Tag Archive: That snow road where answers are silent

D’estate, quasi sempre, riprendo in mano i miei libri…si sá che vivo solo di notte con ‘sti caldi…

Ed ogni volta che inizio mi cade l’occhio sui miei andrinople.
Tento di resistere, inutile davvero.
Finisco che li apro al solito modo.
Mi perdo.

È qualcosa di più che un’infatuazione per caratteri d’inchiostro e carta rilegata.
È un mondo che conosco a memoria, capace di risucchiarmi negli anni fra il 1880 ed il 1920 in una comunione di sensi e spiriti insieme alla prima persona della Imperatrice.

Quella bilogia rimane una delle mie letture più belle e private.
Un pilastro dal quale ho attinto anch’io inverosimilmente con Steps anche se non sembrerebbe…

Volete la mia Bibbia? Leggetevi Hannàh ed Imperatrice.


I’ll always be a chrysalis, saving my colours for a better, sunnier day.
In summer I shall sleep in the darkness of my homeward woods, lulled by the cries of the prey.
Shadows and shades of green, peaceful slumber for a never-would-be butterfly.

In winter ego is the furnace of my worlds.
I write to shape them, countless rules bound to my imagination.
I am living hundreds of years just by finding the best path to turn on.
From night to morning, stoking up the flames.
Never once lonely, always thrilled by the chase for perfection.

Still I am the orchid that will blossom but never flower, untouched by time.
In wintry silence the blooms will dry up and fall, nourish the soil where I took root.
I don’t need many things to survive but the ones I consider vital I shall always protect.

I hear the marching flood.
I still fear the black irate waters in my dreams.
But now, like that damned river, I found my sea.
This year the strand is nearer and someday I will return ashore.
Of steel will be my veins and pleasant I shall be no more.


The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   
But I have promises to keep,   
And miles to go before I sleep,   
And miles to go before I sleep.
– Robert Frost


The first days of November are purity itself to me.
No false promises when daytime gets so much shorter.
The sun is only a disc of molten lava over the red mist.
Leaves draping a path of mud and dew and lush green grass in the place where my mind always is.
The below zero mornings when the sky is like spun glass and everything lies under a white sheet, gold light on the treetops climbing up the walls of my room.
The Search beneath the naked trees for the last ripe fruits, treasure of months behind us.
I love the smell of the woods, the burning hearth, the cup of tea fuming in my cold hands, the sound of the buzzards in search of prey, the silvery water spilling from the rock, sound of wilderness, soft moss silencing my boots, squirrels raiding nuts, my breath in clouds while walking the road of Old.
The wintry peaks so far yet so close in the crisp air.
Cold knows how to paint the hills and find me a moment in time worth to remember besides every line of all my many favorite books.
This is the time in the year where I look around and I don’t say a single thing.
Such is the power over me when winter comes: I find myself again.
This year of all my Years, is the sweeter so far.


Somedays I dream
And somedays I find
Somedays I sing
And other days I stay silent
Some nights I ask myself what I left behind
And all the echos of doubt recede like mist in October Mornings.
Train lulls into a peaceful slumber of Amber…
In my mind’s eye you’re seated in front of me.
After so many years, so many seasons gone
Still there like the Sphinx and her riddles


Un piccolo appunto per ricordarmi che avete fatto bene.

Se non l’aveste fatto non avrei mai avuto il coraggio di lasciarvi indietro e rimettere le radici nella terra buona, agganciarsi alla roccia.

Non sarei mai riuscita ad scrivere di affetto ed amicizia ed l’infatuazione e l’amore e l’odio e il tradimento e la gelosia e tutte le piccole cose che rendono un paio di paragrafi vita.

Lasciarmi cadere è stato il regalo più bello che mi abbiate mai fatto.

[actually written Sunday afternoon in a painful moment of clarity]

I’m feeling misguided anger but for once I’m hesitant to act on it.

I’m not happy to see things taken, but I am, because old valuable pieces need to live through many human existences and see happiness and prosperity anew every few decades.

With this thought comes the realization that I’m lost to this new shade of future: it’ll be of course a place into time but I’ll rarely see it and through the life of someone else.

Still know that I’m happy of a happiness without warmth but deep-seated in my blood.

Brother is unknown to me and only now I discover how lost, how true, how damaged a blood bond could be with carelessness. (my absence of thought, impudence, impulsiveness and egotistical tendencies)

That’s why I shall love the punishment and I’ll never ask in any way or form.

To me, for me there’s only left a still, quiet place to look from and nothing else.

I understand Brother, and you won’t hear me say a hurtful thing.

Be happy, Brother of mine and live this new difficult life ahead of you.

In the past I always said I never wanted a brother and now I see the foolishness of my ways, the idiocy.

I’m a wreck but I still wish you happiness, truthfulness and goodness.

Absolution is something I will never receive nor do I really want when too many bells have already tolled.

For the world’s more full of weeping
Than you can understand.


Time is ticking out to a place I never thought of.

It’s quite weird to lose oneself into some form of memory induced dream, then let reality kick you in the face.

I’m not going to regret things I never wanted in the first place, but the possibility of them will hunt me till my last days on this Earth.

