FIRST OF ALL

You don't start over, just like that ... straight away.

Like one morning you open your eyes and magically you have forgotten everything.

No, that's not how important changes work.

It starts again in pieces.
One morning you opened your eyes and a piece of that anger went away; then you lose a little bit of interest the next day and the next day you wake up again and start thinking about it after lunch, it's no longer your first thought in the morning.

The questions, those you never lose: what you lose is the desire to know the answers.
You start over one piece at a time, so at the beginning you seem to always stay where you are.

But don't worry: a little bit of that weight you carry on you is gone even today.

ANOTHER LIGHT VEIL

If there is one thing I am learning from this life it is not to cling to people. Trust me when I tell you that your parents, however obsessive they may be on certain points, are and will be the only people you can really trust. Acquaintances, friends, loves, each person is just passing through and when you believe you have met one who seems to be the exception, you will soon learn that it will turn out to be like all the others. Your parents will be the only ones not to wear a mask towards you, they will be the only ones who will tell you the truth in your face, no matter how badly it can do, but you will soon learn that that truth is a reason. And I am learning this the hard way. But there is still someone more truthful than your parents, and that is God. He is not a belief, he is not a religion, he is not a person or a being told by a church. He is alive and real, he is present in your life and in all things on earth. He is, and has never forsaken you. He is nothing of what man has told; learn from yourself to know who God is and His character, and as far as I am concerned, I can only show you the ways, the ways on how to know Him. God is with you, no matter what your life is like, God is on your side, in every mistake you make, He was always there with no judgment and always will be.

TURN BACK

I will not let these tears go to waste

I will use them to water the most beautiful of gardens

And give you that smile that shines like the sun

Because you are both stormy and peaceful

You are strength but also a lot of fragility

Like petals and thorns

Now you are rain but soon you will become rainbow

Each color is an emotion

Beautiful and happy

Ugly and sad

Like the keys of a piano

Black and white

All make up the symphony of each day

A different melody every time

But this is called living

HARMONIOUS

In recent years I have made bad choices, choices that have led me to live a life that is not what I wanted: as children we all imagine how we could be tomorrow, but we will never know for sure if what we want will come true, but we can do everything possible as long as it happens. I didn’t do it, I saw grown-ups and I wanted to be great too, all too fast, all in a supernatural way. I didn’t have to do it, I didn’t have to grow up so fast, I wanted a normal life, to be a girl like any other, yet I ruined everything. If I could go back I would change everything, I didn’t think I could say it, but that’s the way it is. I’d be hypocritical if I said I’d do it all again, no. Usually it doesn’t happen, usually I would do what I did, but not this time. This time I would like to live it, life, this time I would really like to be happy. This time I would choose me, me and me again. But there is no going back, and I can do nothing but tell you to really enjoy life, to the full, it might be worth it and you might not regret it. Don’t be frightened by what might happen, rather, make sure you never have to wonder what might have happened. Just make it all happen.

WE’RE LITTLE FLOWERS

We are little flowers that are not seen,
we don’t have sparkling makeup,
gorgeous dresses.
We are simple flowers,
little souls in the midst of life.
Tiny breaths of a moment of infinity.
We are small flowers that grow asking for nothing.
It is enough for us to have the sky above and the earth below us.
Have you ever stopped to observe the wildflowers? Have you ever reflected on the beauty of colors, their shades which not even the most daring painter would be able to reproduce? In their apparent simplicity, wildflowers hide a great pride, a strength and a determination that leads them to stand up among others without anyone having asked for it, without anyone having sown, watered, wanted them. I admire them for their tender beauty, their colors and their spontaneity. Simple and yet each of them to see well is perfect and wonderful in his being. Sometimes I feel like wildflowers, one among many, simple, but with that simplicity that hides a strength that only those who want to look beyond appearances can find. Fair and modest like wildflowers. Shy yet sure of her own worth like wildflowers.
Have you ever appreciated the beauty of a wild flower? I love them. They don’t have a well-kept garden where they can show off their beauty. They have no loving hands that take care of them. They don’t have a long life to be admired. They grow in inaccessible places and bend to the elements of time. But they are tenacious, bold. And on their slender stem they will blossom again in spite of those who do not find them beautiful and those who are unable to appreciate their scent. Isn’t that a nice way to describe women? Women who, like a wildflower, always show everyone the strength to be reborn after one or a thousand difficulties.

	

THE IMAGE OF YOU

There is always an anchor. A detail that we keep. A voiceless message. A stain. A harmless visual detail that remains detached from all the pain. A light that survives a farewell. An image that passes directly from the transience of the moment to the fixity of memories. An image that becomes for us a vehicle of the hidden indexicality of those we have loved.

