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Was ambled.

For me, the feeling of being particularly stupid is the norm. This feeling about the academic year had already facing in the first half, when I had convinced myself that certain matters could not be followed. Four courses that were sufficient, given that I still had arrears of examinations [trying not to think of the two sessions that I had gone to hell thanks to the Latin]. All right. Of those four tests, two I have given them, so I gave it to you if I had third notes and books. But alas. So.
And then, I could not condemn myself to death even following four courses this semester? But certainly
NO.
And certainly not because I'm crazy, basically. Because in my head, I have to finish. And I keep on telling me, dying and selling my soul to some demon to some crossroads, I can finish my exams in September, and so to graduate in December. With an advance ... Well, almost a year. However. It is not a feasible thing. And I say and I repeat to see what I can do in April, tell me before defeat.
also keep telling myself that I must send to the professor SdMusica the mail because I write from what is holy, the letter of recommendation to the Erasmus-which I would automatically slide the graduation in March. But since I graduate in March while However, in December because it is impossible, at least it would be for a good cause. And the positive sides of Erasmus are endless.
do not know why I do not. Maybe I'm afraid to fail once again. Who knows. However
.
After a first half in which I attended, yes and no Modern and Contemporary Italian Literature and a monograph on the beam of SdMusica [and I can only reiterate a matter for the simple fact that I loved her to madness] ... here we are. Becoming embroiled in:
-Geography.
We want to talk about? The staff is wonderful. In the sense that the passion he has for his subject is beautiful, the love that makes you beautiful, the photographs that there are splendid exhibition of his explorations, MA. Ie. E 'geography. Geography . And the geography of the world, the series * What is the capital of Paraguay? *. No no. Geography of the Alps. ALPS. Of ski resorts, I swear I'm not making it up. Six books, one of * names *. And examination blank maps indicate where the fuck I know, the reservoir area of the mountain range Vattelappesca. And so, I'll die. Also because it takes the signatures ...
-History of Modern Art.
The fault is two events: the flood October and my inability to make predictions. The day of the flood in Genoa in October, I followed the first lesson of contemporary art. I did not like. And I convinced myself that the flood was a sign from God that I ammonisse NOT to continue. Just like that I had to do an art. If I had barely been able to do some calculations, I would have said: I do not need nine credits. I am just six. Can I make art history and Eastern Europe. Instead ... And the man is great, eh. But really-if not taking the signatures would be even better, of course. If we do not do a lesson in the classroom cold in the basement and the other one in which the light has only one internal circuit, so we must take notes in the dark because the lights do not see the pictures ...
-Philosophy of History.
Because of masochism did not get enough-and even to spend one million euro in books, too. Of course, if the books they were. If all do not go back three decades ago. And if I reminds me a bit of philosophy in high school, damn my memory-Emmental. I become hysterical for the examination, I already know ... Also because, after all. Letters are the only one. The others are all the Philosophy ... I'll figure indecent, I know. Essay and examination and all. No. At least I like the teacher-is How do you explain a little difficult to follow, beyond what he says, but anyway. I wonder if Kierkegaard's three books take me to suicide.
-Philosophy of Language.
Ok, this is easy. In every sense. There are only six credits. I have already given the same test to speech therapy, and unknown to me because I did not have before. The sore point would be times I make it impossible to follow, while this man is crazy and I love it.
But still. You can not have everything ...

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feel the pain

I want to be equipped with a switch, which spengesse what hurts me inside to order.
I want to find a cure that flows in the veins of the purified.
And I would find a place to go away, so far as not even remember my name.
There is a place so far that makes me escape from myself, there is no place far enough.
I'm just hoping that the time gates soon.
A new wound, a new path.
Now I just want to eclipse, not to think, to drive them away.
What hurts, what hurts, what hurts.

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illusions ...

Where does the phase of the misunderstanding? We do not know, because sometimes things can seem like a thing rather than another? What turns does our brain?
We know only that in these cases Blinda everything, and try to make it more subtle as possible, even if you do not know if it was misunderstood illusion, or more.
say I am strong, I'm strong I can do, and I just want to cry, but tears are pushed back inside.
I'm strong, I can do.
Check the beats, check out the reactions, while inside your senses go to hell, in a swirl of something even know.
And would you cry, you want to know if it was only your illusion, and you do not have the courage, perhaps for fear of the evil that you would know.
If I could have another you in front of you to slap the same, with all the anger you have toward yourself.
I'm strong, I'm strong, I I can do.

