a Wish

I could leave it all to see this city
What's here for me except this cup of sour agony
I hear my inner calling, begging me
It's better to smile under the rain
Than to grieve in this cozy nursery
Once upon a time i thrived in my games
Now my hands create pretty bottles for the swallowing sea
All are dry islets of my own self
How can i belong somewhere
With this spirit of insecurities
Away the livid, the afflicted cover will hide me
I want to forget in its embrace
I keep searching for that shelter
Where my life will have a sense
Where you are, where are you

Critic of Cinema

"The motivation form the majority of directors and scriptwriters isn't to educate people, what they create only exist to entertain the last ones, their films are like the fools of royal courts, they wriggle and resound but we only lose our time at watching them"

Be my writing partner

I couldn't be a novelist, because i can't write fiction, i need to feel to write and all my words are truth in my mind, it's my way of writing!; And that's why when i say "i feel for you!" it means "i love you!", It's a personal language. Before i couldn't believe the word "love" but i know so well the word "feel".
My writings are a reflect of myself, you give it life.

The wrong hour

Six hours twenty minutes in the morning!, what a bad time to be awake, it's the calmer moment of the day, all is asleep, the whole nature, this deep silence is almost creepy, fortunately the rain knocks gently to my window panes, and this sparkly sound lays a balm on my languid thoughts, i feel my eyes are burning in the remains of a difficult sleep and watching at a screen too bright make me crease it in a soft suffering, but i don't know what to do, because at this time of the day there's no alcoves welcoming enough to guide me out of this complete and sublime lethargy;
I'll have to dress then take a bus to run again in a couple of hours plus some dusty minutes, one may think i'm alone this morning with the smart spit of coldness slipping, gliding through the crack of my broken window, but i feel fine and on my swollen face the birth of a smile, it's true, here on my side, words are warmer than the roses from my friends.
Thank you! For you, the one i feel worth living.

The world in the puddle

It was in the yard of an elementary school, the all moaning seven - eight years old kids were cramming under the wide porch, pushed by the adults to hide from the thin rain; And he was crouched, there, apart from the herd, beneath the diffuse, shady light, indolent of the surrounding turmoil, the drops grazing his dark mane and running along his beardless arms, his big honey eyes focused above a newly puddle of fresh water; His innocent fingers were pressing on an ink cartridge, and the kid was floating through this entire new world pumping and spreading in the iridescent curves of the ink and water mixed; Near, enduring the rain too, i saw the beauty in the puddle and i saw the beauty in the kid experiencing the beauty in the puddle; The vision broke in pain and shouts when an advisor grabbed my brother by his ear to lock him away and lecture him about the sense of wasting materials and spoiling the school; At that time, petrified, i hated the insensitive adults, and i tell you now i haven't grow a bit recalling this misadventure as an observer, my heart swells and i'll build a wall of my body to protect the kid from the ones blind to beauty and conditioned against Dreams.

Happy bummers; Merry go round

Today i saw a miracle; They were ten sitting in row on stone steps, singing to the moon, hardly visible through the filth on their hair and teeth, mixing with the night, swinging the rags covering their skin full of scars; Their belongings in plastic bags were tied at their swollen waist, some even had no bags and no shoes, i swear i could hear their incredibly long toe nails tapping the beat on the cold concrete; I was shuffling my legs as it was plain lead along the pavement, feeling the weight of my miserable life, when those waving rocky singing reached me to awake my soul, i stayed still staring at this beautiful show without blinking, on my face the birth of a smile and, as it started to rain the screenplay remained unchanged, at this moment these deprived men were merry and i was mesmerized, and no rain nor wind or even the blast of the town could have changed this flowing sensation; A group exists i thought, and if not a group nonetheless one person for me to feel the happiness i saw tonight, and in my wildest rambling equally i almost perceived a place for someone to love in my soaked and lonely self, then it hits me : Does an homeless can be singing or am i just dreaming?!; I slapped my face on two cheeks, i don't want to know the answer fearing my loneliness could be eternal.

The Homeless Chant :

"How precious
Our teacher's teachings
Time flies swiftly
In this garden of learning
So swiftly
After all these years
We must part
Goodbye"

"Tampopo" (Dandelion)

the peace hides over there

I can't stick to the image i'd like to have,
I have huge ideas,
Ideas of absolute,
And this blog is one proof
My emotional instability comes from here,
What i feel overtop and destroy what i am.