#memorie perdute

[scarletcomalies]

storia di due anime perdute

Natasha Romanoff x Fem Reader

Word count: 5,400

Warnings: Dark fic, bullying from friends group, post-death grief (both from Natasha and Reader), emotional absence from a parent, depression, self isolation, manipulation. 18+ content, Nat has a penis, blowjob.

Taglist: @nattysbabygirl @huggingkoalas @grimleaper @olicity-boo @urfav-wh0re @ihartnat @afwmaieel-1 @marvels--slut @ddreader04 @obsessedwcoffeeandwomen @traveler-at-heart @osnapitschloe @foxythefox54 @justarandomreaderxoxo

A/N: Happy Halloween, guys! I wrote this during several stoned nights with In This Moment music videos playing in the background (which ended up in Lady Gaga music videos and with me recreating the choreographies lollll).

A/N II: I tried my best effort to write as much as possible in the middle of all the ongoing college projects and the everyday hecticness. Unfortunately, I didn't manage to finish it all by today. However, my semester is almost over, therefore the wait for part II will be way shorter! :)

In the serene village of Collodi, you encountered Natasha Romanoff, a woman in search of comfort and healing after the painful loss of her wife and daughter. She was moved by your lively personality, naiveté, and tender heart, leaving within her a yearning urge to take you, mold you like one of her puppets, and help you become her real girl.

In the enchanting region of Tuscany, Italy, hid a small village called Collodi, a dreamy corner protected by the intimidating mountains that surrounded it. This place, isolated from the hectic society, seemed to yearn fervently for the trees to consume it completely, wishing that only the memories and debris of what once was would remain in the end.

But that was not possible.

Collodi would still have been in the penumbra of oblivion if it wasn't for the pen of a blissful author to pay tribute to it through an immortal fictional story. It was as if it was destined to shine in the vast darkness of the commonplace.

Because it was not as visually captivating as Monterosso al Mare, for example, a town that was part of the five villages that, in perfect unity, formed Cinque Terre.

Monterosso al Mare did not long to be consumed and forgotten. It enjoyed its own prominence along with its neighboring towns.

From miles away, its structure could be seen standing tall with dignity on the seashore, and the palette of colors that it had was a delight for the eyesight, a canvas painted by the hand of an expert brought to life. Collodi, on the other hand, appeared as a spectrum between shades yellow and brown, and didn't stand firm, it rather seemed to be on the verge of crumbling at any given moment.

But Natasha Romanoff found beauty in Collodi.

You see, Monterosso al Mare was always displaying its vibrant colors, there being no room for exhaustion or rest, and its neighboring towns shared that quality. Totally exposed to the scrutiny of others, it was constantly adapting to the expectations of those who visited it. No matter who crossed its thresholds, no matter who might inflict harm, it must always stand firm, clinging to the reputation it had so painstakingly cultivated.

Collodi didn’t have such obligation, for it was simply Collodi. Yes, it may have had a history that was inevitably inherent, but this town was still completely detached from the demands of appearance and expectations.

Natasha Romanoff found beauty in Collodi, because having been Monterosso Al Mare, cost her the life of her wife and daughter.

And in Collodi, she found you.

“What a boring town,” exclaimed Kate, one of the two people who were once considered your friends.

“No way, the House of Butterflies was amazing,” you countered, as a smile instinctively plastered on your face as you recalled the memory of the previous day.

You had seen species of butterflies that rarely appeared in everyday life, and the best part, you had the opportunity to befriend some animals! When you offered them food, they would offer you their trust and appreciation, confirming once again that pattern so rooted in your being.

The concept of love you had was limited to the material, to what could be offered in that aspect. Both Kate and your other friend, Sarah, seemed to have sensed that nature in you, and decided to take full advantage of it, knowing that your concept of normality made you vulnerable to their intentions.

“Yes, and that was it,” Sarah intervened, and the boredom so palpable in her voice made your smile fade at once. True, you had only walked around town and gone shopping, but hadn't the previous day been enough? Was it necessary to do something extraordinary every day?

It did sting a little, given how thrilled you still were about the previous day’s activity, but from what you were hearing, your friends no longer shared that enthusiasm. Nor did they settle for at least one single calm day.

