50 special

Quando nascesti nel ’67, nessuno avrebbe immaginato che i 50 avrebbero rappresentato per te un traguardo surreale e impensabile da raggiungere. Quando nasce una vita, quando un bambino vede la luce per la prima volta, non si pensa mai che sarà destinata a finire; perché la vita è ciò che dà senso al disordine e pensare alla morte crea soltanto una serie di vertigini e di sgomento a cui non si fa mai l’abitudine.

Ovunque tu sia, spero che tu stia bene. Che ora i tuoi nuovi amici ti stiano cantando “buon compleanno” in francese e che più tardi andrai a giocare a calcio o a tennis con i più sportivi. Dopotutto, 50 anni non li compi tutti i giorni. È la metà di un secolo, è una data importante nell’esistenza di una persona.

Ovunque tu sia, so che sei in pensiero per noi e che ti manchiamo possibilmente più di quanto tu manchi a noi. Ma noi stiamo bene. Ci vogliamo bene, siamo tutto quello che ci è rimasto. E per quanto molto spesso il mio carattere tendenzialmente scorbutico ed atrabiliare non lo lasci intendere, mamma e Vitto sono tutto per me. Le amo con tutta me stessa e cerco di prendermi cura di loro. So che è quello che avresti fatto tu e voglio continuare il tuo operato.

Ovunque tu sia, sai che non dovresti essere lì. Dovresti stare qui, con me, con la tua famiglia, coi tuoi amici, coi tuoi colleghi. Oggi, più che mai, dovresti svegliarti accanto a tua moglie, dovresti essere coccolato dalle tue bambine, dovresti ricevere millemila telefonate di auguri, dovresti mangiare della torta. E purtroppo no, ti tocca assistere a ciò che sicuramente odi di più, ovvero il mio pianto. Detesto piangere ma non posso fare altrimenti quando sento il mio cuore farsi piccolo, rinchiudersi ed accartorciarsi, fino a sparire. Neanche lo sento più battere.

Ovunque tu sia, non dovresti stare lì e non te ne sto facendo una colpa perché so perfettamente che non hai deciso tu di intraprendere questo viaggio che chissà se ha una meta. Sono ancora molto arrabbiata, ecco tutto. Ciò che più di spontaneo mi verrebbe da dire è che l’unica con cui dovrei prendermela è la vita, che ad aprile di qualche tempo fa ha fatto ad entrambi questo bel regalo; ma voglio essere giusta e rifrasare le parole che qualcuno mi ha detto: “Devi essere in grado di trarne il meglio, anche in situazioni così.” Dunque arrabbiarsi o intristirsi non ha senso. Sto ancora lavorando sul significato chiaramente intrinseco che ci puo’ essere dietro la tua scomparsa e accetto volentieri suggerimenti, perché ancora non lo percepisco.

Ho conosciuto qualcuno che mi rende davvero felice. È questa persona colei che mi spinge a dare un calcio alla bestia che mi porto addosso, alla mia depressione. Mi ha fatto notare la debolezza dell’anima che dimostro, facendo vincere il mio mostro, e questo mi fa capire come non sia proprio da me. Non mi arrendo mai e mi voglio ripetere di essere incredibilmente forte, invincibile. Guarirò e, se lo dico, è perché so di esserne capace.

Vivrò, papà. Vivrò la mia vita al meglio e godendomi ogni secondo di essa; la vivrò così bene che quando ci rivedremo, staremo secoli a parlarne e a commentarla insieme. Vivrò la mia vita al meglio anche per te, per farti giustizia. La vivrò anche per te, che non ne hai avuto la possibilità.

Joyeaux anniversaire.

@layalke 🐍

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Butterfly

Craving murdering oneself is excruciating. Pondering until the sun comes up, planning the right moment and place, crying while harming oneself. It’s a disease, a repugnant virus I’ve been ashamed of for as long as I can remember.

Weakness is the quickest and the most undemanding path. Showing to be strong, bulletproof, requires an imparalleled effort. I cannot give up, that’s my true ending.

Wanting to murder oneself is still murdering oneself. Of course, besides my several flaws, I’ve got plenty of good qualities and I’m talentous. I can feel the Revolution flowing within me, I’m aware of my value and this rarely comes off my mind. I’ve got boundless plans and I find amusement in shaping my future, just as if then I won’t change my mind or as if life will follow my instructions.

When I carved my body, when I saw bruises on my legs, when my tears ran down ’til my breasts, a part of me was to die.

I’ll never get over my grief, it’s a part of who I am.

I’m alone. I’m alone with myself and that’s horrific. I think of shocking thoughts, I imagine ridiculous pictures. They’re scandalous and I’m freezed and I think: have I really just given birth to this abomination?

My scream for help is quiet, it’s a monitored cry which I believe I can always sigh out.

The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom Its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Hang on!’, can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.

– David Foster Wallace

I’ve never felt so alive.

@layalke 🐍

Night friend

▶ Do I wanna know? – Arctic Monkeys

Words might help when communicating, but music is in a whole new level.

