Tag Archive: writing


5242

Una settimana senza M (in realtà son 5 giorni circa…ma vabbè)

Da quando abbiamo iniziato a frequentarci non ho più avuto tempo da dedicare ai miei hobbies.

I save di TS2 (che già aprivo raramente 😅) son fermi a Marzo con una montagna di CC da provare che manco mi ricordo più perché e per come ho scaricato, una pila di libri di fiction che voglio leggere ormai polverosa, alcuni studi di settore che mi ero ripromessa di fare riguardo a certe categorie rimaste solo una riga di testo in un post it digitale su schermo.

Insomma questa settimana ho intenzione di attaccare ‘qualcosa’ di questa montagna di roba, e andare in bici almeno 2 volte, e andare in magazzino per 4/5 ore di studio serrato e – magari! – tornare ad usare la Canon rimasta impolverata nella sua custodia in favore della leica del mio Honor che fa foto discrete ma non perfette.

Poi c’è un’altra cosa…una cosa che pensavo di riesumare quest’anno ma invece mi chiedo se non sia il caso di metterci definitivamente una pietra sopra per mancanza di drive e di tempo.

Dopo ‘quasi’ due anni di stop pensavo fosse arrivato il momento giusto di ricominciare ad posare le dita sulla tastiera del pc e provare a scrivere di nuovo.

Adesso che è giunto quel momento però scopro che no, non è così.

Ed anche la scarsità dei miei post su WordPress lo confermano.

Avevo smesso di scrivere perché non ne potevo più, sono una perfezionista di natura e passare mesi davanti una scena che hai creato ma davvero non ti entusiasma è mentalmente soffocante se non trovi la gabula.

Son rinata da quando non scrivo più, e non credo nemmeno che questa definizione sia quella giusta se tengo in conto la miriade di cose successe in questi due anni.

Quindi no, non scrivo più e bene che sto.

Spero di riuscire a concludere qualcosa della lista sopra ma…

…alcune volte mi trovo a fissare lo schermo e sorridere come un’ebete, che indecenza!

Cinque giorni di libertà e ci scommetto che li passerò in attesa che M. torni a casa.

Il futuro al momento è quasi color cipria per quanto mi riguarda.

Sono felice, davvero felice forse per la prima volta nella mia vita.

Ho paura di cadere.

Ma sono felice.

Pubblicità

aureliobooks:

my dad likes to call the stretches of time where you’re not creating “dreaming periods” and says that they’re meant to allow you to absorb all of the beauty, life, and inspiration from the things around you so that when you’re able to create again, you will have fanned your spark back into a flame. sometimes its hard to see those moments as anything but stagnation, but he always says that they’re natural and healthy and needed—things that should be embraced rather than feared.

And this is so true…

The first two thirds of 2020 have been very bad for me and my mental health.

I’m actually glad I forced myself to stop writing (even if writing always helped me to stay out of depression and pinpoint goals to reach).

And now it’s more than a year, I lived many days without ‘creating’, I tried to diverge from my INTJ hermitism just a little bit and the result is I’m happy.

I’m not different, I’m still a grouch and a control freak and a bitch sometimes.

But I’m happy with M, I feel like I’m breathing again and the air is sweet and warm.

It’s comforting.

The world looks like a better place I could fit in.

 

I think I’m ready and I want to write again but my time is non existent even if my brain is already shifting through ideas and flexing my finger muscles on a keyboard.

Hermes shall return. 😉

Guess someone is back from the woods…at least tonight…

Hi Hermes! Long time no see! 😁

You sure you still know how to use a keyboard? 🤔

You win and you lose.

Truth of every fraction of time spent on this Earth.

A misty morning is the promise for a radiant sunny afternoon, you just need to climb where the rain doesn’t drop.

Sometimes this never comes to fruition for you don’t want to.

So comfortable in your cashmere coat and the constant sound of rain, so perfectly happy with your thoughts made in heavy lead.

You search light and warmth when you’re unhappy, then you’ll move.

Just don’t stop yourself at the first ray, go straight for the supernova and be blinded.

You talk nosense. You are the noise.

I talk of love lost.

1 § 2 § 3 § 4 § 5 § 6 § 7 § 8

I like to travel roads forgotten.

Gravel crunching and savage greenery deep.

There is lack of noise beneath leaves.

The road winds upon the hill like a coiled dormant snake under no sun.

Thoughts become louder every step of the way, muddy footprints in the labyrinth.

Water trickles, warm fog sticks on your coat.

Sometimes, while I walk a new street I stop and watch.

I try and imagine how would be to live there opposed to the city, the best apartment money could give.

I choose silence and difficulty.

My answer sure lacks logic to you.

1 § 2 § 3 § 4 § 5 § 6 § 7

6/? Liquid gold

I like the waters far below.

Cold, dark baritone enthralling.

Home of complex subjects that need to be thought extensively in contralto phrasing and uttered in sparse murmured word.

I can stand higher cords but just so.

Water trickling down, plinking.

Rain, laughter of the Gods, muffling the sounds of this city.

Good will of old drowning us in sanctity.

The current in the river diluting pains forgotten.

Washing away layer upon layer until the rock at the bottom glints.

Copper veins in the grey.

Why do you smile?

As this place wastes away we shall leave to return.

1 § 2 § 3 § 4 § 5 § 6

This is no medical condition.

Sometimes is better to have a conversation inside your brain then hear a shit ton of today’s music.

Noise…that’s screeching noise, darling.

