WILD

When a single woman sets out what can happen? Many people say, nothing, it is the same as when a man sets out. Well this film shows that unfortunately a single woman gets scared of the men she meets. I don't want to tell you if it ends well or badly. You can find out for yourself.

MY THRILLER NOVEL :PSICOTIKA

My new thriller novel  explores the human mind and all those choices that lead to an extreme outcome.
How much pain can a woman endure? What can turn her into a serial killer? The thoughts and experiences of a woman on the edge of herself. So if you want to browse and read something about my new novel you can click here, you can read all my novel for free, you don't have to pay anything:

https://www.wattpad.com/story/255439709-psicotika

I’M SHY

 

Confidentiality, humility, modesty have become inconceivable. Everyone screams, so you have to scream to be heard; they all provoke, so you have to shock the other. It does not occur to many people that, if you are intelligent, there is no need to make your neighbor feel nothing and, if you are strong, you do not need to prove it by bullying or celebrating yourself; and that, if you are young and beautiful, perhaps it is not essential to load your beauty with sensuality, beyond all limits of good taste. Just as it is not essential to chase fleeting youth at any cost. Embrace every stage of life to truly live it. To flourish. Wither. Revive.
They often tell me that I am too reserved, that I do not show anything about myself, that I do not show selfies, I do not visibly give myself in the eyes of others. They say I’m too shy that I don’t like to expose myself as a masterpiece, that I blush, that I look down. But I believe confidentiality is now a rarity in this open house society. I don’t like showing my house, my garden, sometimes I put something but I don’t like letting all eyes enter my nest. It is my den, my world, and it is not a choice to be reserved. Being an artist I was used to showing everything about me, everything created. But the artist in some way, not all of them, remains behind his work, almost hides himself, because not even I know where everything I do or write comes from; it is a mystery to me too and therefore I keep it dear, protected, just as I keep hidden what I have inside my heart.

MIND IS IN THE HAIR

Have you ever tried to take care of a woman’s hair? Slip them between your fingers, welcome them in your hands if they are too curly as if it were wadding. Touching a woman’s hair is very important, taking care of it even more. Because if you do it, it is with her consent, it amounts to permission to touch her heart. Dissipating any tangles or brushing them frees his mind, a massage to his soul. We should all take care of a woman’s hair, with dedication and delicacy. Make them a braid or brush them with extreme delicacy, you too will benefit, because relaxing being a source of serenity. A woman’s hair has its own scent, which differs from woman to woman. By arranging her hair you put her soul in order, she will allow you to listen to her secrets, because taking care of her hair is a very intimate act. In Portuguese it is called “cafuné” the act of tenderly running your fingers through the hair of your loved one. Kiss a woman’s hair, because they deserve respect. Take care of a woman’s hair, because they give positive energy.

I HAD ANOTHER BLOG

I thank you for your closeness and your support. I believe that our freedom will never go back to the way it was before and that now we are the only ones left who know what it is. I see people very happy to be slaves. I see that everyone watches TV and believes in the mass media, they are manipulated and diverted. The dark mind is now mush. I am very sad and in the past I was an artist but now I am dying. I had an art blog with my paintings, I didn’t sell anything, I gave them away. I said that if nobody wanted them I would burn them. I have no real friends here, I didn’t know who to give them to. I wanted to leave them on the street but there was the covid and they would have thrown them away. I said I was missing, that I would burn them, and nobody told me anything. Nobody cared about what I created. I studied art in London, I refused recommendations, I refused a career. I regretted it. One day I wrote to a psychologist who had an association, I told him: “I give you my paintings, they are 50, you sell them and use the money for sick children”. Do you know what he answered me? “You are not famous, you do not get anything out of your paintings.” I regret having rejected my career. And so I burned all my paintings. My artistic blog no longer exists and there are few paintings left in my attic, eaten by mice.
I had a blog with 3000 followers. I said very interesting and important things but people weren't there. There were a lot of them but none of them spoke. I was really disappointed. I wrote very important things but somehow there was no dialogue between them and me. This made me very sad and one day I deleted everything, I deleted the entire blog. These 3,000 people got lost. I don't know if they still exist, I don't know if they looked for me, because I also changed my nickname because I wanted to close with the past, I wanted a new page in my life. But I believe that past has remained and always remains glued to me like a dark shadow.
I was very sorry to close that blog but maybe people didn't expect a woman to talk about certain things. I didn't talk about nails and I didn't talk about actors, not even about cooking, or about many other subjects that women love. I don't regret what I did but a piece of my life has been lost, destroyed, erased.

