GOLDEN STAR

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 ‚Äč‚Äčnothing.
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.
When I want to hide from too heavy a reality I read a book, to enter the life of the characters, I love it, I imagine them down to the smallest details. In short, I put my world on pause and dedicate myself to someone else's.
Last night I could not sleep, page after page I found myself with tears burning my eyes and it was in that moment that I realized I had dragged my reality into my book ... I imagined you and me at the place of the usual characters.
I have not even finished the chapter, which I hate because it makes me feel incomplete, I closed everything as if I were crazy and I let myself be devoured by reality.
I was no longer able to escape.
I cried all I had, I should feel lighter but it's not like that. And now I'm afraid, I'm afraid to reopen the book and find you there, when the truth is that I would simply like to find you here.

THE HEART OF THE MOON

Heart night.
Heart moon.
Mystery illuminated by the dream.
The thought tears. Every morning it opens one day.
It hurts to wake up.
Having to live in human sleep.
A bright and perky twin.
While you are still sleeping.
An efficient and hardworking twin while you laze in the sheets.
A slab of hearts.
Crushed.
I went in from the back.
Walking on the carpets with holes in them.
The rooster crowed.
The rain was coming.
Candles dropped from my eyes and the light touched my green irises, coloring the meadows of your feeling.
I have chosen not to participate in the life cycle but to remain in nature.
From your doors to my doors a hanging wire grows, almost a vine.
Profane.
A darkly severed scene cut by a skeptical director.
That you want a happy ending is obvious but my end is always cynical.
Heart night.
Heart moon.
Mystery illuminated by the dream.
The thought tears.
Every morning it opens one day.
It hurts to wake up.
Having to live in human sleep.
A bright and perky twin.
While you are still sleeping.
An efficient and hardworking twin while you laze in the sheets.
A slab of hearts.
Crushed.

 

EVERYTHING N FIRE

It's true I often burned my paintings, notebooks, books, I burned to forget that I was an artist. To forget the power to create from nothing. It was exhilarating, demeaning, tiring, it was destructive to me too. But my life was fire, fire lit every day. Now there is not even the ash left. I have burned souls, I have burned whole nights, burned words and loves. All together incinerated in a moment of sublime beauty. The green fire.
My green fire guided me. It was night, it was day and for me it was always life. But it doesn't burn forever. Eventually we turn off.
Eventually the coal becomes blacker. Very black. You find it in the walls, inside your inner walls, and you always get dirty every color you try to trace on your door. But Black crosses the threshold, reaches you, takes everything, burns you completely.
She was the one in the photo, holding a bouquet of flowers and a red hen’s crest on her head. It was she who acted among the frightened girls. Hamlet hadn’t hesitated either in his gestures or in his voice. And she continued to play a role that was not hers: the good girl who goes out of her way to meet her father’s expectations. A studious pupil, a caring daughter. Never any drift or dangerous friendship. Never any friends who are too annoying or a boyfriend who is too jealous. Never any of that. Only music and art, mixed with the tears that often bathed his pillow. He loved his mom and dad. He went out of his way to make them happy. And her little sister also loved and often played with her and never teased her. Growing up he had kept that naive and innocent look, that beautiful vivacity of one who has not known evil. Yet Hamlet knew evil from an early age, when a man took her innocence. Her nightmares were frequent and she did not know who that man was and she could never see his face. Maybe it was the shadow that appeared in her paintings or maybe she lived next to it without knowing that her executioner was the one who fed her. The executioner was always present. The executioner who had destroyed her at the age of 4.
The needs of an artist are different from all those of others. Of course an artist eats, sleeps, goes to the bathroom. He may have things and people he cares a lot about. May have interests and hobbies. But one thing distinguishes him profoundly from all other people: the need for stimulation. An artist feeds his art from himself and from what he sees, knows and experiences. Visual, mental and empirical stimuli are deeply necessary for every artist because in the absence of these his creative lymph dries up. In fact, if an artist is not put in the conditions of being able to have these stimuli that satisfy his needs, he will slowly fade away. His imagination, not being nourished, will become dry and will find it difficult to give him the input for artistic creation. Just as an animal dies in its instincts if placed inside a cage, an artist dies in his creative life if he is put in conditions that are not favorable to the expression of his artistic talent. Fantasy is like a plant and must be fed with the water of stimuli. If these are lacking, the substance for dreams is missing. It lacks the energy itself to create other dreams and other works. So for this reason it is sometimes said that an artist cannot live life like the others and the same things that others are enough cannot be enough for him.

MISUNDERSTOOD

When I speak and say something, I am never understood. When I speak and say something I am not listened to because I do not speak on video. I write and speak. I don’t record videos. Those who make videos perhaps have a better chance of being heard and understood, even appreciated by everyone. The videos are more followed. I am never taken into consideration because I don’t start talking in front of a cam, I don’t show my tits, I don’t whisper, I don’t blink, I don’t talk about fashion and make-up. I feel very frustrated about this because in this society only videos matter. People want to see someone, fantasize, imagine. I don’t show videos. I speak. But I’m not understood.

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