Notion of time vanished between days and hours. Existence hanging on fairly desires. Confusion of silences mixed with voices. Reverence for simple routines. Altars for memories that may help us through this. The daily fog.
Been using writing as tool to maintain a personal space where my thoughts and emotions can feel comfort and peace, I’m not really sure what this path will lead but for now it’s been a close and straight mode to feel alive, secure and well.
Fast periods of time where silence and light are essential requests. Basic needs transformed into the most simple and easier to get kind of matters. Intimate and natural way to flow and to find, innate path to discover ourselves. What the treasure of time can help us to achieved. Contemplation and assimilation. Rediscovering the sense of light.
Raw words, unedited.
All of our dreams,
all of our fears.
The Moon And The Yew Tree
This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.
The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky —
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.
The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness –
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.
I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness – blackness and silence.
— Sylvia Plath
“Hope is the thing with feathers
hat perches in the soul,
nd sings the tune without the words,
nd never stops at all.”
Today I’m dreaming and all feels good. No matter clichés from louder voices, no matter the opinions coming from real worlds. What this represents to me is bigger than any other interpretation. The fact of being there holding her old arm, together, walkig this by slow steps, going through with joy inside, feeling like children, feeling this from honest side, relaying on our dreams. What life is about is motion. No matter the age there is always motion inside.
The way new day starts, the form we want to shape for, the instinct of familiarity motion. There is an intrinsic desire of be one with the air and just float through these days, to feel vanished from actual times and to be be able to feel freedom, spirit liberation and mental period of anaesthesia. To stop thinking and start feeling. To get away, to get present. Duality of worlds.
“ Our favorite people and our favorite stories become so not by any inherent virtue, but because they illustrate something deep in the grain, something unadmitted.”
When it goes deeper through waters filled with silenced voices, when these attempts take you to deeper moments with lack of words. That precise time when everything feels darker but then in a second, suddenly all turns so much clearer and you can feel, by short term of time, but that feeling of calmness is better than all the path. There are good days and other kind of days. Today is a good one. Breathe.
We keep the track by sanity, moved by hope and fearlessly instinct, to know we are still here and there, with us. To remember how this is. To record the beginning of new phase. The very root causes of a full transformation. To still. To motion.
Feels the motion of new air.
Finding order in chaos, finding comfort on simple things through this turbulent time.
Been trying to channel my own mental chaos into ways that may help me to change perspective, to be productive not in terms of standards but in mental productivity for my own sanity, appreciating simple and common situations where my mind rest in peace, experiences where I can notice my mind thinking on a positive way, periods of time where questions come and answer goes, but anxiety is not part of the equation, looking for uncomplicated matters that help me to reconnect with my own environment and my own space, understanding that there are things without answers, avoiding to spend any effort on situations where the questions are more than the answers. Looking for stability.
By trying to stay connected with our internal voice, by doing things that may help with mental peace achievement, by staying close to our senses, by avoiding unnecessary reactions, by trying to follow our own path, by looking for ourselves, by trying to finding us on simple things, by listening our flow, by paying attention to our own thoughts and feelings. By trying every single day.
“We forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget.”
Sometimes is just about acceptance. Acceptance to embrace those slow steps, those low lights slightly showing us the path, those quiet words surfing across your mind. Sometimes is just about decreasing the rhythm and seeing the things from a different angle. Even the emptiness has so much to say. Even the absence is full of messages. It’s always about motion and time. Perspective and limits.
The things you may realise at early hours are simply the best, just in the right moment where everything is still down and dark, when sounds around you are covered by silence and everything looks so much easy to break, just at the moment when birds are still quiet outdoors and then suddenly they start easily to break the chain of silence to giving us the chance for a slow awaking of our own senses. In that precise moment you can realise the magnitude of what your life has meaning in this world, how triggered we thought we were, finding how everything has a place, a reason behind the evident, a path that even when is there is still unknown for us, embracing the fact that we are just a part of this life, understanding and accepting that we are responsible for our little actions or the lack of them, raising the knowledge of ourselves may help to deliver a better time for the rest of us on this same experience called life.
Raw words, unedited.
Ways to start, to see and to feel, to be open to new sensations, to experiment with motion and stillness, to keep expanding our soul, to be able to conclude past and obsolete experiences, to increase the magnitud of sensibility, to approach the border of known limits, to be aware of the limited capacity of humans, to re-think what we believe, to challenge our times. To live our life. To experiment our dreams. To be consistent with the path we choose each day. To try, to fail, to learn, to try, to win. To change. To be. To love.
I used to ran to the lake each time my mind was passing through a turbulent phase. These two photos were made back in January, I can still remember and feel how pleasant the silence was, how I quickly walked into a status of serenity, how well the calmness was felt. I want these days to come back soon. I want simple and personal routines can take place soon. I want new and old forms can be merged in between together. I want to cope these times with peace by my hand.
Raw words, unedited.
“Not even the silence pursues me.”
In the name of insomnia.
Everything around is so quiet, the silence rules this time. The day is still covered by darkness. There are just few birds singing outside. My body is slow yet. The motion I feel is showing a lack of coordination. There is an instant where I can identify the freedom of time, the lack of pressure. Take my slow body outside the bed. Make the intent of feeding the puppy, he is not eating of course, too early, too late, who knows. Decide to make a coffee, the first of the day. First smell of the day that return me to home is coffee. Prepare the Italian machine and wait for while. The coffee is ready. By this time the birdsongs outside are intensive. I can feel my senses awaken. I feel good.
Thoughts into written words.
Just as the mechanics behind of that feeling of wanting the things more real, touchables and accountable. Helping within the flow, making it easier. To get to know myself.
“I write entirely to find out what I'm thinking, what I'm looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.”
— Joan Didion