Starting a JournalI do not cherish the thought of beginning a journal merely to expel my sorrows through writing, yet I find solace in the notion that I am nurturing my archival inclination. In these days, what weighs upon me is an absence that has never haunted me before: a longing to love and be loved, to have someone or something to care for. This summer, with its cries, pushes me to witness all the people more joyful than me, and in turn, it gazes upon me, seeing behind my futile attempts to veil the wretchedness of knowing that this will be a season of solitary wanderings. Here alone, I let myself the luxury of self-pity, for the pity of others has no comfort. My solitude holds a value to me, I see it as it is, and I am more than my mere body and form, I am my solitude.
How does a journal work? - I will add an edit with recommended readings once I have read other journals as references - In recent days, I have thought a lot about whether this expressive method suits me. I don't particularly love writing, but I love documenting because it's like deciding what your truth is. A document, in my perception, is true: the me that exists in the documentation is the most real me, the one that will exist after me. Am I, therefore, less real now that I am alive? Sometimes I think that is the case. I strive so hard to create an image of myself for others and for myself; perhaps the me you are reading is the me that deserves to be me. It gives me the illusion of having control over something that should be me.
I think I would love someone like Saint Benedict of Nursia, who threw himself into the brambles at the sight of a beautiful woman. Or even Franco Battiato would be fine.
from a tumblr post that i can't find anymore- Why Frodo is so important in "The Lord of the Rings"? Why can't someone else, anyone else, carry the Ring to Mordor? The significance of Frodo in this epic tale lies not in his extraordinary qualities, but in his sheer ordinariness. Frodo is a hobbit, unremarkable in stature and habits. He enjoys simple pleasures: stories, pipeweed, harmless mischief. He is a young man, much like any other, distinguished only by his willingness to volunteer. Here we see the power of choice in the face of an overwhelming task—an undertaking so immense that its true scale can only be grasped once it's completed. Yet, Frodo steps forward and declares, "I will." (Consider Boromir, whose noble intentions are twisted into a desire to use the Ring to protect Gondor. Reflect on Aragorn, haunted by the legacy of Isildur’s downfall. Observe Elrond, leading a council fraught with the burden of decision, and Gandalf, wary of the corrupting power should he wield it.) Frodo stands apart. He seeks nothing beyond what he has left behind, yet he says, "I will take the Ring." This is a declaration made from a place of pure innocence and sincerity, a commitment born without awareness of the profound impact it will have on him. The Ring exacts a heavy toll: it strips him of peace, selfhood, and his connection to the Shire. He loses the very essence of his being. The Ring is merciless, exploiting every vulnerability, draining his essence, and replacing it with its own malevolence. Nevertheless, Frodo picks up the Ring willingly, driven by the necessity of the task. (Notice how the Ring transforms Boromir into a desperate figure, how the palantír turns Denethor into a suspicious, envious old man, and how Saruman, once the noblest of the Istari, becomes a warlord, consumed by his twisted ambitions—all noble intentions laid waste.) Gollum's presence in the narrative serves as a mirror to Frodo, showing us what he could have become. Despite the growing mistrust and weariness, Frodo never succumbs to becoming another Gollum. He remains compassionate towards Gollum. Frodo is deeply afraid—fear dominates two-thirds of his journey—yet he persists. He continues moving forward, despite the gravitational pull of despair, because he chose this path. Someone else could have carried the Ring to Mordor, theoretically. However, the essence of a martyr is not tied to the specific individual who sacrifices themselves for a greater cause. It must be a choice, undertaken for the right reasons, the truest reasons, and followed through despite the cost, even if it leads to one's own undoing. "I will take the Ring, though I do not know the way."
*A Weekend on the River Banks* I got off the train and headed towards the exit where the car was waiting for us. Not even a minute had passed before the plain unfolded before me, and its vastness immediately overwhelmed me. I had certainly seen other plains, but this one, with no faint outline of mountains in the distance and only miles of fields interrupted by ruins, for some reason grabbed me by the throat, and together with the sun and the humidity, held me tight. Here and there, a sparse tree would appear, giving the impression of having been abandoned, and occasionally, along the river banks, there were blocks of dense, artificial forests with straight, aligned trees—a mere imitation of life that only added to the alienation of the landscape. There wasn’t a moment when I wasn’t pervaded by a strange anguish as I crossed those spaces. I discussed with a friend of mine why my repulsion was so strong and we came up with a bizarre theory that this former marshland still emitted generations of people who died in these lands that were previously swamps, who screamed all together. Something primordial and atavic inside us tried to convince us that we were in danger. This feeling was intensified by the news I heard on the train about two boys who drowned in the Po, dragged under by a whirlpool. I later read in the newspaper that it is quite common for such a thing to happen, that the Po is dangerous even when it seems calm and harmless. When a whirlpool grabs you, the only way to fight it is to let it carry you; once you reach the center, you can try to surface. The locals knew this well. Everyone in town talked about it in those days: "They must be foreigners, otherwise they’d know not to swim in the Po." "It looks shallow, but the sand can suck you in at any moment." "Yes, we used to swim there as kids, but we knew the dangers." Even the town seemed fake, like an abandoned film set, despite the evening bustle during the "Plowing fair" held on those days. I understood that, as an outsider, I couldn’t perceive a place like this as familiar. Nonetheless, talking to the people, I sensed a strong will to fight the crushing emptiness of these lands. A few hundred souls brought together, and my reaction was as if I was hearing about "community life" for the first time. As a stranger, I instinctively and naively felt moved by the thought that these people somehow managed to fight the boundlessness of the void and lead normal lives. I felt as if I were being dragged into the heart of these places, and although I knew I had to let myself be carried to survive, I continued to struggle until, exhausted, I had no choice but to lie down on the riverbed and sleep, thinking of when I would return home.
