Frail and bedazzled

© A. Bottarel - All Rights Reserved





So, now listen here
I wanna be, ohh so clear
I lost my soul, lost I'll stay
Between your hands, and my beliefs
And here I am
Frail
Frail and bedazzled from all the glare 




The Smashing Pumpkins

To use lyrics, once again, to express what's going on in my head and my life. I don't wanna whine, no sir, but it could be easier than this. Responsibilities, true or imagined, lie on my chest like a very unwelcome guest. And yet they manage to bring me down, make me feel like I'm suffocating when, truly, I'm starting to see the end of my efforts. Is that what makes this so hard? I want to make it on my own, but why? Is it just stupid pride? Am I waiting for this to be over just so I can pat myself on the shoulder? Way to go man, way to go.

I'm feeling the urge to run away from here and leave the mess behind, like I used to do. But not this time. You can keep pushing it down, but it will surface again, sooner or later. I need to fix this mess. Make an ass of myself in the doing, maybe, but I need to be coherent and not to feel like I cannot handle reality. 

Still, it's raining a lot these days. Everything's weird, and it's not just me. The weather, my thoughts, the things I do and say. Some of them never happened before. I just sit here and think "My God, why on earth have I done that? Why have I said that?". If I were a paranoid-conspiracy-UFO-believer, I would think that some aliens are forcing me to do certain things, or the government is testing the effects of stress AND bad luck on me. 

But it's just life, as it is, a bunch of things that, put together, barely make any sense. What are you gonna do? Live with it. I can't help feeling frail and bedazzled, not in control at all, but I already learned how to float, I guess it's time to get some surf going. 

Mad World

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All around me are familiar faces

Worn out places, worn out faces

Bright and early for the daily races

Going nowhere, going nowhere

Gary Jules

A million faces out of which, in the end, you're going to remember none. What do you need them for?

They're like a summer storm, leaving the dampness of a day that could have been different. 

Sunnier. Less chaotic. More productive? Less personal. More romantic.

Different.

You've been saving something that, after all, you can't wait to get rid of. A real shower, to take away residues of the fake one. Fake like the images and the smiles, which survive just because the rule shows us how, as will and patience fade, drunkenness grows, administering easy "savoir faire".

What did you bring home with you? Knowledge, for sure. Comprehension of the people  with whom, despite your will, you'll have to deal with, You could arrange them like clothes in a closet. A giant drawer filled with stuff you would never wear. 

Your favorite ones, a little bit worn, are there, separated from the rest, If they didn't get dirty, eventually, you would wear them all the fucking time. 

Most of that stuff, though, doesn't really fit you. 

The storm. All that dampness really sticks to your skin, doesn't it? You got it already, there's no escape. You killed your professional romanticism some time ago, choked it on the bed with a pillow. But it's still there, barely alive, waiting for a miracle to wake it up. 

You can feel it, deep inside of you. Kicking, fighting not to die, because there's no return once you're on the other side. Just grey and gold without hope.

Or maybe poetry just belongs to the ones who create it. An autistic of feelings? You will explode. Grim forecast.

That's the mistake: stop forecasting. Let yourself go and stop judging. 

Defeatist. 

Hidden among that million faces there's everything. The love of your life, a good friend of yours, your boss, your worthy opponent. People you will love and respect in many different ways. The world is there. It might not be "The world I love", like the catch phrase, but it's there nonetheless, with all the passion and the disappointment that wine itself can give you. 

Everybody's gotta learn sometime

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Goodbye, my almost lover
Goodbye, my hopeless dream
I'm trying not to think about you
Can't you just let me be?
So long, my luckless romance
My back is turned on you
I should've known you'd bring me heartache
Almost lovers always do

A Fine Frenzy

There are times when others wrote the words you wish to say, so all you really need to do is listen. There's nothing about love that hasn't been experienced already, although we all suffer in our own, very personal way. 

There's a part of us we can put in words, even written by someone else. There's a part we cannot express, because it wouldn't be in any comprehensible language. Maybe a picture. The winter of love. A heart carved in snow that will eventually melt. I tried to be cold enough to preserve it, but in the end nature always wins.

