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Writing has always been something I have enjoyed. Just the other day while I was looking at old photographs I came across one of my own personal, almost forgotton about diaries, and re-read this poem written by myself a few years ago during the night of shooting stars.
For some time I have kept these thoughts private without letting anyone read them because when I write, I do it simply out of a personal need, without thinking of a hypothetical public.
For me, writing represents a kind of therapy where a person can jot down their emotions, structure them on paper, and materialise them by giving them shape through writing.
I do not presume to define my poetry writings, rather they are thoughts that I write, ususally in melancholy moments, in which the sheet becomes a friend with whom to trust my dreams and torments.
Writing has always given me great comfort and has been a means of understanding myself. When I write I am able to lay myself bare and completely strip myself of all external elements.
Very often when I begin, I start with thinking of a rational way in which to do so only to then find myself being completely enveloped by emotions and sensations, feelings which are aroused from deep within me and then conveyed by words.
When I compose in this way it enables me to get in touch with the irrational part of myself, as it is she who guides and shapes my thoughts afterall. The creative draft is so powerful that it makes me lose control of what I write, allowing my heart and emotions to speak, giving voice to that irrational part of me which wants to emerge and take over.
Writing is pure inner research which allows you to get in touch with your soul and give it a voice. Usually I feel embarrassed to share my poems but since I have started working on this blog, I have decided to let myself be known for who I am, along with my limitations and my imperfections.
Nowadays it is easy to show the best side of oneself through a photo or through the ostentation of one’s lifestyle, but often all this is only part of reality. Writing, on the other hand, does not deceive. It is not possible to cheat oneself because in order to write, one must accept oneself without asking internal censures. I don’t write to be appreciated or to be understood, but rather to understand my own emotions and lay them bare on a sheet of paper. Often when I happen to re-read my writings, I feel both a sort of modesty and admiration. I think it’s a defense mechanism as in those pages I can find an authentic Alessia, one without any weapons.
For many years I have covetly kept my diaries but now I feel the need to express even my inner world. In a social period where everyone seeks approvals and “likes”, I have decided to share my thoughts without setting the filters to my soul. It is precisely for this reason I wanted to include the ‘Personal‘ category in Lovellis, where you will be able to read and discover a little bit more about myself and my “secret garden”.
I will now leave you with my poem, written a few years ago on a melancholy night, looking up at the starry sky.
Night of San Lorenzo
Who knows if you caught a glimpse of a little star crying tonight, who knows if those tears will be able to ignite the sad looks…
Here it rains, the water proceeds barefoot through the wet streets and the clouds eclipse the little stars like a jealous lover;
A lover who carries within himself the fire of his love and guards it, secretly, within the shadow and the soul.
Who knows if you caught a glimpse of a sad little star, who knows if its silver sadness will christen a new dream…
I would like to live the vertigo of that blunder and abandon myself completely to its infinity.
To dance wildly like a fragile moth around a light, like a butterfly that risks dying, burned by the flames of its own dream.
Who knows if you caught a glimpse of a little star tonight…
In me the little stars are imprisoned, but desire has no chains, my dream is the illusion of a crazy, fragile butterfly.
