Personal Journal

I 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. On this note, R. has been talking to me a lot lately, and it’s strange to think there was a time when I was the one chasing after Them... Now I think they are lonely, looking for a harbor to dock at. I have this vague feeling that that’s their only reason for talking to me, and I really hate it. I’m used to being the second choice, or the third, or, more usually, the last. The only thing I can do to turn the table in my favor is choosing not to let myself be chosen at all. I don’t want to play your fucking game! Why should we consciously choose to do something that will hurt us both?? What’s the appeal in settling for the least terrible option? Let us Suffer. "Suffering is the origin of consciousness" said Dostoevsky . Or like my mother used to say when I complained about being sick and the medicine was taking too long to work: "Offer your suffering to Jesus, if you really don’t want to suffer for nothing". I don’t like giving in to impulses whenever they show up. I cling to my integrity, or if we want to call it something simpler, just fucking basic common sense and not wanting to feel like shit. W for radical choices!

M. asked me out for coffee. They’re not really my type, though they do look like Paul Dano drawn from memory. They also don’t seem that interested in me or the things I like, but rather in having someone nice enough to sit there and listen to a person rant about anything. So I don’t think I’ll go out with them. I wonder if M. and R. realize that my impression of them will probably last much longer than our actual interactions... And that, in a hypothetical future, they’ll have to actively fight against the idea I formed of them by treating me (and prolly other people too) this 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

My summer crush on E. left me dry and broken - because I only know how to be dramatic in the privacy of my own thoughts - and the only thing that survived is this overwhelming sense of not being enough. It’s the thought that I wasn’t blessed with a classically beautiful body, or a sparkling personality, or some kind of radiant inner beauty. I don’t have confidence, I don’t have any cool quirks or intriguing demons. All I’ve got is sidekick-level humor and some deeply rooted internalized misogyny I’d really like to kill off. All my friends are far away tonight, and I’m home alone, carefully flipping through all my worst thoughts like some kind of archivist-they’re the only ones not covered in dust. This sticky summer evening often makes me miserable; every second only exists to wait for the next, hoping something unexpected might happen. Tomorrow I’ll go to the beach with my parents, take a walk with them, they’ll buy me an ice cream. It almost feels like I just got out of prison, like everything is foreign now because the world is moving faster than I can keep up with. I think about M., about how we treated each other, and whether I really deserved all those awful things he said to me. His unresolved issues could have honestly killed me, he truly checks all the boxes for "healthy son of the patriarchy", just another victim of expectations about men. I don’t know , but just to be petty, this will be the first and last time I ever write about him. You’re just a smudge in my diary and be thankful that this is the worst it could happen to you.

I’m angry with myself. Today I went out with A., who had already asked me out a few months ago, but back then, I wasn’t interested. Now I see him differently. And honestly I don’t like this at all. Am I really this desperate for affection? Why do I let myself shift my perception of people so easily? I don’t even like A., and yet I keep thinking about him. These emotions aren't reliable, and I hate not being in control! I hate betraying myself like this. I don’t think it’s right to desire something for yourself just because you can’t have what you really want. It doesn't FEEL right. I dont't like to rely on myself when I am like this. Rationalizing my emotions isn't the same as experiencing them and, to quote a silly cartoon, my obsession for self-awareness is deeply rooted in anxiety. Lately I’m scared I’m losing control. I don’t want to admit it, but I’m afraid that every day now starts with me writing in this diary just to say that I’m not okay.

I wonder how much time has to pass before one can speak about certain shadows in their life. F.’s shadow is only now beginning to peek through, and with hesitation I’ve started to dissect it. L.’s shadow, on the other hand - which seems less serious in comparison - still frightens me like a child. Maybe that’s because F. no longer has power over me and is gradually fading away, and every time I talk about him with someone, we all agree on how rotten his soul is. No doubts about that. L., however, remains a reflection that’s hard to interpret, because it’s no longer just about L., but about something much deeper in our collective subconscious. To understand L., it’s not enough to know them, what’s needed is an honest analysis of oneself, something very few people can truly do. (me neither) The fact is, even now, there’s still a small, uncontrolled nuclear reaction inside me whenever I hear anything that reminds me of L. It creates so much inner noise that it forces me to stop and ask myself if I’m even ready to talk about it, even in the most casual way, even though I am someone who normally speaks without thinking too much. This is also because the risk of opening my mouth is that the small nuclear reaction could trigger an explosion with immeasurable consequences. One has to be very careful.