"Get us some of that good gelato, at least," Kate spoke up, after noticing your silence.

You nodded obediently, "Sure thing. Be right back."

You knew the bitter taste of disappointment as if it were your old arch enemy.

It was a feeling that has been with you since childhood, specifically the day your mother's life was snatched away by a terminal illness, robbing you of the joy that should have characterized any child's early years.

As life went on without that important figure by your side, you longed for the warmth and comfort of your father. However, instead, he taught you a raw truth: absence in life was more painful than the absence due to death itself, for the soul leaves without leaving the physical body.

You dreamed of his protective embrace, of his deep voice telling you bedtime stories, of feeling his loving hands tuck you into bed each night. But your father was not your mother, nor was he the father you used to know.

This new man, consumed with his work as a way of coping with grief, became obsessed with the expansion of his business. In his mind, securing a prosperous financial future for you was the best way to demonstrate his love and care, for if only his then small business had had the resources to cover the costs of treating the illness, your mother would still be with you.

So, instead of the human safety you needed so badly, you received an insane number of expensive gifts and unnecessary luxuries. Every one of them being his way of saying "I love you, I'm not going to fail you".

Oh, but he failed you. Every time he chose his job over you. Every time he missed your birthday, every promise he broke. With the expensive gifts and lavish vacations, he offered as compensation, you learned that affection was shown through material goods, and not necessarily through presence and emotional connection. It became your only way to express and receive affection, because it was all you had known your whole life.

Sarah and Kate were quick to notice the situation. At first, they just wanted to compliment you on your fancy bag and strike up a conversation with you to gain your trust, hoping that, when the time came, they would know you well enough to borrow it for a party or event where they could show it off as their own. However, after only a week, when you gave them each a bag just like yours as a thank you for sitting down with you for lunch and chatting, they realized that it was in their best interest to keep pretending to like you, as it would benefit them.

That's how they even ended up in Italy without spending a single penny in the first place.

It was a birthday trip that your father financed, once again rewarding the fact that he had forgotten about it. He also agreed to let you invite your two “best friends” in the hope that you would forgive him.

And so, as you returned with three ice creams in hand, you felt like you carried with you the key to an elixir to keep harmony among your friends. But the ground, capricious and uneven, laughed at you, with a prominent stone lurking to trip you up. In your haste to please, you did not see it coming.

Your body collapsed, crushing the ice cream cones, and the cold, sticky mess spread all over your dress. To top it all off, the rough cobblestone street also scraped your delicate arms and hands.

You winced in pain as you pushed yourself up, noticing the red marks and small cuts that now adorned your once-flawless skin.

Embarrassed and hurt, you looked up, expecting to see concern on your friends' faces. Instead, you were met with sneers and poorly concealed laughter.

"Oh my God, (Y/N)," Sarah scoffed, her voice dripping with disdain.

Kate joined in, her eyes showing a cruel amusement, "Seriously? We asked for gelato, not a circus act."

Your cheeks burned with shame as you struggled to your feet, your now wet and cold dress clinging uncomfortably to your body.

"I'm sorry," you mumbled, fighting back tears. "I'll go get some new ones..."

"Don't bother," Kate snapped, rolling her eyes. "You'll probably just drop those too. Jesus! And now we must be seen with you looking like that!"

You felt small, insignificant, and utterly alone as your so-called friends tore into you with those hurtful remarks. The beautiful day in Collodi, which had held so much promise, now felt tainted and ugly.

Was this what true friendship was supposed to feel like? Was this the essence of the connection?

Tears, hot and stinging like acid rain, began to stream down your cheeks at the thought of it all.

"Oh, great. Now she's crying,” Kate's exasperated sigh made itself present.

"All right, come on," Sarah's voice dripped with annoyance. "You need to pull yourself together. This is beyond embarrassing."

"Look, if you can't stop whining like a baby, at least walk a couple of meters behind us," Kate ordered you. “We don’t want anyone thinking we’re with… you.”

You.

That one-syllable word spoken so contemptuously and coldly, as if you were enough to make any accompanying insult seem redundant.