That image accompanies us over time. We recognize it from the contours even from a distance. It flickers in us like the flame of a candle but does not seem to go out. Even his absence becomes unthinkable. Every time we try to turn it into a shadow and let it go, its melancholy and circular appearance triggers an emotional return in us. As if by magic, the image re-emerges, appears before our eyes and forcefully reaffirms its presence, unraveling in a tangle of blinding lights that remind us of the subject of our love.

I too have kept an image of you, immersed in the yellow glow of the Sisto bridge lamps, suspended in the glow of those lights like a small fire that, regardless of the wind, continues to burn.

Occasionally, that image is briefly visible; others, it spreads out like a bright patch of sun with defined contours, edging the animated streets with its light. There are times when it skilfully camouflages itself in pools of water with yellowish reflections, times when it swings gently in rounded shadows and times when it spreads out in numerous irregular stripes, branching as far as the eye can see and casting its light even on the sharpness of the stones.

Every single time, however, your image brings up at night everything that remains hidden during the day: the clear light of a love that, like a golden sky, continues to survive the uncertain shadow of its sunset. 

STORY OF AN INTERLUDE

What survives the time?
There is always something that is saved from the storm of pain that has permeated the air and walls, which acquires its own serenity. Something that saves you from oblivion. A piece of home, of intimacy. A peak reached to be contemplated from another angle. A narrow space of time that saw us helmsmen ready to orient the ship's keel without being satisfied with making it float. A tune with long notes to hum in moments of nostalgia. The light of a window lit in the evening that cloaks the indistinct space and continues to reassure us, reminding us of the place that saw us happy. A non-place of light-heartedness that expands in the imaginative waves of our mind and survives time.
A love does not enter and exit the soul like a puff of smoke. A story does not lose its reason for being. It relives in the solidity of the small details embedded in the visual composition of memories. In all that is permanently fixed somewhere within us. In the colors of a snapshot recorded by the eyes that we occasionally try to refocus. In the dense and throbbing juice of the sensations that survive forced removals, they awaken any day and appear inexplicably strengthened. In the ink drawings full of erasures and smudges of our mistakes. In the irrational eruption into the monotonous flow of the days of a thought or an image that immediately brings us back and makes us wince. In the dazzling manifestation of the dotted figure of someone we have loved who, at times, we superimpose on a stranger, believing we recognize him.
- What remains then? - I wondered several times, continuously.
The vibration remains to witness what we have experienced on our skin, to touch the deepest chords unexpectedly. The body does not forget. There remains the shadow of a love that never disappears completely.
Inside us, the echo hovers. So inside me, your memory remains not plundered by the continuous current of days. Relive intact in the invisible real of my mind. In the sharp contrasts of still images that do not fade with time. In the chaotic alternation of the clips of our dialogues. In the suspensions of the unspoken. In the clear net of words that have pierced the barriers of our rigid closures. In the muffled silences. In the prolonged apnea of ​​a total immersion in the high waves of emotions. In the grafting of an encounter whose roots cannot be eradicated by the advance of existence. In the spontaneity of gestures hidden from the gaze of strangers. In the verses intertwined in the musical score of our love. In the interlude between the beginning and the end of a story, the authenticity of a love remains. The time of that love within us.

STORY OF A PASSENGER

A girl was waiting for her flight in a large airport lounge.
Since he would have to wait a long time, he decided to buy a book to kill time.
He also bought a packet of cookies.
She sat in the VIP room to be more quiet.
Next to her was the chair with the biscuits and on the other side a gentleman who was reading the newspaper.
When she started taking the first cookie, the man took one too, she felt indignant but said nothing and continued reading her book.
He thought to himself "But look, if only I had a little more courage I would have already punched him ..."
So every time she took a biscuit, the man next to her, without a single sign, took one too.
They continued until there was only one cookie left and the woman thought "Ah, now I just want to see what he tells me when they are all finished !!"
The man took the last cookie and split it in half!
"Ah, this is too much" she thought and began to snort and indignantly took her things, the book and her bag and walked towards the exit of the waiting room.
When he felt a little better and the anger had passed, he sat down on a chair along the corridor so as not to attract too much attention and avoid other sorrows.
He closed the book and opened the bag to put it inside when ... when he opened it he saw that the packet of cookies was still whole inside.
She felt so much ashamed and only at that moment realized that the packet of cookies like hers belonged to that man sitting next to her who had shared his cookies without feeling indignant, nervous or superior, unlike her who had snorted and even she felt wounded in pride.