Fearful Frail Faith

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It's about you and the sun
A morning run
The story of my maker
What I have and what I ache for

Röyksopp

Fragile, our faith. Transcending reality but strongly depending on it. 

That's what people call either acts of God or karma, isn't it? That's why we need something real to hang on to, no matter how strong our creed is. With no sun, this place looks dark to us, and we don't really seem to care for what's in it, as long as there's a light at the end of the tunnel. Not only we need people to push us, we also need possibilities to pull our tired bodies towards the goal. 

One glance at the sky. Is it still cloudy? The last ray of light can't be disappearing. Not now. Funny how in a movie I find a decent answer to an important question. What is faith? Faith in something is a choice we make again and again and again. Well, sometimes it's just hard. You wish it's some kind of atonement for something you've done, so it will be over, at some point, and you'll never have to deal with it again. 

Fear is behind the corner, waiting to grasp your hands and drag you into some kind of weird, hypnotic dance. Raise your head, try to keep it high. No matter what, look at the sky. Something may fall from it, after all. Rain, snow, a ray of light. Isn't that a proof that there's something else out there, after all? You can't really pretend much more. 

I'll tell myself a little lie, for a while. Everything will be fine. Because, after all, that's what F also stands for. 

Fine.

There's a light that never goes out

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Take me out tonight

Where there's music and there's people

Who are young and alive

Driving in your car

I never, never want to go home

Because I haven't got one

Anymore

The Smiths

Dedicated to N. 

Piling up bricks. Working with my bare hands. Unexpected result of what should have been a geeky weekend. N sounds almost relieved when I tell her what I'm doing. Part of me is relieved too, some other part is kinda pissed, but maybe this will help me having less stuff to throw in my own face later on. 

It's amazing how we manage to find incredible ways to get along with other people and we never really learn how to deal with ourselves. This song, this post is for her and for me. Because that's what we really have in common: a deep inability to deal with ourselves, with the place we live in (I'm not gonna call them "home" for a precise reason), with our own emotions. 

But that's not uncommon, on the contrary. We are social animals, always reaching for something different. Those of us who don't feel the need to are blessed with peace of mind and ignorance.

You can choose whether to envy or pity them. 

So we can live on our own, can't we? But there's a light that never goes out. And it burns, and it keeps us thinking, casting the shadow of our thoughts on the walls inside our skull. There's no real peace for the open minded, guzzling down inputs from the outside world like candies. And we want more. And it's never enough. It's a good thing, but sometimes we just fail to handle our addiction. 

Home is not a safe place. Home is not a dark place, 'cause there's a light that never goes out.

Shout out loud

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Lately there’s something I miss

And maybe it’s not just the bliss

Lady, I don’t need your kiss

No one seems to care

I just want to shout out loud

TO SHOUT OUT LOUD

Take me to the cave of your broken dreams

Sing loud ‘till your voice is all I can hear

‘cause I never knew it could take so much

Getting so close to some human touch

The feelings you hide will slip away

These stupid mistakes make me want to shout out loud

Face me, I won’t close my eyes

I need to see through your disguise

‘cause I don’t think that you realize

That you missed your chance

And you want to shout out loud

TO SHOUT OUT LOUD

And once again

© A. Bottarel - All Rights Reserved

And once again you stand there

Alone with your thoughts in a crowd

You can barely touch them, can you?

They're neither impressed nor displeased

Safe behind the barricade

Your roots are deep 

But your canopy still trembles in the wind

Almost hoping that someone will come

To take you down as a Christmas tree

Certain that they won't, 'cause in the end

They all go for the good looking one

Every

Single

One 

Of

Them

Jealousy

© A. Bottarel - All Rights Reserved

And so you two will dance again

Like shadows in the distance

While I wither in denial

Trying to remember

What your skin was like

Trying not to think

What it looks like now

You cross my path

© A. Bottarel - All Rights Reserved

 I don't think you quite know who I am

I am the son of loyalty

I hope you understand

Charlatans UK

Too soon, we parted too soon. 