STRANGERS WORLD

If you present yourself with a naked soul to a person, you are presenting yourself unarmed and defenseless. You are giving him all of you: hidden truths, your emotions, your soul. As you do this you need to be aware of it, you need to know that there can be an after-effect of ashes. You must know that if and when he goes away there will be nothing intact inside you because you have given him everything, but believe me when I tell you that there is nothing more beautiful than doing it totally without limits or inhibitions. Without putting a limit on your being. But while you do it you must not underestimate the consequences, the taste and the quantity of the tears of the after, of how much it could hurt the end or discover that it was only “lies of words” to enchant you and make “Strip” your soul. If you introduce yourself to a person with a naked soul, do not underestimate anything because afterwards it will be too late “to get dressed”
I think it’s in our nature to want to try to the end. We are not made for lukewarm emotions: when we choose, for better or for worse, we do it with the heart and soul, and we do not give up until we have given our all, even what we did not think we had. Pain does not scare us, this is our problem, so we are willing to throw ourselves into the flames … All in a desperate attempt to keep a balance, something as abstract as love, which we women continue, despite everything, to believe that it is concrete and stable.
I like the idea of ​​the station, of the train. If I stopped even for 5 minutes at the station, my whole life would pass from there: my life in the past and that of the future. I don’t know why but the stations have something magical about them. Sometimes I would like to go to the station and stop there for hours, just to observe the people, try to understand their gestures, their lives and their thoughts. Because only if we stop to observe can we capture the details. Also, I think it’s the only place that can give me the answers I’m looking for. For example, I could talk to a bum: after all they are nothing more than people who need someone to listen to them. I could find myself in front of scenes of children leaving their mothers to go to work or college or mothers leaving their babies to their husbands because I have to leave for work. I might meet travelers getting on and off from train to train to get around town. Or I could witness the kisses: the real kisses and the goodbyes, the real ones of two young lovers. Who knows maybe I could also find some crazy kid (like me) who has decided to escape but who in the end can’t because he knows that what he leaves is too precious for him and if anything one day he will take a train, it will be the one for eternity.
Or maybe the person I really imagine I’m meeting is a woman. I don’t know what age, maybe around fifty, or maybe younger, I don’t know, I know for sure that I could share my whole life with her. I know that I would not hesitate so much to tell him all the things I have never told anyone, everything I have inside and I know that behind his silences his answers would be hidden. A person who would be able to undress me, in short. To strip myself not of the clothes, but of the masks that society obliges me to wear, that I manage to strip my soul: to dig inside myself. I love this type folks. But I don’t just love the people I can find there, I also like the objects, the sounds we find in the station. For example, his bell always reminds me of the school bell, and how at school it rang when the time changed at the station it rings when a train arrives. The benches make me reflect on how sometimes it is bad to wait for someone or something that does not arrive, and then all the tiredness that we carry with us. Then there are the time tables that remind me that everything has a time: life is based on time and it is up to us to decide how to occupy the waiting moments.
Then there are the tracks … well I love those. You never know where they end up, you only see infinity in front of you and behind you, and then if you see them at dawn, what a strange effect they have on you. And then the tracks made me understand that coincidences are nothing more than a pause: you stop, parallel to something else and after a while you leave. And since for me life is made up of coincidences, because I don’t believe in destiny, I realized that every time I stop I leave with a different baggage, richer or poorer, ruined or healthy and shining, but the fact is that that coincidence has changed something. That’s why I don’t believe in destiny, we are the proponents of destiny… at every coincidence we stop and it is precisely in that waiting time that we decide our future.