It’s a torture. I can’t even drag on to the bathroom or to the kitchen to drink a little water, with one eye open and the other closed, that I know I won’t be able to just lay my wavy head on my two soft pillows, close my eyes and fall asleep again. I just physically won’t be able to. I’ll turn to the left side of my lonely warm bed, then to its right side; then my mind will tease me, resting for a couple lucky minutes, and eventually it’ll turn itself on. My mind is a switch I don’t have any power over.

The thing is that I’m not either completely woken up or sleepy, I stand in an eternal hellish limbo for at least the following two hours. So, at this point, I can’t delay his call any longer. Not anymore. I’d be quite cheeky and impolite, otherwise. Plus… what would be my other options? Staying still in my scrawny bed, looking up to the cieling? Carefully listening to the extremely loud clicking sound of my room clock?

Oh, no. I put on a sweater and I go barefoot downstairs, to my garden. As I’m living it, I get dream vibes all the time because everything around me is blurred and opaque.

Here he is. He is so handsomly beautiful without even trying, someone I’ve fallen for multiple times and whom I wouldn’t hesitate a single moment to take a step forward with, if he asked me to. 

While nearly everything my eyes lay on is confused and chaotic, he’s a beacon in a black night. He truly can enlighten my late times; when I look at him, he’s well-defined and neat.

As he lightens up a cigarette, I go and sit next to him on a green hostile bench.

Dwindling, I rest my heavy ached head on his left shoulder, while he caresses the latter of mine. My knees are touching my breast and my feet are mild, just as the arm he’s touching.

He places his cigarette on my lips, I try to inspire as much as the taste of his breath stays within me. My hands are still in my sweater pockets, so he takes off that long blue cilinder from my mouth.

He kisses me. The smell of his smoke pervades my entire rib cage. As he pushes aside a lock of my hair behind my ear, I lean forward. I want more. I want that next step. 

Just like every other night, I won’t get it. Within minutes, I fall asleep in his arms. I feel like a baby, while he strokes my rosy cheeks, my curved lips, my refined nose, my dark hair, with his hands. That feeling, that relaxing regenerative feeling of being loved and cared for, that’s my heaven. It almost fades away the worry I’ll get tomorrow morning, because I won’t remember any of this and still get the memory that something happened. Something had to.

If we could talk, I’d ask him why he’s so afraid of killing me.

Magic sleeping pill

▶ Happy little pill – Troye Sivan

Words might help when communicating, but music is on a whole new level.

In front of my little round bluish bathroom mirror, the dark circles under my eyes seem to be covered in the bluest veins. My eyes are a broke artist’s palette; a bit red, a bit orange, a bit brown. There’s a single small section of them which is yellow. It’s disgusting. Doing this makes me a snake.

I shake my head as if I want to scroll away the gross glance I’ve just given myself, I untie my hair from a ponytail. I quickly take off my knickers and a chemise I’ve been wearing for a few days, not really sure.

I check my wrists and ribs and groin, no open and infected cuts so far. I may not die this time, relieving. Abstinence makes me depressed.

My bathtub is now filled up with the coldest water. I know it because I’m leaving my left arm loose inside of it. Not on purpose, nor do I find it pleasing. It’s quicksand, even dark, filthy. I can’t see or feel my hand.

I won’t waste time, or my grip cracking-bones feelings will come back and haunt me, forcing my stay on that smelly matress over there, and right then I’ll be fucked. I’ll be in a sweat bath for hours, days even and every second passing, my pain will rise.
I take the syringe and put it on the mirror shelf,  lay the magic dust on the spoon basin. Lighter turnt on, my hand shakes while I put its flame under the steel. My right one, that was inside the tub, is black. I actually see everything black every now and then. Soon everything will get its colour back.

I can feel it warming up more and even more and when it’s fluid enough to be absorbed, I take a medium-sized cotton ball and sponge it.

I can already feel. And it’s good, I haven’t been able to feel anything for days. Running through my veins, cutting pieces of my bones and making them shapeless and majestically cracked, all of my blood inside of my head first, inside of my legs then, two separate body parts from my torso.

This won’t be the last time. I didn’t even inject and it’s already making me experience this connection to my soul. Oh no, you can bet it won’t be the last time.

I take off the plastic cap from the needle of my syringe and imbibe the potion through that white candid, still, with bits of dirt, ball.

I took off my ponytail before. Where’s my elastic band? On the side of the tub, which is now overflowed by water. I lean slantwise and forward to stop the tap and I almost fall. I could’ve died, not sober though. I don’t deserve to die sober.
I roll all the way up that blue elastic band to my upper forearm, just a few inches up away from that greenish vein.

It’s time, I’ve wanted to do so, so bad. I almost forgot to push the air out of my syringe. 

I clench a fist and, as I feel it coming and warming me up, it spreads out.

Better than any orgasms in the world. That warmth and strength which sew every cuts, repair those busted bones, lighten that darkening hand. It starts from my throat, like a soft punch and, as a long arm, it goes way down to my guts. I wouldn’t be able to talk neither if I wanted to.