Even the ones I let go because I never truly felt to deserve.

I have many regrets, one of them is You.

I still dream of you after ten years and, when it angered me beyond my wits for your betrayal, now I find my anger is gone and I can see you for what you were.

Better than me, witty, patient and deserving of a good life.

I’m not going to let you find me, if you ever searched that is.

The longest span of my ultimate plan to give you freedom, at the very least.

I  was unworthy (still am) and today I shall remember you and hope for your happiness.

One thing only remains and I will leave it where I confessed it to myself after all this time.

I will let us lay and fester under the fragrant shade of roses and wisterias.

And someday I will follow my impractical dreams into the soil.

There was a viaduct in my recurrent memories as a child.
It’s still there actually, with his decrepit grey cement and lampposts never lit.
At night it was a dark ominous thing to look at from the windshields and the last big sign that we were a very little distance from home.
I always feared it to fall down when we passed under it.

The high pine trees and silvery cedars you could see from the windows of my parent’s home became ugly, horned monsters able to eat me whole during winter storms, lit in cold fire by lightning.

The green light that will filter under the door beside my little bed in Grandmother’s old house when the church’s clock struck the twelfth hour. I never slept well while there, my eyes fixed on the key inside the keyhole that always seemed to turn a fraction more.

The irrational fear of the dark I had for a long long time, until I discovered that real terror very seldom hides in darkness.

A very curios saying that sticked with me was this, and they told it to me so often it became a beautiful mysterious story: when a storm was approaching/going away the many thunders were the hooves of Devil’s horses as he was taking his bored Queen for a ride over the clouds.
I think it’s a family thing because no-one I know seem to recognize it.
It was and still is incredibly poetic to me.
I passed many a storm looking up, searching for glimpse of that mythical (to my eyes) coach with black horses and the glossy opals of the Queen.

These were my fables, still deep waters under a broken bridge to be never rebuilt.

What were yours?

[Background Music: Beethoven – Moonlit Sonata + train home]


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.

Poetica di Viaggio

Equilibrio tra preparazione e improvvisazione, tra emozione e razionalità

Bikes Philosophy

We're gonna travel the world by bike to spread love, respect and culture of bicycle all over!


Lo stagismo è il primo passo per la conquista del mondo.

Racconti ondivaghi che alla fine parlano sempre di amore

“Ships are safe in a harbour, but that’s not what ships are made for”


Interferenze radio e disturbi di segnale

Tea Leaves and Reads

“As always, one of her books was next to her.” ― Markus Zusak

Mathew Lyons



"What a guy, what a fool am I, to think my breaking heart could kid the moon"


«Sono una figura di un romanzo ancora da scrivere, che passa aerea e sfaldata senza aver avuto una realtà, fra i sogni di chi non ha saputo completarmi». [Pessoa]

Matteo Gianino

Photography Portfolio

Ps: Fun & Travels

Blog Idee viaggio

Fools Journal

Magazine di cultura: letteratura, fotografia, arte, moda, queer life, eventi, musica, cinema, attualità

Dimension Gate

"All worlds, all of time are yours to explore"


Cose che mi piacciono trattate con semplicità.

Gio. ✎

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.

April is such a Cursed month

Permanent wounds that never heal.

Matt on Not-WordPress

Stuff and things.


God Hates Us All!

Il Nemico Utile

Exoriatur Lumen Quod Gestavi in Alvo

Fools Journal

Magazine di cultura: letteratura, fotografia, arte, moda, queer life, eventi, musica, cinema, attualità

Anette Olzon Italia

Your first Italian source about Anette Olzon


0, 1, 2, ecc. - si.tormento@gmail.com

Show me a garden that's bursting into life

I'm contemplating thinking about thinking

Kathryn Dawson Photography

"Vision is the Art of seeing the invisible" - Jonathon Swift -

Briciolanellatte Weblog

Navigare con attenzione, il blog si sbriciola facilmente

the m0vie blog

an Irish nerd's eye look at the world of film

TheCoevas official blog

Strumentisti di Parole/Musicians of words

Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

music, poetry, musings, photography and philosophy from a woman who found her way back home and wants you to come over for a hike and a cocktail.

F. H. Hakansson

F. H. Hakansson - Writer


Ventitrè estati, ventidue inverni. Immaginare storie. Scriverle con un lapis su pezzi di carta ingiallita. Scappare lontano. Viaggiare con la mente e con il cuore. Sognare una casina bianca e un giardino pieno di rose. Leggere un libro. Guardare il mare. Ascoltare in silenzio la voce dei propri pensieri. Affacciarsi su un balcone e guardare l'alba. Fotografare un istante e conservarlo gelosamente nel proprio cuore. Fumare una sigaretta su una vecchia sdraio verde mentre guardo le stelle. Immaginare qualcuno dall'altra parte del mondo. Colorare di giallo la mia vita. Giallo. Giallo, perchè è prima del rosso. Giallo, come un limone. Giallo, come la mia canzone. Giallo, perchè disturba. Giallo, come qualche miliardo di stelle.

The Harry Potter Companion

the story, the beauty, and the magic of harry potter