And you, meekly nodding, prepared to follow their cruel order.

But as you took a step to follow behind them, a gentle but firm hand grabbed your arm, stopping your movement.

Startled, you looked up to find yourself confronted by a striking woman with flame-red hair and piercing green eyes.

There was something in her gaze that invited you to resist, to question, to not let yourself be carried away by the current of contempt that surrounded you.

And when she spoke, your ears were delighted by her smooth-as-honey voice.

“Do not follow them, solnyshko,” she said, dropping the unfamiliar word with a slight accent. “They are not worth your tears or your time.”

For the very first time, there was someone willing to protect you, to remind you of your worth in a world that seemed to want to erase it.

Your subconscious, conditioned by years of neglect, sounded alarms at this strange kindness. It screamed insidiously, urging you to retreat to the cold yet familiar comfort of abandonment and life-draining complacency.

That made you gently pull your arm from Natasha's grasp, your eyes downcast in embarrassment.

"No, you don't understand," your voice trembled like a leaf in autumn's chill. "It was my fault."

Natasha's eyes flickered with sudden comprehension. That sentence alone allowed her to decipher you completely.

The vulnerability you exuded, the eagerness to please despite mistreatment, it all spoke to something deep within her. It would be a crime to let you go, knowing you were perfect material for satisfying her needs.

She glanced briefly at the retreating silhouettes of the college girls you were with, a flicker of indignation crossing her features. They were merciless, cruel in their treatment of you. Natasha knew she was different. She wasn't going to make you suffer like them, because she was far from mean.

Instead, she would shower you with the warmth of genuine care, something you had clearly been deprived of for so long. In time, she would become as essential to you as the air you breathed. You would need her, finding it impossible to abandon her. And in return, she would have someone who needed her, someone she could protect and nurture, someone she could mold to her liking to fill that void that had been devouring her insides like a ravenous parasite.

"Your fault that this town's ground is made of stone? Your fault that it's dark already?” She asked gently. Instead of offering empty reassurances, she aimed to give you some autonomy, allowing you to discover the truth for yourself.

Her smile became unavoidable as she noticed your wide, innocent eyes intently analyzing her questioning.

"Could you have predicted every uneven surface? Every shadow?" She continued, her tone encouraging reflection rather than accusation. "And these friends of yours," Natasha pressed on, scoffing with contempt so palpable it made you flinch. She made your terrifying friends seem insignificant in the face of her formidable presence. “They have never stumbled? Are they always perfectly graceful?"

This question hit home. You had a fair share of memories of Kate tripping over her own feet at parties and Sarah passing out in some stranger’s backyard. You had never blamed them for their clumsiness. So why were you holding yourself to an impossible standard not even they could meet?

How silly of you, taking blame for something so clearly beyond your control.

A small, rueful smile became clear as you realized the absurdity of your self-accusation.

"You see, dear?" Natasha chuckled at your adorable smile. She felt her cock reacting as well through a painfully, intense throbbing. Every fiber of her being screamed for release, so overwhelming it threatened to consume her entirely, to break through her carefully constructed walls. But not yet, she reminded herself, her fists clenching with the effort of restraint. "Now, let's forget about them. Let's get you cleaned up, I don't live far from here."

Her invitation, or rather, command, caught you off guard, "But I don't know you," you gently declined. She didn’t budge, for she was more than sure that it would be a piece of cake to have you beneath her roof in the blink of an eye.

"Oh, right, my name is Natalia Romanova,” she introduced herself. “And your name is…?”

Unbeknownst to you, she had long ago stopped using the name Natasha Romanoff. It was an alias she'd adopted during her time as an Avenger back in the United States, but she had renounced that life, therefore, she no longer needed that identity. As for "Black Widow", the mere mention of it now filled her with loathing.

“Nice to meet you, I’m (Y/N),” you replied, trying to sound polite even after your small rejection.

Noticing your slight discomfort, Natasha decided to lighten up the tension that was beginning to build up, going ahead to reach into her pocket and show you a small, perfectly carved wooden figurine.

It was a cat! You adored cats.

"This is Figaro," Natasha introduced you to her little piece of wood, a fond smile adorning her lips. "He's my dear cat. Well, a miniature version of him."

