Category: Passato


Sunday afternoon, drinking tea with Grandma Flora (my namesake!)…

A cup older than me, all baroque, made of chalk.

Sky not bluer than our eyes.

Family with three generations of blue eyes.

Home not really home anymore, still and warm.

Afternoon in amber and silence.

Peace and sighs.

Strings of dialogue unimaginable, loving her more than myself.

Nights like tonight are not made.

They are born while I plow through with the Chevrolet Darling.

It’s already a few weeks I’m having this sort of melancholy.

Crawling back from a far away place inside the folds of my brain.

Reading novels written for illiterates no doubt.

Stream of thought greys, ocras and dark greens.

Films for depraved made in lead, mud, chalk and diamonds.

Music resembling the shout of a beast slaughtered, warhowler heartbreaker.

I have been forged in darkness, and never feared it.

When you fear, you push away.

You don’t actually see what you fear.

Truth is: bathing in the sun for too long can bruise you.

Sight and sound black as your eyes.

Dead this night.

For I can’t bear them alive.

Music. Sound. Machine running the miles.

I don’t remember anymore the nightbirds, the endless typing, the epic journeys made with fog fanning out.

I know who I am.

I don’t know who I was, who you thought about in the dead of the night when all was said and done.

I feel just the endless road built and destroyed where my children are resting.

For I had many children, wouldn’t you know.

They were the most fair: dark eyes, dark hair, white teeth gleaming in warning for mother sleeps soundly and needs not to be disturbed.

Still my car is running in the dead of the night.

Past gas services, past lives and deaths, past people and creatures made from a faulty deity who forgets and never really forgives me for my sins.

And thus the guitar sounds like the end of a world born in the dark.

And the clear tenor screeches notes of ireFire.

Been dazed and confused for so long it’s not true…[…]
Don’t know where you’re goin’
Only know just where you’ve been

Il primo sabato del mese di Settembre.
San Grato e la fine dell’estate.

Il frastuono delle voci sul soffitto alto dell’oratorio.

La vita che gira perpetua ancora…

Presto tutto questo rimarrà solo dentro la mia testa…nel silenzio.

Mentre pellicole strane, a tratti cliniche a tratti ironiche mi passano davanti…fra nuvole di fumo e quartieri cinesi.

Saigon e Lussello.

Antipodi e vicini di casa.

Come with me underwater.

And die to despise me no more.

Te lo meriti.

Ed anche no.

Because I know you loved the nothing so many years ago.

A girl with no true direction in her life but a will made of rusty iron.

Now blueish steel, forged in the darkness of the years gone by behind.

Now more and beyond.

Never bend or break again

Watch with your eyes.

From a dark, dank place here comes Evil.

Long gone eyes made of ice and venom never closing, harsh words never retracted.

A pen scratching words written for herself only.

Longing for nothing.

Longing Evil had and your anger wasn’t misguided.

Still, given everything, Evil deserved…?

Did she truly?

Did she?

I’m not asking you now.

I’m asking this to the ago you.

I’m not hungry for answers or accusations, I’m afraid.

Sorry for what happened though.

Sto riascoltando i Nightwish dopo un’assenza di anni dalle mie playlist giornaliere.

E come tornare indietro di dieci anni per me (li avevo scoperti per caso fra il 2008 e il 2009).

O ancora più indietro, negli anni della mia infanzia a passare la notte con una torcia, un atlante e il naso rivolto all’insù per scovare le costellazioni.

Gli anni che ho passato ad ascoltarli on repeat quando il mondo aveva perso tutti i colori.
Quando io non sapevo più chi ero in realtà e tutto ciò che aveva un senso risiedeva proprio lì nelle mani di Tuom e compagni.

Sembra impossibile eppure i NW mi entusiasmano ancora adesso, adesso che sono lontana anni luce e ad ascoltarli mi viene la pelle d’oca.

Ho riletto DOR in parallelo ed è stato un connubio perfetto.

Quella fic, tutto il tempo speso a scriverla, tutte le notti passate a chiedermi che senso aveva quando in realtà ero totalmente incapace di prendere in mano ciò che restava della mia vita.

