Tag Archive: can I consider this writing?

There are times I scream while driving.
The need overpowers all my common manners, overpowers the eight Kenwood speakers audio system.
The Chevrolet purrs under my feet in a primal answer to the anger.
Because it’s a long while ago I took my loved bike for a ride.
I had enough of about everything currently around me.
I’m itching for a fight.
La valvola di sfogo diventa l’umido nastro nero illuminato dai fari lunghi della mia tesora.
We run like bullets.
The soft mist lacerated by the sheer force of the engine as the speed goes up.
Me smiling when the indicator hits the two-hundred mark and the only thing i hear is the roar.
I think I shall be home before breakfast Ti, remember to add a cup for me, please.

Why does my heartbeat feel like a speaker?
Feeding back…
Repeater, repeater!


Certe volte sento il tempo…un po’ come in questi ultimi 4 giorni fra Settembre e Ottobre…

Divento schiva in estremo bisogno di un silenzio assoluto.

Del movimento ritmico delle mie gambe sui pedali della mountain bike e del mio respiro che inizia a bruciarmi nella gola a causa del primo freddo.

Le gambe che sembrano non reggermi e tremano per lo sforzo, lo sforzo della mia testardaggine perché *porco cane* io non mollo mai.

Il sole che si nasconde sopra il mio capo dietro un mare d’umidità.

Ancora un po’ e poi…inverno, tetti bianchi di brina ed il cielo che diventa lo specchio, ancora una volta.

Ti questo mio bisogno di aria credo che lo comprenda solo in parte.

Vorrebbe venire con me nelle mie sortite su due ruote, riuscirebbe anche a starmi dietro ma…

…ci sono cose che preferisco fare da sola.

…pensieri che in un determinato periodo dell’anno germogliano avvelenando l’aria che ho intorno.

…momenti in cui dai miei soliti 20 l’ora passo ai 35 e la strada brucia sotto di me.

Ti oggi mi ha tenuto il muso, io gli ho sorriso.

Non tutto può essere perfetto in Paradise.

Domani è un altro giorno.

Ed Ottobre è arrivato.

Most days I like my poisons.
My ire, my quick reasoning and my need for climbing.
The almost spasmodic desire to smoke when I stopped ten years ago.
Other times I just take off on my bike and say goodbye for the whole day.
I choose where I want to be.
Be it inside a warehouse full to the brim, an old library, in the middle of a lonesome street or sitting for a full afternoon in a coffee shop, thinking ad musing over the mug.

I find pressing the ‘pause’ button is good sometimes.

Reallign priorities, discard idiocies, taking up new lines of thought.
Finding freedom from the routine you chose.
New paths.
Reaching the stars.

non est ad astra mollis e terris via


Sono due mesi che ci provo…

Ormai la voglia di prendere a testate la tastiera è imponente.

Ho – udite udite – un trequel da scrivere, uno show must go on che prevede continui colpi apoplettici e urla isteriche di ‘Io ti uccido, Hermy. Marca le mie parole!’

Sapete qual’è il problema?

Sta nella mia testa, ci ha messo le radici quello schifoso!

Non ho tutta la trama davanti ma qualcosa sì, più che abbastanza per mettere giù una base e sapere in bene o in male dove mi porto…manca il titolo ma la colonna sonora è ricca, i moodboards stanno superando la mia immaginazione, ho fatto tutte le ricerche del caso su wiki, Google Earth ecc…

L’unica cosa che riesco a fare è scrivere al massimo un paragrafo per volta e nemmeno tanto corretto in italiano…

Sono disperata…



Apparently I wrote about something already existing in the realm of touch…
Linds suffers from lack of touch and the definition is quite true and frightening eye-opening in his case.

Touch starvation is actually a thing. The term for it that’s emerging in medical/psych circles is “skin hunger”. We as humans are meant to be much more social- and especially physically social – than we actually are, and Americans in particular are often touch starved because the casual, platonic contact that often happens between friends in other places just. Does not happen here.

There’s a really Puritan idea that’s pervaded our culture, that touch and sex are inherently linked, and it’s doing us a massive disservice. Touch is incredibly important for humans- hugs reduce blood pressure, cuddling releases oxytocin, and babies will straight up DIE without being touched enough because the stimulation releases hormones that are integral to their healthy development.

We were never meant to hold one another at arm’s length, and if you feel you need physical contact, don’t be afraid to ask for it! Hug your mom. Cuddle a friend on the couch. Ask.
There’s a good chance that they need contact just as much as you do.

Because Linds was never held in the arms of his mother and – in a sterile environment such as an orphanage – there is no space to give affection to all.
Linds lives in the shadow of its ghosts and I could almost pinpoint with certainty the moment in his life when he realizes that the touch of someone can happen and he discovers the hunger for it.
He doesn’t expressly like touch but turns out to be dependent from it and has the knowledge that touch is not necessarily tied to the deepest feelings.