Your eyes were drawn to the marvelous craftsmanship of the figurine. "Wow," you gasped, and your curious fingers itched to touch it, but you held back. "Did you do this?"

"I did,” she confirmed with pride. This woodworking hobby, alongside her tuxedo cat and golden fish, seemed to be the sole source of joy in her miserable existence. “I do this for a living. My house is filled with pieces like this.”

"That's amazing," you replied, genuinely impressed. "I bet they're all as stunning as this one," you remarked, gesturing to the figure in her hand.

Her smile expanded, almost impossibly so. It had been ages since she smiled like this, and perhaps it was twisted of her that the reason was the anticipation of taking you and exploiting you fully.

"Not as stunning as real-life Figaro," she countered, her eyes softening with affection. "Oh, just imagine the softest cloud you've ever seen, now picture it in black and white colors. That's Figaro."

The way Natasha described him with such genuine warmth and affection made your heart squeeze in tenderness, and your defenses were slowly crumbling, just like she predicted. After all, you reasoned, how could someone who talked so lovingly about their cat possibly be dangerous?

"Well,” she concluded, with a small sigh that feigned disappointment. "If you accepted my invitation, you could see him in person. But I understand. It's dangerous to go to a stranger's home. That’s wise of you."

The thought of letting down such a kind-hearted woman was intolerable. How could you possibly walk away after she had been so sweet and kind to you? You finally met someone who treated you with respect, and this was your response? How ungrateful!

"You know, actually," you finally spoke, so quickly they successfully interrupted your recurring thoughts. "I think I'd like to meet Figaro now, if that's okay."

Natasha's face lit up, her emerald eyes sparkling with an intense delight. Everything turned out exactly as she wanted, making her feel like an expert puppeteer effortlessly manipulating the strings of her most treasured marionette.

"Of course it's okay, solnyshko," she replied cheerfully. Anyone with an ounce of reasoning would wonder why she seemed so eager to bring a stranger girl home, but not you. Certainly not you. "You won't regret it, I assure you."

In the small village chambers, lanterns flickered softly, casting shadows that danced and twisted. Initially, these shadows appeared as large, intimidating figures, but upon closer inspection, they transformed into friendly faces with wide smiles. Yet, when their eyes met Natasha, they seldom did not recognize her.

"Natty! Buona notte, cara mia!" They always exclaimed, their voices brimming with enthusiasm and eyes aglow. A dull ache settled in your chest. It seemed wrong to feel that twinge of envy, yet you couldn't recall the last time anyone appeared that delighted to see you, and you couldn't help but long for it to be you to be greeted that way.

Unlike your so-called friends who always insisted on walking ahead, leaving you trailing behind like an afterthought, Natasha walked alongside you. Her emerald eyes occasionally glanced your way, a gentle smile gracing her lips.

The ice cream stain on your dress was still visible, your eyes, though no longer wet with tears, remained red and puffy. Yet, Natasha radiated an intrinsic pride in having you by her side, as if your presence was something to be cherished rather than hidden away.

“Well, here we are,” Natasha exhaled a deep sigh of relief as she turned the key and pushed open the door to her home, inviting you to step inside. The comforting embrace of warmth following the biting chill was a welcome relief.

Unlike most homes, there was no central overhead light. Instead, small lanterns perfectly scattered throughout the space illuminated it cozily.

The entire first level served as Natasha's workplace, living room, dining room, and kitchen, all in one. Though there were no walls dividing these areas, the transitions were clear.

To your left, Natasha's creations dominated the entire corner, making it a challenge to navigate without stepping on something. Positioned by the window was a long table with a variety of well-used tools, including hammers, a saw, screwdrivers, pliers, and wrenches.

On the opposite side, to your right, there was a kitchen, equipped with just a fridge, a sink, and vintage stove, alongside a small wooden table that could seat two people maximum, and you wondered if Natasha had crafted it herself. The middle area displayed a fireplace with a couch positioned in front of it, and on a side table, there was a round fishbowl containing a goldfish, which immediately caught your attention.