No time to get to know each other, no time to find out what you might have loved about me and what I would've died for. Because, let's face it, no matter how things went, I would have been the over-dramatic one. But still, it's unfair, so unfair that I just can't let it go. It was just a glance, a frame of someone sitting in the window seat of a moving car caught from another car. An idea, a blurred vision of something. 

Is that hope shaping reality the way you'd like it to be? Hell yeah. What is it there for, if not for that? Is there any other reason to go on, if not hope? Purposes are not certainties.

We can't turn back time or chase ghosts down an empty highway, but we do have to send out signals, paint our faces with visible colors, scream loud or play funny instruments so that our peers could catch a glimpse of what we are. 

It's like the shining. Few people can feel that, but I do believe that there's something more than words to know each other. And talking about The Shining, here's what Stephen King once said about his movie: "What's basically wrong with Kubrick's version of The Shining is that it's a film by a man who thinks too much and feels too little."

That's exactly what I'm talking about. 

Feelings are not about time or reason. 

If you end up embarking on a pointless quest, waiting for reality to match your thoughts, well, you better be lucky. It's the other way around. It doesn't really matter if he/she crossed our path by mistake or God or karma wanted this to be so. It's what we feel about it that makes the difference. 

And so you crossed mine, on a cold and damp autumn day. In the crowd, everyone else looked like dust in a desert, plain and pointless to my eyes. There you stood and still you stand, and nobody else knows. 

Well, I do. And somehow, I believe you do too.

Getting lost into oneself, and suddenly being a wreck.

 © A. Bottarel - All Rights Reserved

My body is a cage that keeps me 

From dancing with the one I love 

But my mind holds the key

I'm standing on a stage

Of fear and self-doubt

It's a hollow play

But they'll clap anyway

Arcade Fire

Does my mind really hold the key? I sit and wonder. Because that's what one does when one has nothing else to do. 

As you bid farewell to places and people you're familiar with, every mistake you made sits in front of you, staring hard into your eyes. Are you ready to let it go? All the things you never said suddenly seem to matter more than the ones that really happened. And this is something we all know. The real matter is: is it worth trying to rush back, trying to salvage what you can from the wreck you left? 

I think so. Although it may sound greedy to chase memories that don't belong to us, it's also our right to fight for what could be ours. It's so damn romantic, isn't it? Romantic in the proper way. Hopelessly against reason and individual. It's like burning fuel, it keeps going on until everything is consumed, and nobody really knows why. Don't answer with chemistry, because each and every question could go back to something no living man can give an answer to.

You'll run out of fuel sooner or later, so what's better? The roads are so many and you can get lost easily. 

It's your life.

It's your brain.

Follow the white rabbit. Was it just a vision? Never mind, turn around and go back. 

Why should we consider desperate the chance to go back and do something right for a change? I'm not talking about silly dreams of alternative realities or parallel universes where we're all happy and shit. I'm not even talking about second chances. I'm talking about chances we never took and that might not be too late to take. 

Because, as you keep looking at the road running beneath your feet, you're focusing on something else, something you left behind, and there's a good chance you're gonna crash into something anyway. You got lost into yourself, and suddenly you're a wreck. 

It's not shameful to go back, whereas it's perfectly stupid to go on if you have no idea where you're going to. 

Long story short, we are not the key to our own success, but we definitely are the key to our potential. The cage is built of all the theories handed down by previous generations who didn't have the chance to see the world for what it really is. But this is a whole other matter. 

This whole metaphor of getting lost reminds me of an anecdote a shaman once told me. She said her "teacher" put blindfolds on her and some other people, and told them to find their way out of a maze. She overheard a noise coming from a certain direction on her left and found her way out pretty quickly. When asked how she did it, she told the truth, so one of the other "disciples" complained that she cheated. 

The shaman replied that it was not cheating, that it was our need to give a moral implication to each and every pointless action that stopped us from being useful to our lives most of the times. How was that cheating, after all? She didn't point her friend in another direction, or made him trip. She had the chance to do something good for herself and she took it, using her bare senses. 