TIME TAIL

Over the years I have stopped clinging to the concept of “Time”, to place all my hopes in it. It is true that it has undeniable power but it does not work miracles. If we continue to do the same things, if every night we go to bed thinking that we have met the only person able to understand us, to love us, we continue to tell each other a lot of nonsense and it happens that the more we put memories on the pedestal, the greater it will be. the propensity to think that only one person is the right one for us. The more we do this, the more we build impassable walls. It is from there that suffering arises and it is from there that we do everything to continue basking in pain because it is simpler, it costs less effort than getting back into the game. See dear, you can wait as long as you want but things only change when we really want to change them. True, love hurts like hell when it ends but I assure you it hurts just as much to be alone. It could happen that people, who for you could be a cure-all, pass you by and leave because you don’t even see them. So you suffer but then keep in mind that sooner or later you will have to wake up on your own and dive into life. As that genius Nick Miller used to say, life sucks, then it gets better (he also says it sucks again, but don’t think about it).
Your hunger is my own hunger. Hunger to go further, hunger to discover unknown desires that belong to us, hunger for those who can’t stop, hunger that is not made up only of meat, moods, groans, hunger for the soul. Your thoughts are my own thoughts. Thoughts written in the same language, thoughts soaked with everything that stagnates in the hidden folds of being, turgid thoughts that bathe the mind, the flesh, which do not torment but awaken repressed primordial appetites, silenced, misunderstood, unavoidable, insatiable. Your key is my own key. An unread poem that I know by heart, a melody never heard but heard, recognized, a work never seen but realized, complete, liked. We are made of the same substance. A closed set that is not completed, but which adds making a difference.
The world has its root in the earth and its crown in the earth. Like a Moebius strip, it coils around itself. Shoulders hunched under the weight of expectations How I carried them in shopping bags. And from the shyness that does not hide from you because it has a short veil. Life is so much a cinema that you are silent. Your bottles have no messages. Who says the world is wonderful, has not seen what you are creating to stay there. Shut up, no opinions. Your ceiling, stars and planets. Headlong into your limbo, prey to thoughts. Proceed through your maze without walls. I survived the woods and beat the ogre. Leave me alone, make an effort, and take your time. And don’t be afraid that …

GOING OUT

After about two months of forced distance, today I went back to walk in My Beloved park and it almost did not seem real to me that I could see with My eyes, My beloved trees and bushes that I have missed a lot, just like being in contact with Nature while I immerse myself in its colors and its unique smells that do so much good to My increasingly stressed and restless spirit. While I was walking rigorously accompanied by the pressing and unmistakable rhythm of My Beloved Music, the sun wide open on My face and the imagination at hand, I had almost the perception that everything suddenly stopped, as if these two months had never passed. actually existed, picking up where everything left off. The only difference is that this time I was wearing a mask, which contrary to what I expected, did not bother me particularly, as did the thousands of pollen scattered almost everywhere. They did not prevent me from fully enjoying that moment so long sought and uniquely Mine. Yet this time I began to let my mind pervade the various accumulated doubts and perplexities, to try to group them and let them escape. Now more than ever I feel the need to empty My Soul, like a trash can full of waste paper to throw away to make some space – and as I listened to the noise they made as they were thrown away, I began to feel a lot relieved, because they weighed on My imprisoned heart like a real boulder. The feeling of liberation I feel every time it happens cannot be described. I walk at a fairly high speed, I don’t want to exaggerate, I just want to walk, to enjoy that long-dreamed and desired peace, thus rediscovering the joy of doing something I love and that for a very long time I was not allowed to do, thus rediscovering it and loving it as if it were the first time. At a certain point on a bench I find a little girl sitting with the tool in her hand to be able to make soap bubbles, and immediately my childhood comes to mind when I also liked to do them. I am amazed that they still exist. Exactly like I did, you too love to blow into it to discover the effect it has. And just as it happened to Me, I was ecstatic to see on his face that veil of disappointment to discover that he had no possibility of command over them. The bubbles wander in the air without anyone being able to grasp them, and when they feel they have no air thrust, they go out by themselves. In short, they are without masters, completely free to fly and to choose as they want. So My life comes to mind and I think she is the same too, although she is Mia I feel I have no control over it, free to do and act as she sees fit, without ever deigning to ask me for an opinion at least. I can and must only accept what he proposes to do, thinking that whatever it is, he does it for My Good. For everything there is a why and I have understood that My Life intends to make me discover them little by little, without going around them so much, direct and straightforward as it has been from the beginning. However it is fantastic to be able to regain possession of My Normality, albeit with the right and due prudence. It was hard to leave when it was time to go home, maybe because I’m afraid I may have taken it off again, the very thought makes me tremble. I really hope it won’t happen, even if the imprudence of others does not give me hope! Better not think about it. Better to keep thinking about that soap bubble that wanders in search of its freedom, between memories and a lot of desire for redemption.

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