I’ve finally moved on from A (thank god), though I have to admit my pride came out a little burned... A few things happened along the way: we both realized we were going through a second adolescence - the kind that happens when you didn’t really live through the first one and ended up without any basic social experience. Still, I’m glad how eevrything turned out. I really like the person I am now, and if losing those years was the price to become who I am today, then so be it. This is clearly coping but it's okay :P Aside from that, summer’s over and now it’s time to reclaim my time. I went out with M and T, and I’m happy: they’re both lovely people and time is never wasted with them.

My dreaming life is at times a disarray of twisted and grotesque images, tormenting me with the most nightmarish scenarios, most of them involving situations where I am in danger. I often dream of the end of the world. For some reason, I always find myself facing the sea, and there is people in a silent state of resignation with me. It feels so human that the sea represents the end... it always strikes me when ancient symbols and archetypes persist through time. SOmehow, they reassure me. I am part of humanity and its history - I am not isolated in the world, but part of a evolving collective...Anyway, When I was in Chile, in Pichilemu, I was shocked seeing the grey beaches and the constantly gloomy weather: it was identical to my dreams. Hostile, wild, but with scattered, improvised construction here and there. So different from the sunny Mediterranean sea I am used to... I remember once I dreamt of standing on top of a hill, a gray day, looking at the beach in the distance. Between me and it there were several layers of dense vegetation, next to me, a black car (the Cadillac from Lost Highway by Lynch for some reason) was waiting for me to get in. There were many things I could have noticed, but instead I got in without thinking and the car started driving carelessly. It miraculously stopped on the beach, just a few steps from an old pier. My ears were ringing from the feeling of imminent disaster, which, despite the near tragedy, had not actually happened... and so I waited for it, constantly looking over my shoulder, something was out to get me, I was sure. The grey sky and beach had become a recurring theme, perhaps a warning about the end of the world. I clearly remember I thought about seeing hundreds of whales stranded on the shore (in another dream) and wondering whether it even made sense to talk about it at that point with someone. I was not aware of the existence of opinions and ideas; like everyone else, I sat watching the spectacle, waiting for the next event. This is what I was thinking while trying to find a place to build my house. I didn’t want it too far from the beach or from people, but at the same time I was afraid, and I knew that once night came, they would try to come inside uninvited. And as foreshadowed, with the darkness, they approached and stood in front of the door and windows. With those faces clearly imprinted in my mind, I lay down to sleep and eventually woke up in my bed. Another time I dreamt of carrying a baby with me while walking on this strip of land, like an infinite sand road in the middle of the ocean... I have lived a life of ease and comfort so far, so why is this happening to me? Am I so easily suggestible? The first dream I ever remember having involved a man wearing black clothes, his head wrapped in black bandages. I remember him grabbing me by the shoulders and inviting me to play a game. I think I was eight years old; I don’t know why I would dream of this. Another dream I can recall was about a man thrusting a broomstick deep inside my being. More recently, I dreamt of a very old man forcing me to sleep with him. He was so old and feeble that I thought he could have died at any moment beside me. It reminded me of a quote from the movie Shivers by Cronenberg. It’s not exactly the same thing, but I found it intriguing that it came to my mind. It goes like this: ------ FORSYTHE: " Roger, I had a very disturbing dream last night. In this dream, I found myself making love to a strange man. Only I'm having trouble because he's old... and dying... and he smells bad, and I find him repulsive. But then he tells me that everything is erotic, that everything is sexual. He tells me that even old flesh is erotic flesh, that disease is the love of two alien kinds of creatures for each other. That even dying is an act of eroticism. That talking is sexual, that breathing is sexual. That even to physically exist is sexual. And I believe him, and we make love beautifully."

Yesterday A. texted me again to say they were around, with friendly intentions - nothing more. I asked if they wanted to hang out, sadly the day passed with no response, leaving me wondering why they even told me they were around in the first place. They eventually texted me today just to say they had gone home yesterday for whatever reason. I often wonder about the kind of days people have, and how a simple text message could fit into those days. I always have time to text someone “hey, I wont be there,” so I cant really relate. But I do understand, you never really know whats going on in someone’s life, so eventually I stop assuming things. Anyway, burned by A.’s unresponsiveness yesterday, I ended up chatting with someone else for the evening. Today its like we dont even know each other. The night is always the ideal habitat for weakness. We indulge in saying things we would never say in daylight. As banal as it sounds, I shouldnt be surprised that today we wouldnt really consider each other’s feelings at all. What surprises me is how pissed I am about all this, as if I hadnt expected like this exact outcome. Maybe what bothers me is the idea of talking while fully aware that it was just another way to pass the time less alone, that the conversation built absolutely nothing meaningful, neither romance nor friendship, when I could have been drawing,or watching a movie,idk, doing literally anything else productive instead of talking to some random person who will have no impact whatsoever on my life. It’s the awareness of the lack of purpose that bothers me, especially because it wasn’t even that pleasant of a conversation... I know it sounds silly but I really regret it. One could say the purpose was simply “passing the time,” but honestly I would rather be bored than feel like this today. Being bored has no consequences on my mind. Talking to someone drained my social energy, made me say things I regret, and left me with the shame of feeling untrue to myself just to please other people in conversations. Though, to be fair, I’m also extremely good at draining my own energy with weird thoughts.