So, before it's too late, here's the tip: use your senses to come to your senses.

Last leaf

© A. Bottarel - All Rights Reserved

If you should be the last autumn leaf hanging from the tree
I'll still be here waiting on the breeze to bring you down to me
And if it takes forever, forever it'll be
And if it takes forever, forever it'll be

And if you should be the last seed in spring to venture forth a leaf
I'll still be here waiting on the rain to warm your heart for me
And if it takes forever, forever it'll be
And if it takes forever, forever it'll be

Ok Go

What you are not

It can happen. Actually, it just did.

Almost five months of not being myself. At least not the one I used to know. I don't know why I got so far in this, but it's probably due to the fact that I fear regrets more than anything else in the world, and I was never a 

"party-boy", so I gave it a shot. I can't say it was totally worth it. The only thing I can say is that somehow I

had to do it. 

It's just that the idea that some people out there, in the real world, think of me (if-ever) as something I am not,

kind of upsets me, even though I'm the only person responsible for that. So how do I know who I really am? I take a look at myself in the mirror and then focus on the little things, the details.

Because it's on the details that we focus our attention, after all. Well, at least I do. 

I know, it's a huge mistake, but I can't really blame myself. The great matters in life only seem to surface when 

we already enjoyed everything else. I am very good at procrastinating and it seems a pretty common issue between human beings, especially when it comes to relationships.

It's just that the other way around doesn't really work, does it? We all are so fond of other people's details. 

The way she dresses, the music she listens too, the way she eats or fixes her hair behind her ear. Then the big

arguments come along, but it's already too late. After you shared so much, it's time to simply agree on something or not. 

More or less, it's the same with the relationship we have with ourselves. We take care of details, 'cause we know that other people will be looking for those, and sometimes we tend to forget (willingly or not) what we really enjoy.

Well, I can say I tried to forget myself, but in the end I kinda like the whole "thing", so now it's back-on-track,

I'm gonna choose the details I like in the first place.

...and so is mine.

Have you ever realized, right in the middle of a thought, that you were truly complaining about nothing?

Have you ever noticed the ways in which life makes it up to you? Sometimes you're just feeling better because you spent a beautiful, unexpected night with wonderful human beings. Sometimes it's because you realize that those human beings may not be your partner, but they are proof that such things exist, out there. 

So be grateful, stop complaining and call the spiritual plummer, 'cause your karma is leaking, and so is mine.

The crossroads of lacklands

'About time!' someone said.
Time to make up my mind and move the blog to a more aesthetically satisfying blog, easier to link to other means of communication (facebook and such). Not that I think that I'll get famous in any way, but still...
Time to make a decision and write more posts in English. Why? Because, let's face it, it's international. Because I have friends from all over the world and I like to share. Not because it's 'cool', believe me. It's actually harder and it takes more time, 'cause I have to be careful and find ways to say what I'm thinking in another language. But hey, it's good practice, right?


Why "The crossroads of lacklands"? 
Because it's the (adapted) title of my upcoming book and it means a lot to me. It used to be land(e)scape 'cause I felt the urge to run from something I wasn't even sure existed. Now I still feel this urge, but the blog is no longer about this only: it's about the life of someone who feels no precise attachment to any particular place, someone who lacks a land of his own, physically and emotionally. And since this is a blog, it's not supposed to be a road, but a crossroads.


I'm planning on making this new version more personal, without putting too much of myself into it. More of the things I see/experience and what I think about them, without telling you all what I had for breakfast this morning. Because, let's face it, nobody really cares about that. 
Also, I've been meaning to start a new gallery on my deviantart.com account for a while and kept failing, so I thought that posting pictures here would've been a better idea. 


This said, welcome to you all!

I tempi morti, ovvero tirare le somme

Non mi capita più tanto spesso, lo ammetto, di guardarmi indietro e fare un punto della situazione per vedere se c'è stata una certa evoluzione. Un po' perché non voglio; il mio passato, come quello di molti altri, è piuttosto ricco di miserie, errori e, peggio ancora, gli innominabili rimpianti.