"Please, excuse the mess," Natasha remarked with a hint of guilt. She never cleaned her home more than necessary because she never expected visitors, as she preferred to personally deliver everything to those who requested her work, from the smallest souvenir to the most unbearably heavy piece of furniture. You might never have realized it, but you were the first person to set foot in her home by her own will and not because people intrusively knocked on her door to request commissions or to drop off gifts.

"No, no, it's great," you replied sincerely, having already scanned every corner of the place. Her old superhero friends might think this wasn't Natasha at all, but to you, who had only met this side of her, it definitely screamed Natalia everywhere, and all those residents of Collodi could say the same.

"Please, do take a seat!" She exclaimed so energetically that her voice could have echoed throughout the entire neighborhood. Without a moment's hesitation, you went to sit by the fireplace, the gentle flames providing you with so much warmth that you almost forgot the ice cream on your dress. "Stay here, I'll find you some clothes," she added, stepping away without taking her eyes off you, with fear that you might vanish at any moment.

While awaiting the return of the red-haired woman, you swiftly took out your phone to send a message to your friends, letting them know that you were fine and that you would get back soon. In your noble heart, you believed that they might worry about you, even if they were angry at you. However, the way they abandoned you with a stranger and walked away without looking behind unequivocally proved otherwise.

"See if this fits you," the same raspy, indistinct voice made you look up, and you gasped in surprise when you noticed that, in the arm not holding the change of clothes, she was carrying the famous cat Figaro she had told you about. His pupils were dilated due to the dim light, yet you could still notice a faint yellow ring encircling those dark orbs. He stayed calm, allowing his owner to carry him without squirming or resisting.

"Oh, he's gorgeous!" You exclaimed, just a few seconds were enough for this feline to capture your heart.

She chuckled softly, placing the little one on the couch beside you, "Clean clothes and a kitty, just as we agreed."

As if on cue, Figaro suddenly jumped from the couch, his black and white fur almost a comedic, straight-out-of-cartoon blur as he darted across the room and disappeared behind a stack of wooden carvings.

"I should have mentioned, Figaro doesn't like strangers."

You couldn't help but feel a little disappointed, for you had hoped to pet the furry cat, “Oh, that’s okay.”

Noticing your expression, Natasha chuckled, "But don't worry, once you offer him some food, he'll forget all about being shy and will come running back to you,” she reassured you, handing you the neatly folded garments.

"Thank you very much, where can I change?" You inquired, accepting the clothes that seemed extremely comfortable even without considering the chill and sticky stain of your dress.

"You can change here. I'll go upstairs to give you privacy. Just let me know when you're ready," she replied with such sincerity that it was impossible not to believe her.

When she left you alone, she ascended the stairs as she usually did, and when she reached the last step, with great care, she lay down on the floor, peering her head to see you. Never had she been so grateful for the darkness of her abode, for without it, you would have seen her head lurking at the top of the stairs.

Oh, blessed be the moment you chose to wear that dress, for it granted her the exquisite opportunity to admire your entire form, your most desirable parts covered by a black lace lingerie ensemble.

Her hand slowly traveled down to the burning ache that formed between her legs, which pulsed intensely through her already hard length. She tried to soothe the discomfort with a gentle squeeze, however, said action condemned her to complete what she had begun, lest she risk losing her sanity.

Therefore, with her eyes shut tight, she quietly made her way to the bathroom, promising herself to stay silent for just a moment to quell her longing.

She inhaled deeply and rested her hands against the sink. The mirror showed her flushed face, nostrils flaring from her labored breathing, and the familiar vein protruding on her forehead.

She exhaled through her mouth and lowered the zipper of her pants, revealing the fabric of her boxers. Unsurprisingly, there was a slightly darker wet patch of her pre-cum, showing just how much relief her poor member was desperately looking for. Subsequently, she slid her hand under the undergarment, and…

“I’m ready!” She heard your voice from downstairs.

“Yebany v rot,” she cursed between gritted teeth.

She hesitated, debating between coming down to join you, or staying there to prioritize her own needs. Yet, just picturing your eager little face and probably your hungry tummy prompted her to pull up her pants again. With another deep breath, she composed herself as best as she could to return to you.