HOW DO I FEEL?

How do you feel when everything you do never gets paid for? When are you the only one fighting, but keep getting attacks and defending yourself with a meager patch shield? How do you feel when you see everything shattered, when the closer you get to something, the more it moves away from you? Disappointed, in pieces. You just want to break down, unplug and pass your joystick to someone who can win your war, because you know that if you keep playing, you will keep losing.
Last night I had an absurd mood swings. It is a particular period, as it is for everyone, and I am living it differently than a few months ago … in all respects. I’m not who I want to be with and where I want to be. At first I let the pressure and the sense of not belonging slip on me, only in the last period and especially in the last days I have more bad mood than anything else. Not intended only as sadness, but also as anger, boredom, apathy and nostalgia. I cashed in and cashed in, slipped, improved and perfected, but the road is still long and I didn’t stop to breathe a little. This is why tonight I missed the air even more and I was sick, I was crying and sobbing. Then, as every time, I recovered slowly. I fell asleep late and slept little, I collapsed destroyed at five in a heavy sleep … I slept well at least! I don’t usually ask for help or talk about these moments because I don’t like being looked at with different eyes and showing what my weaknesses are, and I don’t even do it with the people I love that I know could take me high in a second. Zero nightmares.
For dinner my husband ordered sandwiches from Burgher King so yes, they eat sandwiches and I ate bulgur and vegetables. But I wasn’t very hungry and then the smell of those sandwiches disgusts me. After dinner we went to my sister-in-law to watch a series. The streets were deserted, dimly lit and very sad. On the way, however, I saw six balconies of different houses decorated with lights of every color and I thought that sometimes someone would like it to be always Christmas. The streets were deserted and sad-looking and I like to think that people had put lights on to give soul and color to the streets. Once home we sat on the sofa to watch RAGNAROK, because she likes Thor. At home I never watch TV, and the two of us have never seen it together, but in reality we have never spent time together after my wedding. Anyway I like her with her, she’s relaxing and we have fun. Now I’m in bed, I’m sleepy but I want to look at flowers, they relax me. If you like, can you recommend me some movies / TV series in the comments, privately or anonymously?

WRITE TO CHIARA FERRAGNI

Chiara Ferragni. I thought of her, since she is the most powerful woman on planet earth. Since millions of people only listen to what she says. Since his words are law. Then call her and tell her to imagine her little dog roasted or on a skewer seasoned with vegetables, because these things happen in South Korea and often in China too. Write her on twitter, facebook, instagram or wherever you are and tell her to raise a finger to say enough to this useless carnage that happens every year. If you also have a dog you will understand well what it means to send innocent beings to the slaughter just for a stupid tradition that they do not want to stop. Then tell Ferragni! Only she is listened by millions of people, she alone is and only she would have the power to influence so many people. We are nothing and no one would listen to us. Force!!! What are you waiting for? Tell her !!!