If we take as true the statements above is incredibly sad to think that ‘his touch rations’ are derived mainly from encounters with people who do not form any deep imprint in his life.
I shudder at the part

babies will straight up DIE without being touched enough because the stimulation releases hormones that are integral to their healthy development’

Somehow I created a ‘monster’…in fact Linds survives his infancy alone with the help (damnation?) of his own IQ.
There’s acually a place in ASTTL, in the very early chapters were in a flashback Linds says ‘Since then, the brat was dead.  And basically I think he had never been born.’
My skin is actually crawling now the more I think about the internal layered structure of his psyche.
As a baby his thoughts were already complex enough to instinctually understand the magnitude of betrayal he was victim of.
Linds could have died not from frostbite but for heartbreak.
He could have stopped fighting for his life.
He choosed not to.
He is strong enough as a ‘brat’ to say on his own: ‘Fuck YOU! I’m going to live, to thrive, to suffer AND rise from the mud.’

And now I see him with new eyes and a newfound love…as someone would say GO LINDOR! LoL


I used to be a strange child.

In the summers I looked at the landscape under the scorching sun from the shadows.

In winter I read endless books about beautiful days, my feet tucked between the bed and the heater to stave off the cold. Often I was bored to tears by the longest talks between brothers and sisters on Sundays.

Spring was just a glimmer of dry cerulean sky.

Autumn was the time of the year I never step foot out due to the rain so I read, there was little else to be done.

Always secluded in a big quadrilater of green grass, closed by tall walls and a heavy iron gate. I rarely played with someone ‘cause they were no other children my age and I was forbidden to go out.

I read several hours a day, and I dreamed vivid dreams.

I never felt alone in my world.

I actually started to see other children only at five years old and my seclusion showed: I was not capable of instaurate friendships, I did not understand a inch of what the other children thought (and I came to the conclusion pretty soon that children my age did not think at all)

I was an introvert to the highest degree.

So I became an extrovert to not feel different and that’s what caused the “Tendencies to be a leader” note of the teachers in first grade. The leader was not me, but I could act pretty well the role for five hours a day.

Still I never really connected with people my age, it was a rarity to invite someone home or go play with other children.

Sometimes when someone came to my house to play I had to put a straight face and play with them but after a while I just stopped to be responsive and dismissed them to their own world, bored to death.

This cycle never really stopped I just ceased the extrovert persona at twelve when I understood there was no point in stressing.

I was different, end of story.

I loathe to have friendships now. They never did me any good or be useful in any way.

The only real delight to me is putting my thoughts on paper with the clarity of silence.

A pleasure greater than this I honestly still don’t know.

A summary of yesterday night…

When plot lines become too many…
I get all kinds of ‘Ohhh, yes, now THIS, Check, that’s done, this one for later’
Then you feel it’s time to close a chapter and…

1.00 AM

2.00 AM

3.00 AM


I think I dropped my brain somewhere between the first 1.000 digits…

…chapter is 6.000+…

And the last update has been almost a month ago…

And then I ask myself the fatidic question when I see the grammar…
Have I been drinking while writing?
Nope, no…whenever?!

“Sometimes I write drunk and revise sober, and sometimes I write sober and revise drunk. But you have to have both elements in creation — the Apollonian and the Dionysian, or spontaneity and restraint, emotion and discipline.”

Dylan Thomas in “Reuben, Reuben” 1964 @ Peter De Vries

Linds with the grin/Alan is so good:

Me, searching for the whiskey stash:

This tale ends with me smashing head first into the keyboard and finding myself with a black eye the morning after…explain that to people who know you without sounding completely out of your mind.


[Little disclaimer: This post is one of my poor comic reliefs, no GIF is mine so don’t flame!]

The old, nasty man.
Sat on the Earth, like a traitor on a throne.
His face a sneer, his eyes little and askew.
Lecherous, yellow and lewd.
There’s no saviour in front of me.
In his boney hands dangle a big set of keys, rattling an infernal racket.
The racket of an universe, dying into silence.
Singing savagely

“Destroy me.
Give me the freedom of things broken in and out.
The new order that will set my bones anew.
Scatter me to the wind like ashes.
Deconstruct my brain.
I will feed the roses’ roots with my memories of destruction,
giving the thorns the sharpness needed
to pierce the insolents and poison the weak who wish to be blind.
Kill me and you will fear no more.”

I want no power, no peace of mind so long gone.
No revenge, I won’t lead an army of reckless judgment.
I have no dreams here in this winter where the sun is but
an outlined circle under an imperfect piece of glass.
Sagely I’m but a walking corpse, talking about freedom but given none.
Still I wish to destroy, damage and break.
Peal every layer of pain between my vision and my heart.
Find a way to put together whatever remains.
So that in my hands there’ll be another world.
Receding into the womb.
Living the lie.
Construct another life.
Stopping my breaths.
Climbing the sands.
Shifting into nothing.

“Pride had been my downfall at every turn in the road.
I do not wish to make that mistake again.”

There’s a river streaming down.

Sound as sin, rowing beneath.

Leaving me wide awake every hour of the night.

Regaining memories I don’t like to unfold,

Cursing every dip, every shallow turn,

running for the sea, so I’ll never be free.

Still tonight is when in the dream I stop to writhe

And I lie down under the river streaming down


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Avete presente quegli scomodi abiti vittoriani? Quelli con la gonna che strascica un po' per terra, gonfiata sul di dietro dalla tournure? Quelli con i corsetti strettissimi e i colletti alti che solleticano il collo? Ecco. Io non vorrei indossare altro.

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