Seeing you in that attire shattered the fragile composure she had managed to gather, causing her breath to hitch and a tight knot to form in her throat, which she clumsily attempted to swallow down.

You looked so perfect, wearing her clothes, slightly oversized over your frame in a way that was both endearing and domestic, even. Not to mention the fact that you would carry her scent for the rest of the night.

“What’s wrong?” You asked, noticing how her already tense expression worsened the moment her eyes landed on you. You assumed that perhaps the way those clothes fit you wasn't quite right. Maybe she expected them to be more form-fitting, which would mean looking for other clothes, and maybe she was already too tired to deal with that hassle.

"Nothing, it's just that… I'm feeling kind of tense, it's obviously not your fault," she tried to explain. It would be a shame to lie to you, especially when your naive mind already sensed the shift. "Hungry?" she asked, hoping to change the subject to ease your worries and distract herself.

"No, I already ate," you stated with a firmness that would have surprised anyone who had interacted with you, including her. "What's wrong?" you demanded.

Natasha, taken aback, but determined, admitted, "You look beautiful.”

She wasn't by any means shy. She could have taken you right there, knowing you were too weak to defend yourself and would have let her. Nevertheless, she didn't want that. She wasn't interested in being just another opportunist who crossed your path to take what she needed and leave. She wanted to make you so dependent on her that you would desire it in your heart to give it to her.

You furrowed your brow, confusion evident on your face. "Don’t try to distract me," you replied, shaking your head slightly.

With a deep breath, Natasha stepped closer. "Here," she murmured, gently taking your hand, guiding it to the front of her pants.

Your eyes widened in shock as you felt the unmistakable hardness there, provoking you to quickly pull your hand away, your cheeks matching the same deep shade of red as hers.

"I'm so sorry," Natasha apologized, taking a step back. "I shouldn't have... It's just... This is the problem. You're so beautiful, and my body reacted."

You stood there, frozen for a moment, your mind racing. You couldn’t deny, her nurturing and caring nature was irresistibly appealing to you. In some sense, she gave you the hope of reclaiming control and rewriting the story of abandonment that etched deeply into your soul.

"I... I think you're beautiful too," you spoke. "And after everything you've done for me tonight, the least I can do is... help you."

Natasha's eyes widened, a mix of surprise and concern crossing her features. "No, solnyshko. That's not necessary. I shouldn't have put you in this position."

But you took a tentative step forward, your heart pounding but your mind already made up. "I want to," you insisted softly. "Please, I want this."

"No, you don’t," she countered, the word tasting strange on her tongue. The offer you made was tempting, almost unbearably so, but she refused to be just another person you felt indebted to.

“I do,” you reiterated.

And you genuinely did.

Although you considered it strange that someone would reject your attempts to reciprocate those acts of kindness, it could be said that it was the first time it didn't feel like an obligation, but rather an opportunity to finally experience what it’s like to have such a physical connection with someone, let alone someone as attractive as her.

Material possessions were the only things you had relied on so far, so this could even be something unique between her and you.

"I have never done it before, so this is a win-win situation," you continued, trying to persuade her. "I help you, and you teach me."

She gazed into your eyes, discovering a profound yearning. She knew you meant every word, and it made her wonder, if a mere gesture of kindness could inspire such actions in you, to what extent would your commitment go if you became dependent on her?

"Alright," she agreed. "Let’s take it slow, and if you ever want to stop, just say the word."

Natasha reclined gracefully on the couch, parting her legs as an implicit invitation that seemed to compel you to approach her, all without the slightest motion or gesture from her part.

You chose to comply, kneeling between her legs. Despite her evident efforts to assert her dominance, you felt empowered by the mere knowledge that you could elicit such reactions from her, to the point where she was unable to conceal her distress, leaving her with no choice but to confess her attraction to you.

"You’re taking your time," she murmured, her voice evidencing a palpable sense of anticipation.

As you undid her button and unzipped her pants, you could feel the hardness of her member under the touch of your wrists, even when there were two layers of cloth covering it.

And all this for you.

Her cock sprang free and stood at attention after you pulled down the hem of her boxers and pants to below her balls. She remained motionless, not taking her green eyes from yours as you contemplated her arousal.