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i am alone in this hall of dreams ....

I do not know what the roads will take from now on, but I'm sure will be different from the path of common people.
I want to be myself, to the end, find my place and my role under the sky, let things go without forcing them, to let things happen if they have to happen.
And do not cry, I kill the soul if things do not go in the direction I want.
Eventually, life, the case is only a river, and you can not swim against the current, especially if strong and overwhelming.
I never want to wonder why my life is not as it should, because it is a continuous chaos, why not port to any port, and goes well enough.
So I do not want the feelings that I feel I destroy, but to help me understand myself better, I feel like in a chrysalis.
I'm just trying my wings, I'm just trying to get out of this cocoon and fly away!
often feel that my place is not here and not now, but there's something inside me tells me that sooner or later I will find my journey in the place where I can finally say "here, is here now .. I can not stop. "
Sometimes I wonder why fate has wanted me to go through all these streets, sometimes I wonder how long will take me away.
I wonder why I should always be the backbone for the other, why can not I just be once in a while, weak, to say I too once in a lifetime "I need someone to help me bear the burden."
I never dreamed of Prince Charming, I've always been a "princess charming" for myself, and I will continue not to dream about it.
my heart every time you lose, sometimes someone would tell him "I hear you, I understand what you feel, I'm here now and everything will be fine."
But I'm just childhood dreams.
And I'm alone with my dreams .... alone with my thoughts ... alone with my feelings.
like I'm on a cliff and I tried to scream, but nobody can hear me because the wind blows too strong.
So I have to decide whether to fall down or just wait for my wings are formed.
Sometimes I would just disappear.

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Come inside me, do it like a poison which destroys everything, like a liquid that burns the veins.
Take me, without thinking, stuck under my skin.
One moment, suspended, away from the time when the chaos subsides and lights.
As if everything did not exist.
Come inside me.

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Night Shift, Iris. And Calliope.

not write poetry for a while. I think the last dates back to at least six months ago, so, here.
I'm glad you're back in some way. Not much of a girlfriend-and inspiration Montalian is all too obvious. However
.

On my shoulder.

Reflections and ice
sott'anche
up the bay of my lights was uninhabited desert

;
water and no chalk on the mud
flushed sky blue. Now where

bring these years oblivious
-between their fingers,
gold between the eyebrows - if not thin out


mists that still knows how to get dark
a waste of auroras rippled?
never returns to the sun. And if my tomorrows

are still behind me
-inflammatory ridicule, and curls - How much hard
redefine the fox.
I have my own now.
If there is a de-ice
now that now that she's me, but I'm not her.

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night

Thus it was that night, I lightly touched the tips of his fingers, as if they were feathers, wings close to me.

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I'm not the perfect person that I believed to be.
I noticed after a long talk with myself, after coming to terms with my body that does not work as before.
After a long inner journey, I thought that my soul had found a place where to stop, and instead has taken to walking certain routes not only never end, but perhaps after years of straight road, when now believe that the path does not change Moreover, a curve here, a climb, a descent, a tree in the middle of the road.
I wanted to find an inner perfection or at least go close, make that my soul was not troubled by transmitting the calm but I've always aspired to be transmitted.
But no, here we are again to come to terms with something he does not know how to give a name, you feel as if the light you want to explode inside out, break away from your body and find darkness to light.
not understand the origin of certain feelings is disorienting and devastating, it makes you feel tired, even just to walk, the only thing you want to do is curl up in a safe place waiting for the storm is over, sit in silence and give courage to their thoughts and flowing, as if they were waiting on a river that leads them to the mouth, until they merge with the sea.
I would be perfect.
-
a perfect person - a friend
perfect - a perfect girlfriend

give to others what they ask me, what you expect, what they believe to be due, listen to what they are saying.
And sometimes I can not do, I try and it hurts. After I
so bad.
evil within.
hands as if stretching to drag me into their dark.

But I do not feel like talking, I do not know how to explain, I'm jealous of my emotions, what I feel, of what I feel and I am convinced that others would not know even how to take things I say, maybe they would know only judge, or shoot the usual four sentences for discounted.

But I would like to find a corner only for me, let me rincocigliarmi with myself and continue to flow.

I only have "the patience of the waves come and go" ...

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Hatch.