LADY BUTTERFLY

The breaking of the waves on the worn rock, the cold and icy air of an uncertain winter day where the sun plays hide and seek with the clouds. I want to hear the heartbeat that unconsciously pumps life, the silence of the blood that flows impetuously in its deaf language. I want to smell the warm bread, the smell of simple things that never get tired, of those little things that smell like home. I want to hear the sound of the beating of a butterfly’s wings, the sound of a life that is reborn, the lightness of a day, the freedom of a moment made of fluttering colors.
On February 25th, I saw the light again for the first time, and I caught the first sign of spring in my soul. Absorbed in the warm warmth of a noon that is anything but winter, a white butterfly hovers nearby in my garden. Immediately my mind could not help but think of the lyrics of that song so dear to me: “A butterfly lands on her shoulder, and I, I can only give her a farewell; That his destiny is as fragile as strength, but he says that today it flies, and that is where wealth is. ” I didn’t have time to finish that sentence between me and me with my eyes closed, when I felt a sudden slight tickle on my right shoulder …: it was her. Impulsively I pulled away, but hovered up the second needed to rest on my arm. At that point I stood still, smiled at her, and she took off. Goodbye, I whispered at that point, through tears. I know well that it was you, you, ephemeral thought reincarnated in the most fragile creature that exists. You finally gave me a reason to let you go, forever. Winter is coming to an end, and my heart today is really ready to welcome that long-awaited Spring. … “A butterfly rests on my shoulder, today I sit down and listen to it. Then he says it’s no longer time to talk, that tomorrow he has another life to meet. ” … And I too, from today, will try to start over.
When she turned into a butterfly, the caterpillars spoke not of her beauty, but of her quirks. They wanted her to be who she always was. But she had wings. She wanted to fly. She wanted to dare again. She was ready to destroy that cocoon and show all its colors.
In the garden that looks like an abyss the butterfly draws attention: interested in his clipped flight its bright colors and the black circles that decorate the tips of the wings. It affects the shape of the abdomen. When it whirls in the air illuminated by a green ray like when it rests from the effect which produce dew and pollen attached to the front of the flower I don’t lose sight of her and if it disappears beyond the railing of the garden because the garden is small or for speeding I follow her mentally for a few seconds until I recover my reason.
I don’t know if I’m wrong or if the time is wrong, or maybe the place where I am. I do not know. I just know that I feel a mistake, in everything I do, what I feel. Sometimes I hate myself, but not enough. I try to feel compassion for myself, for my survival. If life has given me the opportunity to start over for the second time, I cannot destroy myself again. I do not want. I was just a chrysalis and now I want to be a butterfly.
A chrysalis opened, releasing in the clear spring air a butterfly with diaphanous wings that began to flutter happily from one flower to another without ever stopping. “Place yourself on any flower and stay on it. Your life will be short and you will not be able to travel the whole world. It is foolish to tire yourself so much ”, the other butterflies told her; but she was determined to fly as much as possible: she could not waste her existence confined to a single flower, merely looking at a single patch of sky; when there are, however, millions of different flowers and an immense sky. So the curious butterfly flew, flew, and flew until it had the strength, and finally lay down on a meadow; it went out delicately like a candle. “I warned you that you would not be able to visit the whole world, that you would get tired at all”, a similar one would have commented if she had known about her wanderings; but she would have promptly replied “Lilies, roses, sunflowers, daisies, tulips, violets, dahlias, geraniums, irises, water lilies, camellias, begonias, chrysanthemums, poppies, marigolds and daffodils: these are just some of the flowers I smelled. I fluttered among the leaves of countless trees: lemon, cherry, orange, almond, pine, plum, olive, chestnut, apricot; and I flew over different landscapes: rivers, countryside, hills, mountains, valleys, ponds. I saw a multitude of colors: canary yellow and straw yellow, crimson, turquoise, orange, dazzling white, fuchsia, gold, silver, coral red, emerald green, forest green, amber, midnight blue, indigo, purple, pitch black, pink sugared almond, burgundy, beige, ocher, cyan, magenta, lilac, amaranth, light blue, purple, lavender, mauve. It’s true, I haven’t seen everything, but I’ve seen everything I could. “

THE BRAVE HEART

This photograph was taken in Ireland in 1972, and depicts a girl shooting with the weapon of her boyfriend, who was wounded in a battle against the British army.

The man survived, transported to a safe place, thanks to the sacrifice of his girlfriend who faced the English soldiers until she was killed.

When the British battalion commander discovered he had been fighting a woman, he ordered his soldiers not to touch her body and allowed the Irish to bury it. They are said to have heard the English commander exclaim: "The queen does not care about us as this woman cared about her man and her land".

The photo was chosen as a symbol for Women's Day in Ireland, alongside the phrase: "Don't be afraid to bond with a strong woman. The day may come when she will be your only army."

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