In an act of extreme loneliness, yesterday evening -for the first time in my entire life - I invited someone I barely know to hang out. This is a lesson I probably won’t forget: even if they sounds enthusiastic, they might not be. Basically, we spent a pleasant evening talking about this and that, but I could feel an undeniable shift in energy between the way we texted and the way we spoke in person. I think they too were under the spell of loneliness when they accepted to meet, and somehow once we were there, they didnt seem as interested anymore. It felt fucking weird to be honest. I felt as if I somehow coerced this person into spending time with me, and then I enjoyed torturing them with my presence, when honestly it would have been completely fine for me to be left alone instead of feeling unwanted. But maybe they thought I was cuter irl and I catfished them. dunno.

In an unexpected turn of events, that person I thought I tortured with my presence texted me yesterday morning asking if I wanted to hang out in the evening and spend the night at their place. What really surprised me was how flirty they were while texting me. Wow, I was wrong then?? Maybe they were just shy the first time? Great! So, I went. The story sounds fine so far, but it fucking wasn’t. Another lesson for me, I guess... We watched a movie and barely spoke or touched each other. It felt like when your parents force you to hang out with the cousins you never see. It was genuinely awkward and - for the second time - I found myself wondering why the fuck would they ask me to hang out, again. What the hell were they thinking? Why did they persuade me? It honestly felt like they were torturing themselves the whole time, like they had some kind of sin they need to repent by making other people feel just as miserable as they do... I keep thinking they must have had some weird dissociation between the person they were while texting me and the person they became once they actually saw me irl. The lesson I learned is that I won’t spend another ounce of my time making space for people like this. If you want something, be sure of it, we are almost grown adults for god's sake! Also - for my peace - always take mixed signals as a "no".

Its been some time since I started chatting with this person, N., who has been somewhat pleasant but emotionally unavailable, both in a romantic and friendly way. The reason I still talk to them is - obviously - to feel less alone, but also because theres a glimpse in their character that resonates with me. They are trying to get rid of preconceived gender roles, but with difficulty. I see them trying hard, and Im used to being the kind of person who celebrates small victories and gives recognition for the smallest effort. Maybe it shouldnt always be like that. Going back to N., tonight they texted me, and I have this siiiilly belief that when someone texts you its because they want to talk to you, and if they dont want to, they simply dont. Oh, very silly me. Tonight N. texted me as if it was due, as if it were something to be done before the day ended, like a task with a checkbox next to it. Another case of “I feel like shit, let’s share the feeling.” But Ive learned my lesson before. I wont regulate my energy for someone else, I wont give away my peace of mind that easily. I shouldnt think “what’s wrong with me?” just because someone chooses to be unpleasant to me. Instead, I should think that maybe there is nothing wrong with me, and I did nothing wrong, and that Im clever enough to know whether Im actually doing something bad or not. So, I, am at peace. I actually have done a beautiful drawing tonight.

This time I feel really dumb. Something broke in the perception I had of N., Im really inexperienced when it comes to understanding people’s wants and needs. What happened is that I didn't catch N.'s goal and now I think thst I would have preferred N. didnt put up the “woke” facade just to be appealing to me. Even though something in me tells me they might be unaware of the game they played with me because they are too deep in it, I also have a history of believing people are more naive than they actually are, so Idk. I feel sad and disappointed because I fell for all those times they didnt have the words to explain what they were thinking and feeling, when in reality they were just too lazy and too greedy with their time to do more than the bare minimum to keep me on the hook and to and to maintain an air of mystery around their persona in my eyes. Ugh. I feel stupid for not seeing it earlier. You made me and my struggles feel seen and understood, and when you called me by my name I, like a dog, turned my head smiling. Today I would call you “performative”.

We cling to a certain sadness, we hold onto the feeling of our ribcage splitting open, feeling numb. “Losing love is like a window in your heart […] everybody sees the wind blow...” . It’s late and Id like to go to sleep, but I have a certain repulsion toward the bed. One cannot experience the pain of existence, the crisis of incommunicability, the differences between gender roles, the death of the ego, and all of that shit and then go to bed like nothing happened. So Ill write here that not much has changed, and then hope Ill feel done.

One thing I’ve noticed lately is that it doesn’t necessarily have to be hard to be friends with someone. I’ve met R., and things feel really easy. It doesn’t have to deceive you in order to work.