You knew it was big, and you knew it was agonizingly hard, but the reality overcame any assumptions when you were faced with easily ten inches in length, adorned by multiple prominent veins.

"Please, touch it," she pleaded, her voice abandoning any semblance of composure. Pride, that accursed pride, was meaningless when her body irrefutably ached for you.

Her tip was a deep pink, dripping with droplets of pre-cum. Taking it gently, wrapping your fingers around it, you picked up the droplets with your thumb and spread them around it, making it take on a peculiar sheen.

“Fuck,” she moaned, closing her eyes, and throwing her head back.

That alone gave you the confidence you needed to stroke her cock in up and down movements, successfully making her tremble under your touch.

Her full lips were slightly parted, and her breath came in short, sharp gasps or high-pitched whimpers. It was truly a welcome sight, witnessing someone entrust you with their body, openly displaying such vulnerability before you.

She extended her hand, firmly grasping your wrist, and guided your hand to the base of her erection. Simultaneously, her other hand gently rested on the back of your neck, offering encouragement rather than forcing you.

You wrapped your mouth around her already wet tip, moaning as you savored the warmth of the pre-cum that seemed to keep making itself present. You began to suckle her glans gently, letting your tongue take the place from time to time to tease her hole.

Her hand clutched at your hair, guiding your head as you began to bob up and down on her cock. Her breathing became shallower as you quickly found your rhythm, delighting in the view of half of her dick disappearing into your warm mouth and re-emerging glistening with your saliva and her fluids.

“Goddamn it," she muttered under her breath, her insatiable nature getting the better of her, compelling her to lift her hips upward. It was the way your throat contracted into a gag that made her involuntarily ejaculate her seed, the hot liquid filling your mouth.

“Fuuuck!” She cum in your mouth in one, two, three spurts. It was obvious by how her face contracted in pleasure that she had not anticipated that her cock had taken on a mind of its own, stripping her of any authority over it.

You endeavored to swallow as much as your astonishment and inexperience allowed, yet a gentle cough escaped you, causing a few drops to delicately trickle down your chin.

"Well done, malyshka," were the first words that escaped her lips once her breathing steadied.

You appeared utterly perfect, as you looked up at her with those doe eyes, with the sheen of her release enhancing the fullness and glossiness of your lips. She vowed never to entertain the thought of allowing you out of her sight.

You sealed your fate the moment your paths crossed, but you cemented your doom in that very instant.

[vefa321]

#Giornata della memoria

🥀Cosa resterà,

di ciò che non è stato?

Nelle finte memorie

di chi vuole dimenticare.

Nei veri ricordi

di chi ancora vive,

Un piede in quel tempo fatto di soli numeri...

E

Una scarpa tolta,

accatasta sui monti di pietre scagliate contro un nemico colpevole di essere solo il bersaglio di un'ideologia.

Animata dall'odio in vestito d'ordinanza.

🥀Cosa siamo se non sappiamo essere?

Più di un giorno.

Un tempo che il tempo stesso si sta portando via.

Gli anni sono passati,

chi era ora non c'è più.

🥀Chi ancora sa!

Si ricordi di raccontare

Che le voci sono memorie

che scrivono la storia.

Che l'aver vissuto è

Essere sopravvissuto.

Che essere è tutto ciò

che volevano togliervi.

🥀Giorni per smemorati sul

Treno che è passato

oltre il filo spinato di una cortina di fumo

Che solcava il cielo senza mai vederne l'azzurro

Di ceneri caduti come la neve

Nel silenzio di pianti asciugati dal vento

Stalattiti di ghiaccio

Le lacrime perdute.

🥀Oltre le mura dei campi

Di sterminii

Oltre la paura,

Resta la memoria

Che dobbiamo coltivare

Come un fiore in un deserto.

Prezioso e fragile

Bella e sofferta.