Alla domanda «Hai rimpianti?» potrei tranquillamente rispondere «Vorrai scherzare, tutta la mia vita da un certo punto in poi è stata costruita interamente sui rimpianti.»

Uno dei miei problemi più grandi è che non rinuncio tanto facilmente alle cose. E non parlo di COSE ben definite. Quello che volevo negli anni '90 e non sono riuscito ad avere si è evoluto fino ad assumere forme più consone al tempo in cui vivo, alla mia età e tutte quelle stronzate.

Un altro dei miei problemi è che non riesco sempre a gestire in modo costruttivo i tempi morti. Non mi metto a fare qualcosa che so per certo dovrò interrompere. Allora mi trovo solo con la mia testa, come due estranei coetanei in una sala d'aspetto senza riviste, che si fissano con una certa curiosità fino a quando uno dei due non prende l'iniziativa. Oggi ho fallito nel tenermi impegnato e mi trovo quasi costretto a fare questa conversazione.

Un po' come quando ti senti dire «Chiama la zia che è il suo compleanno... » e non vedi l'ora di levarti la formalità dalle scatole. Non è che tu sia così cinico da sbattertene del gesto, ma l'obbligatorietà della cosa ti deprime.

Comunque, oggi ho tirato le somme di due anni e mezzo, con un certo timore che è svanito nell'accorgersi che non sono così distante da ciò che avrei voluto essere. Il resto del mondo no, ma molto realisticamente, per quanta stima possa avere di me stesso, dubito che dipenda da me.

Quindi bene.

A parte quel fastidioso fenomeno che ti spinge, in mezzo a tante soddisfazioni, a concentrare tutta la tua inquietudine su di un unico elemento. Come quando provi a dormire e nel silenzio più completo c'è qualcosa che gocciola. Il compressore del frigo che si attacca e non sembra finire mai. Saresti pronto a buttare nel cesso 12 Kg di cibo pur di liberarti di quel suono. Ma no. Adesso passa. Adesso passa. Adesso passa. Adesso passa. Adesso passa.

...

Adesso passa. Adesso passa. Adesso passa. Adesso passa. Adesso passa.

Com'era quell'esercizio di respirazione che mi aveva insegnato quella dottoressa? Era una dottoressa poi? Che cacchio ci ero andato a fare? Ma no, era quella psicologa da cui sono andato tre volte. Impossibile, quella non diceva una parola. Ti fermi un istante. Sei dentro la tua testa. Addio sonno.

Poi mentre imprechi in genere arriva.

Per farla breve, le somme non sono male, ma grazie al cielo ho ancora qualcosa da sistemare. La buddhità la rimando a dopo la laurea. Ah si ecco, l'altro mio grosso problema: procrastinare. Devo assolutamente lavorarci. Si, ma domani però.

Tutti quei maledettissimi appigli

Ti guardi indietro e li vedi.

Sottili fili che ti tengono legato a tutti quei momenti così incredibilmente nitidi in cui avresti potuto fare una scelta diversa. Non avrei dovuto ubriacarmi quella sera. Avrei dovuto chiederle di uscire a parlare invece di far si che ci disperdessimo nel movimento browniano della massa. Ti saresti dovuto buttare su quelli che parlavano inglese e sfoderare un po' di umorismo invece di stare ad ascoltare passivamente una lingua e una cultura che capisci poco.

Forse alla fine hai fatto bene, ma il fatto che continui a ripetertelo fa scattare l'interruttore dell'enorme scritta "auto-convincimento" che ti brilla sopra la testa, mentre reciti il tuo mantra.

Doveva andare così.

Doveva andare così.

O forse no. Universi paralleli? Non mi interessa. Io so com'è andata in questo e non mi piace, cazzo. Solo che ci sono errori da cui si impara e da altri che sono "di programmazione". Se sei un pirla, come nel caso del sottoscritto, non c'è molto da fare. Ovvero: hai un motore potente sotto, che volendo diventa anche più potente nel tempo, ma ti manca la scintilla per metterlo in moto in certe occasioni. Conoscere persone dal nulla è una di quelle occasioni. La tua logica pura, tagliente ed efficace è semplicemente inutile. System failure: il programma è entrato in loop e non trova una via d'uscita.

