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Children of Leningradsky


Leningradsky is a metro station in Moscow.
children live there. Street children
, homeless children, children road.
It 's the same thing.
an abomination in the world, here as elsewhere.

A Polish director, Hanna Pollak, has made a short feature of the protagonists.
This review will not focus on documentary film. That's good for one to see with their eyes. I focus on the eyes of those who saw him.
The faces of the spectators, when the film is finished, they were lost. What I read in their faces, in those eyes, was the sense of the film, tracing the images imprinted in the soul of everyone.
There were no words. I think that they can not exist for a horror without end, and objectively are also unnecessary. Unnecessary.

Why is not the horror or metabolites, or in need of a long, long, almost dilated processing, which does not come through words. Yet the horror comes in those little lives at the speed of light, in every breath, every heartbeat. The horror they did not ask permission, not asking for the opportunity to enter.

I want to comment on this film through the contrast that the film has created with us, we who live on this side of the screen, and we can see sitting on a chair, warm, dark and quiet. We who have chosen to look at it and maybe we prepared a few days before because we knew that this appointment was waiting for us.

Now back to the eyes: there were those who smiled, as if he had awakened from a long slumber. Who was looking around as if he did not know where to be found. Who did not move. and continued to stare at the scrolling credits. No one spoke. No one knew what to do, even if the only reasonable thing was to get up and leave. This was the film. A quiet storm. An earthquake property. E 'right now, in the end, it all starts.

To Us.

In the belly of the opulent Europe, the European Union under the floors, an army of pale children live clinging to the heating pipes. No one knows they exist. A nation of little ghosts.

Now no one can say, I did not know ...

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To be an outsider

Today I feel out of everything.
Feeling strange and unusual.
Intrigued by my new being.
Exhausted.
I said to myself and when I yelled my voice out from the pack.
Sì sono uscita dal gregge delle pecorelle ammaestrate per obbedire a quello che sentivo nel profondo.

Non avevo scritto nessun post per l'anno nuovo.
Ma ho trovato come voglio inaugurarlo: voglio sentirmi più libera di essere me stessa senza vergognarmi di quello che sono.
Voglio sentirmi più autentica, senza che questo mi faccia paura.
Bisogna sottostare a molti compromessi per vivere in socialità.
Ma a tutto c'è un limite.
Mi pentirò, chi può dirlo?
Certo, non sarà una passeggiata.
Saying "I'm not there" always has its effects. For once I did that and it is, how to explain, beautiful, heady and complex.

What I regret is that a certain person never believes in me and see me under a single, smoky lens. The image of me, his eyes never changes.
And the point is: this is not important.
Ok
But what I am for myself and as for others, and what you can find a happy medium between these two extremes?

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Viktoria 2260

Lint moisture, dust, rain, rumors that slip light on the surfaces of bodies shivering overheated by alcohol or food. One evening, as many and as no. New emotion of everyday life that seems to swallow all of this spread on this reality: there is no difference, and every day seems to join another in a pyramid of boredom or homesickness. When everything seemed to make sense and was not building castles of words so to do something.
Deciding what to do, have something to do in the midst of talk of lives all the same: and no purpose. I do not want to be like them, I told myself. I begged myself, and tears began to flow inside. Flooded me. So nobody can see it. And also the carousel and all purposes apparent partial show me people ben inserite e ben adattate mi sembrano disegni di fumo. Non esiste lo scopo assoluto. La vita è frammentazione di piccoli scopi che si rincorrono un giorno dopo l'altro. E' l'equilibrio di orizzonti relativi da porre in fila, e che costituiscono il tempo che avanza, il tempo dell'evoluzione.
E mi viene da piangere a pensare che proprio loro, le due persone che mi hanno dato alla luce, hanno messo come gadget alla mia esistenza un senso di perfezione così immobile da non potersi nemmeno avvicinare. Non voglio dare colpe, distribuire colpe a chi si profila all'orizzonte. Non è un discorso di colpe, insomma. E' un problema di scopi e confronti e altre cose simili; limiti forse, o essere nati per compiacere qualcuno e sostenerlo nella sua incapacità of life.
I would like to find a way, however small, at this moment in my life. Something that is mine and that others respect as such. Feel unique, separate but connected. Not alone and not attacked, and not to live as a support to confirm to others that exist. What is utopian to think of being something of their own, independent, adult and emotionally stable?