No flowers – a poem

.I fall away from my childhood, come home under a car,
under the traffic of the road.

I wish I was born a country girl,
but there are only cars in my childhood memories
and no flowers.

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I often found myself in…

At any time, since a significant lass of time, I found myself in a unchanged circumstance: eating bon bons in my parents kitchen. And then today she brought me some, as everything was changed already. However what I thought was: it will ever change at all?

I have had problems related to eating disorders. I did not suffered bad from them, but I have learned what it feels like to count calories and being afraid of eating almost anything. It was years ago, and I (us, actually!) am happy on how I am right now. What helped me the most, I don’t want to talk about right now. I know it would be amazing writing about how physical exercises can help bad moods and eating disorder if you take it in the good way, and how it teach you how to love your self and your better version of YOU. But I am not here for this, I am here, years later I started this post, to think about those bon bons.

It was such as a sacred ritual; I always found my chocolate in the shelf even if I didn’t want to eat it, even if I don’t think anything about it (nor positive nor negative). I don’t know why, but I am really bond to that scenarios that went on on repeat for so long. I can’t explain you why I turned back on this post, but I wanted you to know about this, about how my hands always did that tiny mechanical movement to a treat I didn’t even want or desire. Why! I can’t explain myself why! I can’t even explain myself why I think it is so much important! The only think I can understand is: when I ate those things mechanically, I am sure I didn’t cause me pain. What caused me pain was my mental condition (read: eating disorder) that forced me to concentrate so much on what I eat, on that tiny tiny piece of dark chocolate that could not cause any problem at all from itself.

When I eat chocolate now (even a huge piece of that, in my best moments) I smile at those thoughts I once have. I search for chocolate in my mother shelf even now, but it is no more a problem to me. This was ever what I did, what I eat. The problem to fight was not in my dish (food is life, food was good most of the time for me!) but in my mind.

Even today I had to repeat those things to help me smile at my delicate gluttony. I want to be happy with myself and I don’t want to be happy only with the way I look, but also with my innocent desires and my way to be. That’s why!!!!

We don’t ruin things, by saying them? another one from Virginia Woolf wisdom

I am not writing so much lately, not because I did not need it. I always needed to write myself in my whole teenage, and I still need it. Apparently, I was just afraid that writing myself down on the paper or through any blog at all would cost me too much. I can’t stand leaving pieces of me back, not even if those are hyper tiny pieces and not even if they are not appreciated by my own self. I am constantly eaten up by the contrasting feelings of wanting to make myself real for the world to see and to keep me as a secrets for just me and my sisters and eventually no one privileged being else. I happen to understand this when I catch myself thinking about how much I am happy with the idea I don’t ever got so much followers in anyone of the Internet spaces in which I express myself, because this way I am not burnt out by all the people who’d get to know about that secret that is my own self. Either way, I do not want it to stay my only reality because I need to live in others minds too, maybe just because I am a narcissistic princess as well. Secretive but still self-centered: that’s my letal combo.

So, that is all: sorry for not writing so much lately but I heard anxiety for ruining my own secrecy, my integrity telling my all so easily open-my for the world to possibly read at. I felt fear to lose myself giving it to read to someone else.

I am not a country-girl, I was born in Rome

For so long I have had nothing to write. I felt overwhelmed with life, and even if I still record my diary at least one hour a day, I stopped writing this online journal.

I am very sorry. For myself, first of all. And for everyone else that used to write in this space and stopped just like me.

I am very incostant myself, and I don’t know why but I haven’t need this place since I left it early a year ago. So, I know it was also right not writing a thing, because I do not need it. I have nothing true to write. And now I am here again…

I am still trying, with life. I try to find my way, I try to be true to myself, I try to learn things and fight. I am writing in the night and I am really tired, not tired to go to sleep, more like tired to try. I won’t stop trying, but I am tired.

