Coming back to Life

"Where were you when I was burned and broken
While the days slipped by from my window watching
And where were you when I was hurt and I was helpless
Because the things you say and the things you do surround me
While you were hanging yourself on someone else's words
Dying to believe in what you heard
I was staring straight into the shining sun

Lost in thought and lost in time
While the seeds of life and the seeds of change were planted
Outside the rain fell dark and slow
While I pondered on this dangerous but irresistible pastime

I took a heavenly ride through our silence
I knew the moment had arrived
For killing the past and coming back to life

I took a heavenly ride through our silence
I knew the waiting had begun
And I headed straight...
into the shining sun"

© : Pink Floyd

A twist,
A sudden turn, in a very long, steady, hard-headed walk.
Years gone and lo!, a light finally shines.
Have this.
Uhhh, yeah. (and a moan, and a groan!)
Did I not tell you I was a middle-fond runner,
down deep, to my very core?
Planting the seeds as I ran ahead,
panting,
sweating,
feeling my body hurt.
No stopping it,
relentless going,
unwavering belief in poor
-indeed!-
means.
Seeds, I planted.
Only, seeds of a kind you didn't know of.
Thanks for your lack of belief in the planned (foolishness!) path,
for your defiance of my small self.
It would seem I survived you.
Scarred and somewhat disfigured may be,
but, as yet, untainted.
Uhhh yeah,
it'd seem I survived despite you.

The Drop

It ain't the gusts of wind whipping my face
that bother me.

It ain't the breakneck speed of the fall,
no chute to slow it down,
that occupy my mind.

Nor it is the knowledge there'll be a touchdown,
I am worried about.
It's the sheer cliff I fell from
(or I had been pushed from; or I stepped away from, myself)
I am longing for.

The sense of loss is not tamable,
and can't be fathomed.
The cuts,
deep,
to the very heart of me,
as only who shagged (shared with?) me for year upon year could,
and by -a deaf and blind- god would,
wound me.

The scars, older,
overlooked back then,
keep festering now:
scars?
Bleeding, infected wounds.

Doubts: a long, dark tunnel,
and no assurance of light shining at the end,
uncertainty that keeps tugging at me.

Yanks,
pulls,
pushes
and punches
keep me on my, very own, toes.

And it is I which looked for them:
new, unseen skies to test myself under.

Laying the blame worries me not.
What keeps me awake
is finding an answer,
to explain the sheer drop.


L.

The Show

The tent was well up, visible to everyone, why did I doubt a show was in order?

Chicken, first, or the egg?
Was the show for a reason, or there were reasons for the show?
Did it come from within, or from without, in other words?

One thing's for certain: what I evade during my waking hours isn't left behind.
It just sleeps.
Then to assault me when I lower my guard, be it willingly or else.

To puke, now, would surely be misunderstood.
Sure as hell, though, alcohol wouldn't be the reason.

Fuck you too, dear, fuck you too.

The binge

What now?
Being educated by composure?
Being taught moderation?
Being fucking annoyed over my own expressions of my very self?

I ain't sorry if it was discomforting.
I ain't sorry if it was too much for you.
I ain't sorry if i asked for comprehension, and got ways to be helped.

Did I, EVER, asked for any of those?
Your help disgusts me, your ways, your moderation bores me, your achievements are signs of painful mediocrity to me.
Ignorance, breeding preposterous solutions to problems you know nothing, nothing at all, about.

Reach, reach the fuck out.
Out of your limits, out of meaning, out of concern, out of reason, out of responsibility, out of thy, bloody, self.

Be, for once, and once only, fucking light!
Do, for once, enjoy.

I guess not.
Control, control, control.
But a heart-stroke and you're out.

Try control that, you twat.

For those about the whinge...

Hello!
Sun shines, Coffee's ready, a new day's dawned.
Wake the fuck up.
Or just keep sleeping.
It really makes no difference to me, just as long as you stop the bloody whinging, for the love of holy peace!

Lele

The Hours

Time.
Flowing like a river,
it gushes and spits,
it slows and steadies.

These, though,
these are THE hours.

Alone, me, myself and I,
Reasoning on the what ifs,
on the what if nots.

Thinking, hard, on the next move.

Guessing, no certainty in there,
what might be next to come,
if anything at all.

What to do?
What not to?
Where will i be in ten years' time,
if i chose this?
And what if i chose that?

It's way too easy to choose for the immediate.
It's the ripples through time
that scare me to no end.

No presumption of control,
And still (hence?) the fear.


Like throwing a rock down a mountain slope.
Irresponsible.
Still, what choice is ever left?

Blame me for my wakefulness.

L.

Light, Pt. II

Why are things colored?
There are three causes.
Repeated over and over,
in innumerable variety,
they create our colorful world.
Light is made in the yellow glow of a candle.
Light is lost when sunlight filters through stained glass.
Light is moved when the sky turns into a crimson sunset.

