Fragile, vulnerable we are, if we let go away the child inside us.
Green grass, trees, yellow flowers, blue sky, laughter, my sister's squared shirt, my mother's basket full of mushrooms.
I usually stopped to pick flowers, smiled, imagining them placed in a glass of water, in the evening on the little table in front of where dad usually sat smoking a pipe.
The little table there is no more, was given away during the last move.
When was the last time I picked up a bouquet of wildflowers? I can't remember, maybe I'm afraid that people laugh at me?
I hope it is so, because if it were not like this, if I had no more the desire to gather flowers, then all will be lost.
Reflection, after I'm gone - Oil on board, Laura Tedeschi
The swindle for us dreamers is that we are always trying desperately that our dreams comes true. Then, when something comes true we just have to take the consciousness that in our dreams our reality is always different from the real reality and then we can only gain strength and start another dream, and then again clashing with the illusion and self confidence to make our dream come true to smashing our head and, once more time noticing that our dream can not ever coincide with reality.
Finally there will be no more the research of the "happen" and we will close ourself in a own world and we would be accused of being fucking shit, or different, closed, moody, twisted, antisocial, aggressive...