Sorrido ora nel pensare che DOR ha avuto un discreto successo solo perché ho vissuto per scrivere quella storia.

Allora non volevo ammetterlo ma ora non mi vergogno più: se non l’avessi scritta probabilmente non sarei qui a parlarne oggi.

Ho incontrato anche molte persone allora, persone che oramai non ho più sentito da un po’ ma è ok…eravamo unite da un comune amore per i NW e son sicura che nessuno di noi proverebbe niente se non un po’ di malinconia nel guardar indietro ma con un sorriso sulle labbra per tutto quello che abbiamo condiviso.

Sto guardando le stelle stanotte, un bel po’ più a Nord dell’ultima volta.

L’aria è umida e si fa tardi.

E Tuomas Holopainen ha sempre ragione su tutta la linea.

Story of your life
Time of solitude and strife
Freedom of an open road
Hope, and many miles to go
Promises to keep
Countless goldfields to reap
To be rich is to seek
To relive a memory

All the strangers on your path
Crossroads, the letters from home
The cooling embers of a Yuletide hearth
All the sounds of wilderness
The truth in which you roamed
Now your lost Rosebud has brought you back home

[Tuomas Holopainen ~ A lifetime of Adventure]

4545

I am living for the sunny days.
The rainy ones.
The hours I can escape.
The moments I know I closed a deal.
The tiny pleasures I find in the weirdest places.

I live in every breath in and out of my lungs while I ride.
I live for the lost days, the warmth of afternoons in the shade.
I live for the humid stillness of summer nights.

I run on my own two feet.
I run on my MTB down the hill at full speed.
I run on the chevrolet darling.
As the clock chimes the hour.

I am tired, I admit.
Life now is still sweeter than honey.
And my skin is turning golden under the sun.
As time goes and doesn’t come back.
As memories start to fade and music remains.
Screaming voices are getting dim in the ride.
Or maybe I’m just older.
And I still dream.

Sometimes the past labeled ‘Hate’ comes back.
It’s like pushing the trigger of a gun.
The bullet is released and the sound of the shot just cracks in the still air.

For me it can only come back with songs, now.
It’s a good thing ‘cause I control pretty much anything I hear these days for technology is wonder.
Today I wasn’t that lucky and I hate when it happens.

For it’s just songs, not even that good for my tastes, never really liked but still kept in an old music archive.
It was barely 40 minutes – now agony – you said you liked.
Pop, hardly meaning anything profound.

Today it just went straight to my head,
with all those months thinking anything but rationally.
All those years mourning practically nothing.
Me, my cups and the fucking hope.
The sinister glint in my eyes under a canopy of trees long forgotten.
I truly hated for I wasn’t myself.
Search, find and destroy.

———————————-

I thank daily every deity for I am still here on this Earth.
For I find I’m not bitter if my triggers stay unreleased.
For if I have known ‘hate’ I did bid it goodbye a long time ago.
I never searched for you, never I will.
I don’t care anymore and in a way it amuses me how needs and feelings can change.
Life.
Sometimes I feel a little blue, I write/work all night (Yes, I write, I still do that!), Consume my poor Chevrolet darling, find the time to nurture and watch my orchids flourish.
Bright colours, fluorescent skies, rolling hills in pale green, the ticking of my bike going down at full speed.
The sounds of morning, sun on my windshield.
It feels like change.
I do have changed in ways I doubt you would understand.
For I love, I share and I try to help.
The past made me what I am.
And it won’t return.

Coexisting in life is never easy.

We humans have so many ways of thinking and seeing things and taking critics.

Sometimes you just try honestly to help and all you receive is scorn for ‘YOU are not sharing MY views, admit it!’

Of course I see what you see, but I also see what I see, and possibly have an opinion of what the rest could see…truthful or polluted it may be.

There are days I truly resent helping for I know what I will gain.

Other days I help and stay silent and regret.

Truth and pain walk on the same cobble street often.

Family is family, I guess.

Not every old thing can be fixed, but new ones might be found.

~ by someone somewhere I don’t quite remember when but the thought is rather stuck in my mind now.

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[originally from tumblr]

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