Forse basta rendersi conto di avere un handicap psicologico e farsi aiutare. Come alle medie, mandi un amico. Forse non si diventa mai troppo vecchi per questo genere di cose. Forse è la soluzione, ma sembra a tutti troppo infantile per prenderla in considerazione. In fondo Stephen Hawking è intelligente, ma in una stanza piena di persone in grado di camminare forse non è il primo a cui in media ci si avvicina.

Non oso paragonarmi a lui, ma credo di avere del potenziale. Nascosto da qualcosa che creo io senza sapere il perché. Perché ci sono nato, credo, così come la gente nasce menomata. Senza drammatizzazioni eccessive, non paragono la mia vita a quella di una persona a cui manca un arto, ma l'assenza di uno "step" nella catena delle interazioni sociali può talvolta fare male.

Fanno male sul momento e anche poi, piccole schegge che si trascinano nella carne e arrivano al cuore. A volte il fastidio è tale che dimentichi tutto quello che di buono c'è e vorresti solo smetterla di soffrire. Perché continuare a trascinarsi su quel terreno difficile non fortifica e non uccide.

Appigli che ti strappano piccoli pezzi, che lasci indietro senza voler lasciare indietro. Appigli a cui ti aggrappi senza poterlo fare. Appigli che sono ovunque senza esserci mai stati.

Per fortuna la speranza, almeno quella, non te l'hanno strappata ancora. 

Tutti questi maledetti strati

Parole, frasi, domande, battute, scuse, avances. E tutti i maledettissimi strati.

Strati di subconscio nostro attraverso i quali devono uscire in una forma di cui altri essere umani possano usufruire. Un po' come l'Apparato del Golgi, parte delle nostre cellule.

"L'Apparato del Golgi è formato da cisterne membranose appiattite, impilate le une sulle altre. L'apparato del Golgi ha la funzione di rielaborare, selezionare ed esportare i prodotti cellulari. Questo organulo può interagire con altri, come il reticolo endoplasmatico rugoso, (un altro strato, n.d.a.) per indirizzare ed etichettare certe vescicole contenenti prodotti cellulari verso la loro destinazione, che può essere quello di confluire in altri organi o ingranare nella membrana plasmatica e farne uscire il contenuto."

Insomma la vita è tutta chimica, che poi diventa biologia e poi pensiero, ma i suoi meccanismi rimangono invariati. Tutto viene preso, rielaborato e sputato. Solo che le parole possono sparire, apparentemente, inghiottite da lunghi silenzi o dalle sinapsi del cervello.  Ed è lì che ci perdiamo, inconsapevoli di come si gestisca questa difficile interfaccia pensiero-chimica, e viceversa. Macchine imperfette, da sempre, ma ciò che ci distingue dagli animali, contrariamente a quanto pensiamo, non è il saper utilizzare il cervello, quanto la consapevolezza della sua esistenza. Abbiamo imparato a fare altro molto spontaneamente, ma non sappiamo gestire appieno questa parte di noi.

E' tutto ancora troppo complesso, siamo ad uno stadio di evoluzione nettamente intermedio rispetto al pieno potenziale della nostra razza. Tutti questi maledetti strati sono difficili da gestire e governati da leggi che non riusciamo a controllare. Però ci sono e ci dobbiamo fare i conti tutti i giorni, e tutti i giorni (o quasi) se ne aggiungono di nuovi. Nuovo substrato per la complicazione di cose semplici e la semplificazione di cose complesse.

Forse l'errore è considerare il cervello come un "muscolo involontario", alla stregua del cuore. Non c'è un vero e proprio addestramento, lasciamo che cresca dandogli input e bloccando gli output indesiderati con un "no". Ma se è chimica davvero la pulsione si ripresenterà, filtrata dal nuovo strato del "no". Allora aggiungiamo un altro "no". Ed un altro ancora. Allora cosa fa la pulsione? Si accumula? O c'è un sistema di retroazione?