Fairly simple to do, actually.

Shut all of your devices, not standy, SHUT THEM OFF.

Don’t worry you can live without them…your smartphone doesn’t make your heart beat nor your mouth eat.

Paper, pen, brain.

They won’t bite you, try to think with your mind.

Sometimes the harshest of sounds and sensations are inside yourself.

You won’t comprehend them at first, it’ll be just a matter of time.

And you’ll discover water depths.

Treacherous, never ending.

Mother’s womb.

1 § 2 § 3 § 4 § 5

That’s disgusting.

Rolling my eyes, putting one earphone on.

I tell you what’s disgusting: the level of noise in this goddamn city!

Noise…what noise?

I watch him for a full split second like he sprouted a second head.

Then I shake mine and start to walk past blaring clacsons, people shouting on their smartphones held far from them, dogs barking and messiahs preaching the end of something.

My notepad still totally pristine…proof of continuous interruptions.

The place where I come from is the total opposite of this hellhole.

People here fear silence or essential harmony.

They fear everything different than noise.

Sound of life gone to waste makes you deaf.

Mercifully coddling you into one direction and this one only.

I hate this city.

You couldn’t hear a coin drop in water.

Or a person scream.

1 § 2 § 3 § 4

Poised with a dilemma there are many roads you can take.

Steel cages and wings, yours to decide and mine to debate.

Still too much noise in my ears, unbearable city.

Wonderful in its diversity, unfeeling but supreme.

Time in double speed, piano strings waterfall.

Exquisite food that I can’t tuck into.

No one could eat with someone watching, waiting to strike.

The ice-blue in those eyes stepping onto my bones, grinding my teeth.

Done with this, chair creaks backwards.

Question time…shoot.

He looks surprised, taken back from a dirty dream.

Smile on my lips, napkin on my legs, no doubt it was dirty.

Won’t you eat?

A look, that’s all I need to shut him up.

I have a regret in front of me.

The perfect steak on my plate.

Bloody and rare.

Going cold.

1 § 2 § 3

2/? Mind gap

City of steel and glass.

Madhouse.

No way I will sleep.

It wasn’t fate, no.

It was human error.

Mismatched rooms…it looked too good to be true.

Still too tired, barely awake, perfectly able to comprehend.

A new key and already the thought of sleep.

Pair of ice-blue eyes, unintelligible.

I would like to buy you dinner.

Do I want to? Would I like it? How the heck could I know?

The depths I can’t see, things I don’t know.

Words out of my mouth with no filter. Now it’s too late.

He doesn’t smile, not with his eyes. Tomorrow then. I insist.

Thought process of a split second that feels like a whole bloody month of accusations.

Yes.

1 § 2

1/? Water

Another big town.

Same set of eyes, journey made of thoughts.

Streetlights on, shops never closed.

Avenues and bridges over water singing in the rain.

A pristine notepad in my Eastpak, stages in the back of my mind.

Earphones thunder loud in my ears.

For this city is noise and life, chaos unordered.

No void corner to hide, no place to park.

High palaces in the cloudy sky.

And the rain…oh the rain.

Low is my voice underwater for I’m sure

I’ll see you still with no light.

Laugh God.

1 § 2

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]

4560

Into an eclipse we run.

Not scared, barely able to breathe.

Sunlight black.

Keep the car running, never look back.

For distance is nothing when you’re not counting it with miles.

Time looks up, pushes you down, drops venom between your eyes.

No, we will never stop.

There is no shore, no security, no wings.

Only a one-way road in front of us.

We will die on a mirror, searching for truth and lies.

 

Update

UT al capitolo 20! =)

Update

UT è al capitolo 19 ora….buona lettura!

Words from Walden

"This world is but a canvas to our imagination"

. . .

love each other like you are the lyric to their music

Nixed Sims

Sims 2 Things by NixNivis

THE MESS OF THE WRITER

If you're not italian, you have the possibility to translate all the articles in your own language, clicking on the option at the end of the home page of the blog.

StarlitDen

Illustration, Concept Art & Comics/Manga

Bombay Ficus

Running, Writing, Real Life Experiences & Relatable Content.

Let's Support Them

Make them smile and happy

The Paper Drafts

Creating art, poetry, and fiction.

Natalie Breuer

Natalie. Writer. Photographer. Etc.

The Alchemist's Studio

Raku pottery, vases, and gifts

thedihedral.wordpress.com/

Climbing, Outdoors, Life!

The Renegade Press

Tales from the mouth of a wolf

Discover WordPress

A daily selection of the best content published on WordPress, collected for you by humans who love to read.

Demoni di EFP e Wattpad

A great menace looms over Wattpad and the entire world of fanfictions! The wretched stories!

The Minds of ...

Nelphaell Simblr (Hyde)

INTJ:Break-The-Chain

Empower Yourself

unbolt me

the literary asylum

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!

Doduck

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

Racconti Ondivaghi

che alla fine parlano sempre d'Amore

RUMORE

Interferenze radio e disturbi di segnale

Tea Leaves and Reads

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

Mathew Lyons

WRITER & HISTORIAN

Livelines

«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]

Dimension Gate

誰も知らない 遥かな時代

UnTipoQualunque

Cose che mi piacciono trattate con semplicità.

April is such a Cursed month

Permanent wounds that never heal.

dodicirighe

...di più equivale a straparlare.

Vivoescrivo

God Hates Us All!

Anette Olzon Italia

Your first Italian source about Anette Olzon

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

Home of the author