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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?

Blueprint Of Wooden Swingset

Stardust

Stardust.

residues of explosives. Morning with memories of a vent and cry a fake happiness. Have you looked at my tears fall, without saying anything, and this is enough for me.

Cover pain with wrapping paper. The thought that maybe we will not be what we are now and the future, between now and April, will be a glittering carousel before going to sleep.

scarves and warm sweaters. We are simple people, and even the carousels and perhaps we do not like that much. It 'been a trail of events presented us with indefinable in that room, to live together in mid-day, night is not included. But that's not the port, only a way station. Where watching the burning of incense, patchouli along with your personal pain. Very decent, but dense.

And speaking of morphine I am really want to experience the effects, or toxic or sick, or come at the end of the world. I would get lost in visions that lead me away or feel light as if my lungs worked helium. Or maybe this bright Christmas lights and squalor gold card is nothing more than a seasonal version of these visions and I'm already playing and I do not know. If all will not want to be here watching the end. I know, is my limit, I can not tolerate and related purposes. Then after many years as I remove the stupid lego towers, makes clear and as we look through colored lenses. Years later, the pain of this becomes hardened and indefinite impression that you would not know more traceable to an owner. The pain of this is a monster to manage, for which I am always surprise of equipment and I wonder, what price will have a built happiness? It 's true that happiness is always built and always has a price? Yet, I know how to do just that, these stupid small buildings that make me feel alive and tangentially anchored some report. A small and silly life, a small and stupid person. It is enough.

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Fog


Scazzi total. Fog. Tears. Christmas around the corner. Last day of the year. Poetry. Madness. Ash. Navigli.
Secrets. Shadows. Nails that crunch incessantly.

In recent times you say things central.

Yeah ... but where I am? Where I wonder, while living my life?

The last frontier where lies the secret of my life: why, I wonder, the terror of the last pages, as if everything was about to end, the mystery of revelation, and my life without a mirror secret, which falls into itself without end?

These dreams that I can not remember, and the lights of the shopping streets, I can not recall, I can not return to the magic of the Christmas holidays if not central when I started to die?

November 27

I'm sorry that this blog has become a dark journey into my rambling.
I did not want, or rather, I was sure that I could handle it "sporty". We transcribe a song by a very nice novel:

"Even before I turn, I knew what it was: a portrait of Rosa that I had seen at the home of Lena, put together with others on the top shelf of the wardrobe . In black and white, Rose caught three quarters, from the waist up, with the breast that was visible in the neckline of her gown, her face no makeup, her hair wet and tousled as if blacks were just out of the shower in the cup hand, rings in all fingers, including thumb. not a pose, as if he had not noticed to be photographed: looking at something or someone off, or maybe not see anything. smiles. E 'in the community and smiles relaxed, spontaneous, unaware of what others think of her, indifferent. It seems you do not need to say "That's me"; seems happy to just be herself, almost humming to herself, "I am, I am" . Despite the abuse, exploitation suffered physical, emotional and sexual ... Rose had, has un'inviolabilità background. "You can not touch me" . I realized that I was not big enough to contain it, strong enough to lift where she could not get there alone. I was the last in a long line of people who have moved away from its only true source of freedom itself. "

Martin Bedford "The Houdini Girl"

The female figures in literature are fascinating. And also in life. Sometimes I think women have an extraordinary power that men have not and will never have.
The women in my life are many, and each is clear and relevant as a water drop on a blade of grass.