I’ve already met some of you in the *WZ.
Each of you calls her differently, someone remember, someone has vague impressions, or do not remember.
But he knows we’ve been “seen” there.
Because or somehow it has a foundation or something
mistaken. But if I know who you are, if you have the impression of something familiar, if I can show you something I can not know, if I feel what you feel or vice versa, or if there is something resonant then maybe not just my imagination. And if I have a bit of empathy and you normal, what could you hear?
It was a Persian carpet knotted by small female hands and patients, the plot was running intersected, it was permeated with perspiration, the thoughts of the dreamers of artists’ intrigues. There they had downloaded their destiny fate life wish fabric wires warp patterns warcraft carpets worlds universes unraveled by unseen hidden hidden divinities immense simple to those who had the look free from the misery of man’s misery saw the cat of chesire run jump jump play smiles admiring fun and dissolve in an air stream.
“Call me Solo”
Purple fog is where the pain of every age of all creatures of all times and in every form condenses, experienced for love, to save, to teach.
It’s loading the pain of the other on the shoulders to relieve it.
Every intensity color form is there inside.
When every being will try the pain of the other and will do it for him then the fog will vanish.
It is the satori of compassion.
It is giving me your pain, we will share it together and transform it into joy and love, going first to hell. It is being brother and sister with all the beings of the universe.
It’s the feeling of the kitten looking for mom. Feeling the hyper-compressed world of those who are cut off from the world physically or spiritually, such as the autistic or tetraplegic child.
It’s glimpsing that world a millionth of a second out there and be scared and ashamed and run away because we could or could be us in its place.
Or have been there for a while.
I ‘m your inner cat and
I will never flee away
i’m a f *** in bullet in the sparkling purple haze,
facing the horror of loss,
and chase the ghost of your shadows,
you have left in me a part of your soul,
and i still feel you again, and again,
and i see myself through a passive dark mirror,
in search of you.
And I run fast with my scars and wounds, head low,
scars of brother.
Your scars, bro.
I am with you.
Le sue ali clementi ci ricoprono sapendo che se ferite non possono guarire, ma puntano l’occhio della tempesta incuranti del prezzo da pagare, per i compagni da salvare, per i compagni con cui lottare, per le spalle da coprire.
Tutto quello che definisce una vita, movimenti e non parole, ferite felici, silenzio raccolto fra le mani come un piccolo bucaneve da proteggere, sorrisi da custodire.
Il coraggio di chiedere scusa per le parole non dette, i gesti non fatti, per quelli che potevamo fare, per le nostre disattenzioni che hanno fatto male, per quello che ci rende così sensibili, per quello che ci fa esitare, tremare, ma non cadere. E un grazie a chi ci spinge sul limite, mai troppo lontano per noi, sempre un territorio da esplorare e conquistare.
L’arcobaleno cullato dal cumulonembo infine ci porterà a casa.
His clever wings cover us knowing that if wounds can not heal, they point to the stormy eye of the price to pay, for the companions to be saved, for the companions to fight with, for the shoulders to cover.
Everything that defines life, movements and words, happy wounds, silence gathered in your hands like a small snowdrop to protect, smiles to guard.
The courage to apologize for the unspoken words, gestures not made, for what we could do, for our disadvantages that have hurt, for what makes us so sensitive, for what makes us hesitate, tremble, but not fall. And thanks to those who push us to the limit, never too far for us, always a territory to explore and conquer.
The rainbow lulled by the cumulonimbus will eventually bring us home.
Sette sassi si raccolsero intorno al piccolo fuoco al centro della foresta per proteggerlo e ravvivarlo. Ognuno di loro raccontò la sua storia alla fiamma e agli altri. Si scaldarono con i racconti delle loro vite e dopo tanto tempo arrivò l’alba. Ma restarono attorno al fuoco anche se era giorno, perché ognuno di loro sentiva che avevano bisogno l’uno dell’altro.
Seven stones gathered around the small fire in the center of the forest to protect and revive it. Each of them told her story to the flame and to the others. They warmed up with the stories of their lives and after so long dawn came. But they stayed around the fire even though it was day because each of them felt they needed each other.
