Don’t Stop The Dance
Experience a new way of interpreting reality, contributing to personal story with the blood of reason to not be too emotional.
She didn’t want to accept anything less than her pride, this angry roar of her soul full of vengeful shadows, rather the contrary, she would always have to look for something new in exchange for everything that was keeping her a prisoner in a lifeless past, experienced as a continuous death. Her glances filled with harsh meanings, for which an artist would find the comparison with a lifeless landscape, seemed to be loaded with that feeling of the outcome concluding the destiny of a humanity upon which the wind of aging had blown.
You would not even want to imagine this from a man who raises in front of any hopeful dream a flag that never waves in the wind, a simple flag and that is it, a symbol without any significance, enriching itself in the sign of an ineffable echo, which is the seal of poetry. Man’s vanity is measured in his attempts to forget his whereabouts, and even worse, without realizing where he came to be in the unrecognizable verses of a life-reconciliation hymn.
The experience of suffering "a loss of self" allows for the freedom of association, dialogue, question marks at different degrees of analysis of a subject addressed only in universal dramaturgy.
The only experience of this hard-to-reach woman is the result of a journey that traverses the individual’s intuitive antennae hidden behind a particularly mischievous sensibility, descends into an experimentally cold, surrealistic collage with a scalpel’s edge, then only to climb back into a space inherent to an exacerbated Ego and ill of superiority. Beauty should be deeper than your skin.
The truth is that in a way I felt attracted to this facet of reality full of shadows and mystery, perceiving it as an existential attempt to understand the divine mystery of transforming the lost man into passions, at a very low stage of virtue. A woman’s depths result from the imagination you give to the reality to which they have lost sight of the most striking meaning.
Do you turn the experience of self-creation on two distinct faces of the same personality, faces that meet in a convergent point called "aesthetic emotion" into a triumph?
An exceptional writer always finds as the model of analysis only the hardest characters to believe, the hardest to accept or follow by tolerant spirits, focusing on the description of the bodily phenomena that produce or accompany psychic processes. The splendid individual traits I see in this woman reside in the "dead nature" of a common man, but one perceived only by the rarest human minds.
With her, everything seemed to be directed by a photographer who only captures the twisted parts of a mysterious labyrinth of unrealistic uniqueness, framed between the presence and the absence of a social reflection in the way of fixing an image-copy of reality in a frame of despair and unanswered questions. A frame whose general background is the same, but the props are changing.
The expression of an image that relates to another facet of reality is, in this respect, an expression of the will to conceal any emotion, to betray any intention other than the one declared openly.
When you love someone, you may fall in love a little bit, as happens to the painter when he wants to capture the essence of a second digging on the expression of the human face, but you must always be prepared for any failure of a singular factor. To love her is a mirage in a vast and deserted desert. Abandoning her is similar to a release from Mephisto’s spell.
An aesthetic emotion is a persistent vibration of the self converted into an act of symbolizing the imagistic language, a form of spiritual manifestation converted into an image that imitates an artist’s style of painting.
Writing about Her is more of a kind of amazement due to intrusion into a strange world, a kind of very intense doubt that is not a symptom of mistrust in a proud mind, but an incentive to investigate a mysterious soul wound as is apparent from the question that the Greek philosopher Cleanthes once addressed to a young disciple: "Why do I not feel that you feel?"
Are you ready to reach a superior form of consciousness in an imaginative space, compared to a short story of the reality you have never spoken before?
I would not insist on her portrait now, especially dominated by the motif of the eyes full of willingness, whose eyelashes can only understand her. Who are you really? For whenever I try to get closer to her, I hear, far away, like in a rebound, the interference of an echo that came to my ear like a suggestion with a scent of caution: take care, boy, everything is deceptive in her life, at her age, including makeup that highlights the perfection of the features of her face.
I keep my distance from her, better than ending up alone like Faust and Margaret that end up falling in love with each other. With a sarcastic smile, Mephisto would admire his victory, I would become a servant of the outer realm. I could easily fall prey to seduction, harder would be to endure the hell that seduction itself prepares for me. This woman seems to be the kind of person who puts pressure on the events in your immediate vicinity just to win a bloody battle. But my blood will never be poured into the cup of her dangerous kisses. At the back of a sweet mouth is a poisoned heart.
Well, such an unforgettable human model we find best outlined in a novel by writer Mary Balogh:
"How blind I was for not seeing it. She looked up at me and stared me in the eyes. In her eyes, which were her beast feature, I could detect pain, buried very deep under severe layers of self-control. She only ever loved herself, everyone was aware of this. Generally, she was despised, even hated by people who fall victim to her exaggerated selfishness. I wanted to love her. I wanted to find the way to her heart and to be her favorite. What a madness ! "
What is seen in a picture full of concreteness is actually the hidden picture of another image more difficult to reproduce in words. Inside an imaginative reality everything is done according to the criterion set by the gift of reading thoughts. Here, consciousness gains its superiority through the eye of admiration to the depth of a mind that thinks of everything through oppositions, a mind that practically contradicts what it seeks to expose, to convince. Don’t know why there’s no sun in the sky with her.
Can you build an event that brings to the forefront the art as a creative space, displaying interpretations that transmit emotions full of the affirmation of a transcendent finality?
My mother says truth is all that matters, lying and deceiving is a sin. A slight escape into the imagination of a woman full of that camouflaged fragility behind a shadowy mask without which a more comprehensive artistic profile could not be achieved could culminate on a symbolic protest a picture built just to attract sympathy, on the other hand, in a nostalgic horizon of nostalgic spirit in the long-gone moments.
Very few fruitful dialogues, sordid memories, filtering of thoughts and false affirmations of affection, glances thrown in a certain way, underlined by a grim silence, still fixed me however in a privileged posture of spirit, increasingly marked by the joy of creation. Drifting through a world that’s torn and tattered, Every thought I don’t mean a thing. More specifically, it is about the moment of a crack between the objectual content of action that becomes a good of consciousness and the means of formalizing a logic that links man and the world into a single coordinate system: I live only enough that I may exist.
I strongly believe that I will meet her again one day, maybe she will recognize me, maybe not, but we will certainly keep our distance from each other as two dice randomly cast by the hand of inexorable destiny, which are no longer fortunate to never throw six-six. Mephisto does not guarantee his superiority through the deceitfulness of the human soul, but through the strange play of luck that he himself created to monopolize a whole world. I have not yet sold my soul to the devil. And I do not even want to have bad luck.
In the artistic sphere, the vision that you form about a destiny inspired by the intensity of emotional experiences and needs, which is at the same time an inexhaustible, fertile, imaginative, sensitive, and very visual realm, is essential.
Don’t Stop The Dance. Continue to admire man’s nature, with his inner beauty and ugliness, because as in painting, there will never be a painting without even a small bright white background and a black spot.
The colors will have to be chosen in the shades of a late autumn, but so sunny as the moment I write these lines. What interpretation you will give to one scene or another depends on how much dedication you put into creating the story you write in your own brain and then in your own life with the blood of the reason to never be too emotional.