"In natura, si intende per retroazione (a cui si preferisce solitamente il termine feedback) la capacità di un sistema di autoregolarsi, tenendo conto degli effetti scaturiti dalla modificazione delle caratteristiche del sistema stesso."

C'è da sperare che ci sia. Ma è chiaro che, probabilmente come la capacità di sintetizzare una maggiore o minore quantità di ormoni o enzimi, c'è chi è in grado di gestire meglio questi accumuli. C'è chi invece "esplode" e vomita questi accumuli sotto forma di crisi isteriche ed altre forme di sfogo psicologico che non siamo in grado di gestire dall'interno.

Nel mio piccolo penso di essere stato fortunato, ma non saper gestire o per lo meno impostare questi processi mi turba, dandomi la sensazione di avere il controllo solo su di una parte relativamente interessante della vita. A cosa serve acquisire input dagli organi di senso se poi non so cosa gli capita? E' come lavorare senza sapere cosa si sta facendo. Poi c'è l'interazione, che è ancora più complessa. Soprattutto quando "sintetizziamo" concetti che la maggior parte delle persone non sono in grado di "digerire". Perché è chimica, come dicevo, e a molti mancano degli enzimi.

"Gli enzimi sono i catalizzatori dei sistemi biologici. Il loro ruolo consiste nel facilitare le reazioni attraverso l'interazione tra il substrato (la molecola o le molecole che partecipano alla reazione) ed il proprio sito attivo (la parte di enzima in cui avvengono le reazioni), formando un complesso. [...] sono in grado di ridurre le macromolecole in unità semplici. Essi sono anche fondamentali per la trasduzione del segnale e la regolazione dei processi cellulari."

In pratica non capiscono. E a me non possono che stare sul cazzo tutti questi maledettissimi strati.

Acquamarina

Se è un fuoco di paglia
Che bruci noi anziché il vento
Che danzino le nostre dita ai rintocchi della pioggia estiva
Si aspergano le nostre pelli
Di ciò che trasudano i nostri intenti
Infrangiamo mille specchi
Dimentichi di mille immagini
Giacciamo, mano nella mano
Tra comodi ricordi, come petali perduti
Si riempiranno i nostri orgogli
Del nettare uggioso disperso nell’aria autunnale
Tossiranno le nostre coscienze
Soffocate dal peso dei nostri battiti.
Tra l’abisso denso ed il quieto cielo
Ci rincontreremo in superficie
Come bolle sfuggite al mare

Radical trick

La verità, in fondo, è che decidiamo più o meno deliberatamente di ignorare le cose che ci fanno ridere, sorridere o che ci piacciono in modo istintivo.

Perché altrimenti non siamo cool. Perché non può piacerci QUELLA cosa. Perché piace a tutti, o a tutti quelli che non contano. Perché non è radical, e magari nemmeno chic.

Io voto per la coerenza ad ogni costo, anche davanti alle risate o agli scuotimenti di testa.

Perché non ci piacciono tutte le cose che leggiamo, ascoltiamo e guardiamo, però si suppone che se sei X, ti deve piacere Y. Ti DEVE piacere Kubrick se sei un cinefilo. Non ha importanza quanto ne stimi il valore tecnico, DEVE piacerti, sennò "non sei più amico".

La verità è che basterebbero un po' di palle, o meglio, basterebbe tirarle fuori. Una combinazione unica di si e di no, un DNA della personalità, altro che impronta digitale. Altro che codice a barre.

Perché altrimenti so già cosa ti piace e mi annoi ancora prima di averti conosciuto davvero.

O, per meglio dire, prima di averti conosciuto per finta. 

Sometimes

Sometimes I just do things for the sake of it. Because they're innocent and classic, like stealing apples from an apple tree.

Sometimes I do them even if I don't have a reason to, just to watch people struggle over reason, trying to find an answer to a useless question. Why did he do that? Maybe just because I love life. And when you love someone you don't need a reason. Do you really care why? 'cause I don't. Maybe that's the difference between you and me.