I was having an intense year. I spent it trying to find a way to myself first of all. I write my diary daily, I reflect on myself, I am really focused on what I want myself to learn and reject. I even thought I have found out my life at 21: I am going to get marry and to dedicate my life to the peace of a dream I have always have had: being a country woman, that is: being a simple, right woman that lives near to the nature, near to her good being and the honesty of her needs. Now I think: I always wish I was I country girl, but I am born in a huge metropolitan center, and this made me a city girl.

I was never happy in my city; I attended school and was so sad and miserable that I thought I hated the whole world. I knew the country-side when I was a little older, and I spent my days off to my parents country house. I hated it first, just like everything else; but I started to love it, and the I started to think: I would never be happy outside of the country. Every leaf and every tree, every fruits and every flower I loved, loved so much in my heart that I thought I won’t ever leave that place.

Then I felt sad again, because I was living a whole contemplative life and I wasn’t made for that. Again, I discovered myself a city girl. I moved to a new city, where I find happiness again.

I think in all my life, my happiness belongs to the place in which I lived and spent time. The sea, the country-side, the city of Milan -in which I still live too.

Now I am asking myself why I thought that I would be happy only if I lived in a nature based place, that is the rashness itself, if my spirit is so complex, so incoerent and so very much dinamic, just like the place where I was born.

I was so sorry to my city, my dear Rome, that I cannot love. I was so sorry to Milan, that I honestly love, for thinking I can’t live here forever, and be happy. And I am so sorry to myself, because I am still asking me to change, to be the country girl I need, the easy girl I need to be, to find my peace. I am sorry.

An in love declaration on the importance of the abandonment

eat all up. I eat all the joy up and then it will not become a part of myself, not at all. I eat all the things up in the next two minutes I get in touch with them so that they just turn to shit then. And I turn hungry again.

I am hungry. I constantly am. As I start putting myself in a situation, I am doing that because I felt I was starving and I need to eat.
I am not a very sensitive person, but there are a lot of things to eat in the world. There are a lots of experiences, lots of books, movies, landscapes, classes, kinds of relationships, lots of people… The world is filled up with things that makes me stay in a constant state of starving.
So, that usually begins with me eating some things up, because I found myself capable of getting in touch with something only that way.
Trying to explain myself, I can write I start a thing not putting so much effort into it, or putting myself body and soul in the making of it: I just eat all up. I absorbe it all, I destroy it all and turn it all to shit in some weeks maximum. Places in which I live, experiences, practice courses… I eat all up.
I try to reflect on the paradox that says that if you eat something you become that thing. You have it in yourself, you have absorbed it all and it will be a part of you forever.
That’s not me. I do not eat all the sun in my life to become it myself, to become a ray of sunshine. It is not happening this way, ever.
All the things I eat turns to shit, that, in a kind of metaphor, explain how things just got me first, just right before I have finished with them because I have absorbed all that they can give to me and there is nothing more, even nothing to stay after I have done so.
That’s why I like to abandon places, experiences, people. Because they give to me something and then they could not do anything for me ever more. I like, I love abandon.
I am not here to stay. I am here to love, to live, to know you until I can really know your persona. I am not here to stay, I am even asking you the same if you can get it.
That’s all I love in abandonment.

Disin

The importance of my self-written collection of poems, diaries and novels

Once in a while I ended up imagining myself in a far away place with no material things or known landscapes that I can physically picture. With me, in my mind and the mind of the people that will know me, there are only my collected poems, novels and writings of all kinds, in their tiny notebooks all filled up words of a teenager kind of hand writing. They preserve, gard and keep myself.

A long time ago, when I admit I do not know the kind of dream that could really fit me, I ended up dreaming of me always writing. My family will have to live in a house with at least a tiny corner with my laptop and some papers to let me write. My huge solitary apartment in New York City would have been like the Breakfast at Tiffany’s story, but from his point of view. I would have been the poet, the writer, the girl that fill her diary pages every day or every night with her intensity. At now, I know that she is not me, and that I will not write for my entire life, not even for a huge part of it at all.

The things I know that will stay is another one. Not my attitude for writing, but my material writings. The piece of papers I already filled up in words, the notebooks that I will always put on my suite cases when I will abandon the place I am at to find another new kind of home that could make me live.

Thank you,

Disincantata