I’m the queen of the world and nobody can fucking stop me now. I’ll take advantage of the power and energy I’m feeling now and get into the bathtub. I may fall asleep.

Holidays 

▶ On the top of the world – Imagine Dragons

Words might help when communicating, but music is on a whole new level.

​The entrance door is open and I can clearly see the peach leaves the wind chaotically stirs. They’ve stopped now. But then they swing more and more and even more.

While they caress each other, they look alive.

Every now and then I can hear the deafening noise of any car. I can clearly hear it; on the other hand, my bed is just a few meters away from the street.

I close my eyes in order to solely focus on the words and the tune I’m listening to through my hearphones.

“And I know it’s hard when you’re falling down

And it’s a long way up when you hit the ground

Get up now, get up, get up now”

It doesn’t mirror my mood. It’s a way too cheerful rhythm and a way too optimistic song to make me avoid to feel alone in the desolation I feel.

The bed mattress I’m lying on is extremely downy. It feels like it wants to swallow me.

It’s just a feeling, a quenchless misery which twists my stomach, which tightens my bones, which dries my throat. My eyes are weary and their lids, they’re heavy. I’m always sleepy, but I never want to sleep.

Watching the leaves doing that bizarre dance of theirs with the air is sorely relaxing. They just dance, not pondering the reason behind so. And they dance majestically, with no esitations. They’re the wind’s companions only and, even though they all follow its direction, every one is unique, peculiar. Perhaps the wind chose them because of this.

@layalke 🐍

Everybody wants to be a poet

▶ Everybody wants to be a cat – The Aristocats

Words might help when communicating, but music is on a whole new level.

Poems save my soul and writing them lift the weight of it I have to carry everyday. They’re my touchstone, my benchmark, my compass. Having written almost 20 poems in less than 16 years of life probably doesn’t make me a poet, I’m too young and inexperienced. Maybe one day I will, but who knows… this competition is ruthless. Everybody wants to be a poet and thinks they actually are. So, that begs the question: what makes you a poet and, above all, what makes you better than another one?
I guess it depends on the readers. What can make someone feel something, isn’t sure to be making another person feel the same. People are so changeable and fickle, different.

Well, of course, you can base your criteria to judge who’s the best in this area by analyzing the form, the external appearance of their poems: but, big news for the ones who loves to write prose and their idea of poem isn’t stuck in the 14th century with Chaucer, poets stopped caring about how a poem is formally written since last century. You can literally say “The sun is shining and the sky is blue” and, if you give it a title and decide that’s a poem, it is. Isn’t that terrific? 

Well, not really. At least, not in my opinion. I take the view that poems are made for those who are truly willing to understand them, not for those who need to learn them because their English teacher told them to. The world of poetry is a world apart and, call me selective, for the chosen few only. You don’t need Jesus from the Heavens to be told that you’re one of them, you just need to attend to it the majority of your time. It needs to be your passion, what makes you truly feel, what you live for and of, basically. I don’t think I’m being too exaggerated because that’s what I do on a regular basis.

Poetry is silent, something which involves your mind, your soul, your heart, and only eventually your fingers (to hold your pen). Poetry doesn’t need advertising. Poetry is innate, but needs to be understood and supported by whom believes in its power.

In conclusion… okay, write a few verses and fill your Instagram bio with terms such as poet , living for poetry, etcera… But don’t expect to be taken seriously.

@layalke 🐍

Dans un café

In a café. That’s where it all started and it all ended: poor Mademoiselle Charlotte had been left alone once again, sat on the narrow and uncomfortable couch, facing that rounded glass filled with a high-alcoholic drink. She didn’t even remember what she had ordered but it didn’t matter anymore because she didn’t care; and she hated herself for it. She had always been the “special” girl, the “different” and “unique” one. Also “lunatic” and “insane”, but she preferred taking them as compliments: at least she was not like any other woman!

But now, sat on that wretched couch, facing her forgotten drink, Mademoiselle Charlotte was just like any other person in that café: lost but not confused, tired but not exhausted, angry but not evil. 

She didn’t care about anything going on anymore and pretended not to notice even when a gentleman sat just next to her, with a pipe between his lips, a bushy and dingy beard and wearing a wrinkly bowler hat.

Madame… are you all right?”

Mademoiselle, s’il vous plaît.” She said, keeping on looking at the void.

Desolé. You look suffering. Are you sure everything is fine?”

Non, monsieur. Nothing is fine, but I would be surprised otherwise. Would you leave me alone now?”

The man stood up and angrily mumbled something about how her supposedly unsatisfactory intimate life was not a pretext for her to be such a hateful and unfriendly mademoiselle. Pas vraiment française.

Charlotte sighed and went back to her thoughts, which weren’t actual thoughts, but she’d rather desire them to be. She, educated and cultured, needed to think all the time. She was different.

Was she, actually? Julien, her last lover, had abandoned her just like he did to any other woman he had. That made her one of the many. They had met in that classy café a couple of hours before, he had told her those cliché excuses and, after an hypocrite kiss on her cheek, he left. She hated herself and she hated him. He made her realise that, after all, she was not so special.

@layalke 🐍