The king - P. II

Wish I may
Wish I might
Have this I wish tonight
Are you satisfied?
Dig for gold
Dig for fame
You dig to make your name
Are you pacified?

All the wants you waste
All the things you've chased

Then it all crashes down
And you break your crown
And you point your finger
But there's no one around

Just want one more thing
Just to play the king
But the castle's crumbled
And you're left with just a name

Where's your crown, King Nothing?

I wish I may
I wish I might
Have this wish I wish tonight
I want that star
I want it now
I want it all and I don't care how

Careful what you wish
Careful what you say
Careful what you wish
You may regret it
Careful what you wish
You just might get it

Then it all crashes down
And you break your crown
And you point your finger
But there's no one around

Just want one more thing
Just to play the king
But the castle's crumbled
And you're left with just a name

Where's your crown, King Nothing?

The king

What makes one?

The richnesses?
A kingdom?
Winning wars?
Neither.

The disposable postulants!

Hence the continuous, discomposed, scraping for more.

So, so, so sad.

Silly me, thinking it might have been anything but.

Let there be Light!

Lights,
small,
cute,
bendable,
twistable,
strong,
weak,
directional,
diffuse,
and whatevernot.


Not a fart of one
that may light
my way.

Bloody hell.

manichèo

"agg., s.m.
1 agg. TS st.relig., relativo al manicheismo: dualismo m., scrittura manichea | agg., s.m., seguace del manicheismo
2 agg., s.m. CO estens., che, chi considera la realtà come dipendente dall'azione di due principi o enti opposti, tra cui esiste un contrasto insanabile."

Now, now, come now.
Is it really all in here?
Or is it just a comfortable simplification?
How could someone like this be ever curious,
enjoy anything but himself,
appreciate life, its flavours,
its colourful differences?

Me, I've got me shitloads of limits,
but for the love of peace,
don't ever fucking dare
belittle me so.

I viali della vita

Londra, tarda sera, anno duemilaquattro.

Una donna parla con un'altra al telefono.
"Lei? Quella al matrimonio? La tettona? Ma certo che la ricordo!"
Si gira verso di me ed il mio amico, lui un pelo piu' stranito di quanto non lo sia io. La chiamata la sta effettuando dal suo telefono. "Eh oh, ha davvero delle tette ENORMI, come volete che la chiami?" Un battito di ciglia, ed e' di nuovo impegnata al telefono. "Oooooh si! Quel tipo. Matrimonio, anche lui. Quello fico, si?" Ora tocca al marito d'infilare la testa, appena preoccupato, nella camera da letto dove siamo seduti. "Tranquillo, caro, Mi sta raccontando del matrimonio", gli fa, con la manina flaccida a segnalare scampato pericolo. Gli occhi di lui si alzano al cielo, in finta disperazione."Ah, le donne e la cazzo di Coronation Street", per poi tornare alla gravissima discussione tenuta appena al di fuori della porta. "Insomma" chiede la donna all'altra "Se lo scopa? Ma dai? Ma no! Aaaah. Beh, allora va bene!" per poi girarsi verso di noi, mezza mano sulla cornetta "Beh, lui ha avuto bisogno di un pochino di pratiche persuasive. Non molte, non preoccupatevi. E' che e' giovane...".
Ma certo, noi proprio preoccupati non eravamo.
O meglio, IO non lo ero.
Non era il mio telefono quello da cui stava chiamando Baghdad.
Era il suo.

La speranza

"La speranza e' aver fiducia nelle curve."

Don Ciotti

The avenues of Life.

London, late evening, year twothousandandfour.

A woman talking to another woman over the phone.
"Her? That one at the wedding? The booby one? 'Course I remember her!"
She turns towards me and my friend, him more bewildered than me. It's his phone she's making the call from. "Well, she has REALLY big boobs. What else can i say?" The blink of an eye and she's back at it. "Oooooh yes! That guy. Wedding as well. Handsome one, yes?" Now it's the turn of her husband to pop a slightly worried head into the bedroom where we all are sitting. "it's allright, dear, she's telling me about the wedding" she waves to him. His eyes roll in mocking despair."Ah, women and the damn Coronation Street" and he goes back to the very serious talks held just outside the door.
"So" asks the woman to the other woman "Is she shagging him? Oh did he? No way! Aaaah. Well this is good then!" and she turns to us, half a hand on the receiver "He needed some persuading. Not much, mind you. But he's young...".
Of course, we didn't mind.
Or, well, I didn't.
It wasn't my mobile she was calling Baghdad from.
It was his.

Da qualche parte si dovra' incominciare...

Eccoci.
Nuovo blog, nuova vita (2.95 euri scontata. made in china.).

Potrei scrivere un sacco di scemate, credo pero' mi limitero' ad un saluto di molto canonico e per nulla divertente.

Work beckons, so I'd better get at it...

Lele