There is the fact that sometimes I wonder who let me do.
Once upon a time, writing had shades of un'irredentismo against the malaise and a ransom for myself-was valid at the same time save. He was venting and he was giving me a chance. Not that I ever followed an estimate of me, mind you, but at least I thought that there was something holding me back a little above zero. It allowed me, at the end of the day, having put aside the dark thoughts. So it was up to some time ago. Then came OT.
And all this has been added to the oceans of passion and torture, digging deeper than he did, especially at the end-and disbelief could love so much absolute something that came from me. Find all the gradations of good and evil, and really hear.
It hurt, but the evil that is positive in the end, in a sense.
The following is not so. The following is frustration.
OA, is frustration. It is not just the fact that the characters are in critical situations, not even the fact that they suffer, and I with them. It 'more subtle, more connected to my * ability * to write. Were only them, to hurt. But it is also my inadequacy. OT
What makes a novel, is her turn around a nucleus. With its compact design, with its sides that open and close, but are oriented toward a center, and from a series of experiences that appear similar in size, but vary within, deep inside. OT has a novel structural economy. And this made it easier to write. It was not possible to get lost-not really.
The figure is the dispersion instead of OA. The characters are no longer in the same city, but in most parts of the world [Paris-Boston, and at Los Angeles, and will appear Lyon and I think other]. Gone are the years-not so much as to change entirely, but enough to make them grow, change or otherwise, in some way. Things have happened. And the point is this.
There are boxes which are and should remain stable, a background of the characters, their lines, their early history that OT has made immutable-and yet, within a scattered pattern. It is based on a spider web, OA, or frayed a web of relationships still steady, from one end of the ocean, the city, the house. Of life, because trequasiquattro years the life you can change.
do not think I could be. Right, I'm missing something.
It absorbs me so much, and I really want to write it, I have to put aside all the other stories I have in mind, as PM, that I can not wait to get started. But I can not travel two roads at once like that-and also have a real life, in the meantime.
With all the neuroses and the commitments it entails.

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not perfect self-repression

I am deeply convinced that if people fully express their impulses, we would live in a world more peaceful and less frustrating.
self-repression, a practice that many people are devout.
observe people as they move, how they talk, how they react and see in them only a great frustration mixed with anger bad, and this is also projected on their bodies, often awkward and unattractive.
People are locked in tight cages mentally.
I hear many different speeches, especially on sexuality. Everything that is the ratio that mimics the play is considered a perversion. Living in a natural way with his own body is considered to be "very decent people" and to suppress and the way to be considered "normal", after rotten below and then go look in the ways most extreme emotions ....
And if you scratch beneath the surface are the manager in charge of a staff that you submit and sodomized by the mistress of the moment. Or the housewife who goes to a paid escort.
And yet her husband "faithfully" in appearance and good with children who takes venereal disease from Nigeria on the road, stay if you feel attracted to someone to be afraid of the so-called "seduced and abandoned."
is still being held in their relations with their partners, because "who knows what might be thought, then after discovering that he was worse with another.
And then anger explodes, they take it to the world, angry with everything and everyone, a subtle anger that you can breathe like suffocating dust. Why
hold the tension turns into a black veil and negative.

And all in the name of what? Of something dictated by a religion, and laws that the invisible man has self-imposed.

Living oneself is the most natural thing on earth, to live what your body wants is the way to come to terms with themselves and with a good 30% road to inner peace.
But the harsh reality is that it is far from a concept model of society in which we live.

And then sex is commodified, sold, seen as something dirty and hidden.
And most people live in search of these things, cosidessi "pigs" exist because society has made that existed. Those ugly people look at you in the body that looks like a starving man a loaf of bread ...

And at the end of all, if you dare to make such a speech is given to you just a label that usually begins with P.

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Elena.

I miss.
I want to see.
I want to sit next to her and lean on his shoulder, I want you to be my support.
I prepare breakfast and coffee, I want you to make me bread.
I want to go and get her to come and take me. Grocery shopping with her. Wander aimlessly. Talk to her
our stories and shake our hands because we're geniuses. Her the scratch card as if it were a wolf. Genoa
I want is his and that is my Oristano. Sing with her at the bottom of the last bus.
Crying like a desperate on her bed with her cat that rises on the legs.
I want you to smile more, and has more reasons to do so.
protect, and teach those who are left behind that is lost more than they will ever understand.
I want to write. Because she pulsates in every word, and I sometimes leaves an impression for days. Months.
I want to be able to see more often. They can hold your hand. Listen.
I want you to hold my, hand.
I hate all this water in our midst.
And all that stands, even when the sea through it.
I miss so much.
I can not do anything. And
'my sister. It 's the sister who did not give me the blood, but all the rest.
And I can not tell you how much you love her.