AMEN

Thanks to my father, I have learned to screw those who think that the world should rotate as their head says, or worse it should rotate around itself. Three sentences and a few attitudes are enough to identify self-reported assholes, a few more behaviors for sneaky or victimized ones. It is not presumption, they are years of parasitization and direct experience with those who do not observe themselves, and in this life they will never do it. Get it out of your head that you can support their path by absorbing their garbage. The sooner you recognize them the sooner you take back your freedom. Nobody can help them, because 95% of the time it's not a solution they are looking for. They just want to pour the non-sense of their existence onto the neighbor (and in that non-sense there can be anything).
Precisely because they turn the root of their problems to everything but themselves, they are unable to be responsible for the harm they do to them and to those around them.
Even if you tell them. It applies to all relationships, know that.

Manzoni  ( ALESSANDRO MANZONI, a famous italian writer of XIX  century) had not seen the plague, but he had studied documents after documents. And then he describes the madness, the psychosis, the absurd theories about its origin, about the remedies. It describes the scene of a foreigner (a "tourist") in Milan who touches a wall of the cathedral and is lynched by the crowd because he is accused of spreading the disease. But there is one thing that Manzoni describes well, above all, and that he takes up from Boccaccio: the moment of trial, of discrimination, between humanity and inhumanity. Boccaccio had indeed seen the plague. He had seen friends, loved ones, relatives, even his father, die. And Boccaccio explains to us that the most terrible effect of the plague was the destruction of civilized life. Because the neighbor began to hate the neighbor, the brother began to hate the brother, and even the children abandoned their parents. The plague pitted men against each other. He replied with the Decameron, the greatest hymn to life and good civilization. Manzoni responded with faith and culture, which do not avoid trouble but, he said, taught how to deal with them. In general, they both responded in a similar way: inviting us to be human, to remain human, when the world goes mad.

Health without Freedom is what is guaranteed to Farm Animals. . This is why they define you as “Herd”. FREEDOM is not a luxury, it is not an extra, an ornament that embellishes if there is, but in short, precisely if one can afford it or else something more comes first concrete.. NO! FREEDOM is your right to live, to work, to be happy, to express yourself, to be there .. what’s more concrete than your right to be there ..? Sometimes I would like to find an arrow indicating “free life”. I don’t know, maybe in the process of some woods, where the light filters through and the heat doesn’t kill you. A kind of guarantee that you are going to meet like-minded people there. People to talk to about everything but vaccines, governments and passes. Just talk to. A place you reach to express absolutely nothing, no opinion, no point of view on hundreds of points of view by now worn and tired. The only thing that sometimes matters is the need for sharing among similar people. Vibrate in the same tribe. Simply because it feels good to be together on the road. Stay in touch with those who look like you and aren’t afraid to hug. Talking without a muzzle, talking about good things, without someone having to convince the other and the other having to defend who knows what. Talk about what seeds you planted, what bullshit you did, the music you wrote or the love at first sight that got you. Thus, without having to find that prosaic sense to the questions of living, the more you think about it the more they have nothing to do with Life.

Yes it’s true, it seems to never end. It seems that humanity is condemned to an eternal struggle just to buy bread. It seems. Lately I often answer with a phrase that I said to myself when I was working, giving exams and in the meantime I had my father in hospital for cancer. Be grateful that you can fight, because you mean you are Alive. No matter how long the fight seems, it is the purpose and the mood with which you face it that make it appear to be war or peace. Choose your path and you will no longer have any doubts that that bread tastes sublime. The whole system is made in such a way that man, without even realizing it, begins as a child to enter a mentality that prevents him from thinking anything else. It turns out that there is no longer a need for dictatorship now, because the dictatorship is that of school, of television, of what they teach you. Turn off the television and gain freedom. Even the way you dress and the haircut you wear makes you realize that you really don’t choose anything. Already becoming aware of this would show the world in other terms.

Keep walking, when you realize it you will already be with your buttocks on the ground, in that uncomfortable position that the puppets hold. Immediately after, a long and obstinate reflection begins on the convenience of staying there on the ground. But the companions are already moving away and the path is far from appearing a clear path, obvious. It is not even in question the idea of ​​staying there all life, with the mud filling the soul and the backpack, so that the time comes to get up, a difficult situation and unpredictable in its results. Perhaps it is better to continue to stay on the ground and drag yourself little by little but, in addition to being not very aesthetic, this is impractical (believe me, I have tried it): there will always be a hidden root or a thorn to hold you back, and then a new reflection on the comfort of sitting in the mud, despite the mosquitoes, flies and blue flies. Already determined to get up, which is always the most difficult thing, comes the complicated operation that consists of resting with your hands and knees where it happens and trying to place the heavy hood on your back (so simple, and heavy, is to carry the house on the shoulders: just a plastic sheet and a hammock). But the backpack insists on carrying other absurd things: some poetry books, some clothes, a mismatched sock, medicine for the world, food, a damp blanket … The load as a whole weighs tons (especially after the first hours of walking) and tends to get muddy whenever he feels like it, that is, almost always. By now tortoise face on the ground, it follows the act of putting one foot and getting up on the other, with the consequent protest of the knees; the horizon then widens and will always be foreign. With the eyes on the ground, the march is undertaken again until the next fall, which will occur just a few steps ahead. And history repeats itself …

A ROSE ON THE MOON

Do you know what you are? A rose. A beautiful rose. That people have not been able to handle well so far, they got points, points of those defects that you had not yet seen, and then you started trying to hide them; you are a rose who did not know you had thorns until too many people told her they had them, and for too much too long, long, she worried about those two or three thorns that hurt certain people, which were really nothing else what fools, unable to keep it well. You are a rose who has spent so much time looking at the thorns that you have forgotten how red and beautiful its petals are.

In the end, I always thought that people have to sweat it out. Come on, who do you want to get a beautiful thing without passion? I love to be there to gnaw for a kiss. Go home and stay with the fixed thought of “why he didn’t do it” or “why he doesn’t hold me”. It will be because I do not give myself. The beautiful part of me, the one that many talk about but of which no one really knows the essence, I do not offer. I will be exaggerating perhaps, but there are wounds that do not need to be touched yet. I don’t need pain anymore. And just as I love to win a caress, I want to make it conquer.

And this is perhaps the most beautiful part of you Rose, that you have an honest heart and you have a heart that is proud of you, a heart that many would like because it is not bought, it has no compromises, it is not for everyone, it is loyal, because it is a heart that gives space to a few, as you do. And whoever has even managed to enter there, in your heart, is a privileged one.

You sit down at the table. You look carefully at everything in front of you. You feel the cramps of hunger and the mind that constantly suggests you to eat. You are tempted to grab that piece of pizza, that slice of cake and then throw yourself headlong onto the tin of cookies and devour them one by one. But hold on. You promised yourself not to give up, you would never do it again, and so it was. Self-control prevailed and you didn’t allow yourself to be overwhelmed by temptation. You feel proud and proud, nothing is more satisfying than being able to control yourself and manage your hunger. There is nothing more satisfying than having what can kill you psychologically in front of you and not giving it the power to do so.

You looked at me
as if I was the thing the most beautiful in the world
and you healed me from the disease ugliest in the world:
fear not to be loved never again.