. Maybe I was too sincere. Maybe I was too naive. But I still don’t understand. I have found more love among you who live far from me, and even overseas, and not from my countrymen and I cannot understand this. 2,000 followers who read my blog and no charitable soul who would tell me anything. In the end I deleted the blog because their silence was very bad and I was very bad because even as an abused child I was always invisible. And so I thank all of you, I thank you from my heart, for being close to me because in certain bad moments a word is enough to make me understand that I exist.
I watched that small, lonely piece of ash that had managed to escape from the fire that burned relentlessly, slowly turning the wood into simple and useless ash. It was still alight, still bright orange, and rising slowly, skyward, and then ... Poof. To disappear.
It was a simple pre-Christmas evening, the people in the square, the fire lit near the Christmas tree, the songs that resounded in the main streets, the lights ... Wherever you could breathe the air of celebration, wherever you turned you meet us looks happy and bright smiles.
Children scurried along the sidewalks, competing to see who could get on the train first.
I was there, in front of the lit fire, admiring the beauty of my small town, in the arms of those who, with a simple glance, could make me feel butterflies in my stomach. There was silence between us, we weren't talking because there was no need: our intertwined hands, our looks and smiles said everything; said it all the sweet kisses we exchanged, light and slow, which managed to drive me crazy in any case.
I turned to look at him, and once again I lost myself in those hazel eyes, so bright and cheerful, so deep, in which I continually drowned, losing the strength and the will to resist. I ran my gaze on his face: from the eyes I looked on the nose, then on the lips, so beautiful to kiss, and on the cheeks, so soft and warm ... I returned to rest my gaze on his eyes, which were now staring at me have fun, managing to get me a sincere smile, once again.
Close to your belly, in the confusion of the senses, in the deep feeling of desiring belonging, which is almost confused with the origin. As if we really came from one another and as if we wanted to return there. Enveloped embrace, of sweet moods and thoughts, but at the same time full of a full, full and frustrating waiting at the same time. Condemnation for the enthusiasm, salvation for consistency. In that womb there is all the density of the impossible that melts slowly, together with tense thoughts that become smiles, in the goodness of the juices that we have been sharing for some time. You will wash me again, and you will keep me there, in the belly, as I will, every time you are exiled.
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 