(The August 28th will be the Memorial Day of the Rainbow Bridge)
Only to try to reach the place that maybe exists only in your heart, you have slipped wings through the night, you have gently moved the ribbons reddened by the reflectors of ignorance and the human ignorance, beaten and cobbled by evading crimson tracers, rogue deaf guns, you’ve protected the your thin and anachronistic wings adorned with a rainbow color, you’ve got one constellation of wounds and scars that are substance and pride, anger and will, love and strength, empathy and compassion, life, you have tightened your teeth and your hiss is sprouted like an
obscure flower in the night, with the tenacious delicacy of the snowdrop, you have gone over the bastions of violet fog, you are burned to the white heat returning into the atmosphere of dreams, fallen, raised, sunk in the swamp, crossed the forest, fought with bare hands, drawn to full hands in the sea of pain and perhaps dead in the attempt, mad crazy pathetic dancing arm with the valkyries and the dream?
We were just kids when you threw us in this war. We were naughty kids who we thought we were fighting and saving lives and changing the world. We thought it was a game guys, it was all damn true. You did not believe us then, and do not believe in us either. Now, now that we come back from every ghost recon increasingly wounded and contused out and inside, with the smell of anger and stratification on the skin. You said you ignore the pain, ignores everything.
No, we were just little boys and now we are like scattered and damned souls. Because you’ve thrown us in the jungle and when we came out we smelled too much of love and pain and we had too many wounds and scars and trauma to be socially acceptable or presentable.
But we know who to rely on.
No need for empty words.
Can you hear this wonderful glowings
full of sleeping stars, nestled on themselves?
The delicate and crystalline murmur of snow
that melts and goes downhill carefree,
this delicate and fragrant wind,
the thousand shades in the awakening sky,
the peace over these lonely peaks?
I put my head on your fawn pillow, and finally,
I dream with you.
Riesci a sentire questo meraviglioso chiarore
pieno di stelle assopite accoccolate su se stesse?
Il mormorio delicato e cristallino della neve
che si scioglie e scende a valle spensierata,
questo vento delicato e profumato,
le mille sfumature nel cielo che si risveglia,
la pace che c’è quassù su queste vette inaccessibili?
Appoggio la testa sul tuo fulvo cuscino e finalmente,
io sogno con te.
could hear or read these words beyond the perpetual confusion of this semantic and ontological babel, if I could center the line of hydrogen neutral to circumvent or pierce the ruthless and stiff background noise, how would this come about? Do you whisper, shadow, vision, smell, touch, taste, presence?
What probabilistic wave ridge I should ride to leap towards you, what an absolute delta to cling to, to leave behind the overwhelming gravity of the simulacrum, what a blurry silvery quantum for this heart of darkness of voids and flashes of nothing, which estuary follow up to Sea, where the dark cumulonation devours the sea and awaits me the white white where the furious sailing ship of Ahab will arise.
Where our words will meet, where the gutter will finally gather together before being rebuilt from the mother earth and return once again to the primordial sea, immense and timeless Teti, where everything has begun and everything will end, the desperate and painful dream of a blind dreamer and only by the great silent heart.
If only you could, everything would make sense.
And I could finally rest in peace.
riuscissi a sentire o leggere queste parole oltre il balbettio perenne e confuso di questa babele semantica e ontologica, se io riuscissi a centrare la riga dell’idrogeno neutro per aggirare o perforare il rutilante e stolido rumore di fondo, in quale modo arriverebbe questo? Come sussurro, ombra, visione, odore, tocco, sapore, presenza?
Quale crinale di onda probabilistica dovrei cavalcare per saltare verso di voi, quale delta assoluto raggungere per lasciarmi alle spalle la gravità opprimente del simulacro, quale quantico proiettile d’argento per questo cuore di tenebra di parole vuote e lampeggianti di niente, quale estuario seguire fino al mare, laddove il cumulonembo oscuro divora il mare e mi aspetta la balena bianca, dov’é che si arenerà il furente veliero di Achab.
Dove le nostre parole si incontreranno, in quale grondaia infine si raccoglieranno insieme prima di essere riassorbite dalla madre terra e ritornare ancora una volta nel mare primordiale, l’immenso e senza tempo Teti, dove tutto é iniziato e tutto finirà, il disperato e dolente sogno di un sognatore cieco e solo dal grande cuore silenzioso.
Se solo tu potessi, tutto avrebbe un senso.
E io potrei infine riposare in pace.