This is a poem I found on a old magazine of my hometown, by an old lady i do not know named Gigliola Neri. This is in its original dialect *Romagnolo* - BSDEL - L'ejba la spatasa vi' un'êtra nota senza són. U s'è carpê e spèc dla speranza. Cun al budel int un sach a m'strasen pr i curidù tot pracis, d'un zal sbiavì. Fazi biânchi e calameri al ciapa un pô d'culor cun i sprej de sól ch'u s'êlza da Bartnôra. U m'fa curag pr un dmân cha n'é so... --- **Hospital** Dawn pushes away / another sleepless night. / The mirror of hope / has cracked. / With my guts in a bag / they drag me / through the corridors / all the same, a faded yellow. / White faces and dark circles / gain a bit of color / with the sun's rays / rising from Bertinoro. / It gives me courage for a tomorrow / that I don't know...
I feel that if I stopped talking and became mute, no one would ask me to speak, no one would merge their identity with mine. I was reading Susan Sontag's review of Persona, one of my favourites movies, but I couldn't stop thinking about the violence of it,and the rage it made me feel. I am Alma
Today I saw footage of the primitive/native tribe of North Sentinel Island. The attempts to make contact with this tribe in the last - let’s say - 60,000 years can be counted on the fingers of my two hands. The aforementioned footage shows the tribesmen waving their hands and weapons on the shore to the visitors who were on a boat not very far away. It wasn’t a friendly wave. The way they made that warning made me feel deeply uneasy, probably because I am projecting on them a man-made idea of that primitive way of life that we can’t picture living in the same age as us. It’s mysterious, ancient, and most of all, for their own sake, as they have not developed an immune system and would probably die with further contact, we can’t approach them in any way. We must observe from afar.I think tonight i am going to dream these men, I can't shake off this weird feeling.I have been obsessively looking at this island all day on Google Earth, searching for God knows what. Though wandering on Google Earth is one of my favorite activities, it never fails to make me feel scared of the vastness of our world. I think it has developed a really weird phobia/obsession in me, so I will post a link to all my flagged "unseen zones of interest" on Google Earth, places that you can see but that are not named. The only way to find these is by chance.
My dark room is witnessing something tremendous: I am being crushed by the thought that weakness and vulnerability are only attractive in certain forms. So there I was, in my bed, crying and thinking about how I wanted to show you how ugly my face was in that moment—how bad I could be to myself, how sad I could feel, how many tears could fall from my eyes, and how everything about it could only seem so disgusting to you. It wasn’t pretty or poetic; it was awful. I hated it, and I hate thinking about it even now. Eventually, I got up to grab a scrap of paper to draw or write something to calm myself down. While reaching for a pen in my bag, I found cookies. I had put them there about a week before and had completely forgotten about them. In that fragile moment, I loved the version of myself who had left me that involuntary present. I sincerely laughed with happiness. In that instant, I forgot everything—I forgot about the mold that had stained my peace long ago, the mold that quietly keeps expanding, emerging from time to time from deep within. Sometimes I scrub it away, but it grows back when I’m not looking.
getting old...constantly fighting for a little spot... a little square of peace... my lonesome borders turning fuzzy... I am old, as if just "being" isn't already hard enough, I have to deal with being a lot of things: a woman, first of all! Something I try not to think too much about... But I am constantly reminded that I am different than you, and this is eating me from the inside. Do yoy see me as a person? Or am i just a girl? Am I all the girls before me? Someone you can easily forget? Someone I remind you of? L'aria qui è diversa.. però è la stessa, sempre uguale... Ma non è che magari, e dico magari,non sono più io la stessa??
We hugged and kissed goodbye. She waved, and I didn’t feel too bad. I was surprised by how well I was handling it. When I went to bed, I felt peaceful, thinking about a good book I had just finished reading. But as soon as I laid my head down, horrible images began invading my thoughts.I am not a believer—it’s never really worked for me—but for you, even though I knew you were somewhere safe, I would always say a little prayer when we were apart. Whenever you are not around I feel an insatiable hunger, like I could eat the whole world and still feel like something is missing