🥀Ma non effimera...mai.🥀

J.D

[lunamagicablu]

Quasi rubata agli abissi dell'oceano cosmico, strappata ai siderali silenzi dell'ignoto ove giace la memoria del tempo, la musica di JHLOS come un antico incantamento profonde in note vellutate e sfuggenti un arcaico sapore di ricordi. Suggerisce visioni remote : città di cristallo, terre perdute. Dalla combinazione di timbri e di accordi affiorano mondi sconosciuti dai ritmi velati e gravi giunge un richiamo ancestrale. Sonorità e melodie si intrecciano in un cielo immobile e lontano, suscitando, in un occulta e sapiente mistura alchemica, una ridda di sensazioni contrastanti e avvolgenti. Maurizio Cavallo Jhlos art by_imaginarydawning_ **************** Almost stolen from the depths of the cosmic ocean, torn from the sidereals silences of the unknown where lies the memory of time, the music of JHLOS like an ancient enchantment deep in velvety notes and an archaic flavor of memories escapes. It suggests remote visions: crystal cities, lost lands. Worlds emerge from the combination of timbres and chords unknown from the veiled and serious rhythms comes an ancestral call. Sounds and melodies intertwine in a still and distant sky, arousing, in an occult and wise alchemical mixture, a riot of contrasting and enveloping sensations. Maurizio Cavallo Jhlos art by_imaginarydawning_ 

[ahrikima]

Memories of Light - The Labyrinth

|| Memories of light (cover) || The mirrors || The bubble || The Cards || The Hug || The Walk || The Pancakes || The Concert || The Ramen || The labyrinth || The Stars ||

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" Labyrinth, it was not the same was i was remember… but it was a nice place for me to be with you… but at the same time was the last… it ended like it was started… in a labyrinth… "

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Memories de llum - El Laberint

Aquet dia vas se un el ultim dia que vaigs estar amb tu, un dia que va se molt trist per mi pero va ser bonic, pero tirst...

Tu mateix sabias que era molt intuitiva i si notava alterasions o sabria rapit, i aquell dia jo sabia perfectament que segurament seria el ultim que pasaria temps amb tu...

Jo, tenia moltas ganas de anari aquell parc amb el laberint i o portava en ment molt de temps per anari, fis que tu vaigs sutgeri i vas aceptari per anari i pasar el dia junts en general, pero per desgrasia no va poder se aixi, per coses que van sortirte, no amb va importar, almenys podia estar un petit temps amb tu, i tu volias selebra aquell dia que jo habia coseguit feina, tu tabias alegrat daixo, per que sempre mestavas animan i motivan a no enjegar res a la merda

Cuan ens vam reunir al punt de trobada que vam sutgeri, tu mavias vist ja que jo no estava gaire be, i si no estva jo be, per que amb sentia tirsta i no sabia com dirtu... dirta com amb sentia... i que mestava consumin el fet de saber que no tornaria a veurat mes...

Pero almenys sempre amb cunseguias ferme sentir be i riura.. pero jo et notava molt ausent i despistat aquell dia a pesar de tot, estavas motl pendent del movil.. mes de lo normal... i semblava que lo unic que volies es que pases el temps rapit per acabar

El laberith no era com el que recordava, estava una mica descuidad, pero ni habia zones on es sentien molt els ocells i aixo magradava

vam parla moltes coses com sempre, i vam estar una vosa estona charlan de musica, dels teus amics, etc, i sempre magrada escoltar les teves coses

abans de acavar de visita el lloc, jo et vaisg sugeri de fernos una fotu de record alla, per que en si almenys era maco amb tot els abres, etc i despres jo et vaigs regalar la pegatia que vaigs disenyar del corb " fuck you" per que sabia que aquella era la teva fav i volia que la tiguesis, i la vas gaurda dintre de la vosa o tenies les cordes de la teva viola

Recordo que cuam vam deixar el laberinth vam acavar parlan de la meva dislexia i meva meoria, de que jo podia imaginarme les coses que amb deillan amb motla facilita i recorda coses del pasat o dels mateixos somnis al 100% i et vaigs dir " per aixo dic sempre que vigileu que dieu, que amb faigs images molt rapides i pot se molt turbi avegades haha" i recordu que tu et vas riure ... tambe recordu que tu amb vas oferi un dols, que a mi mai man agradat pero o vaigs aceptar amaplement, i no era tan desagradaple com recordava jo aquets dolços..

vam estar dona voltes per aprop de plasa, i miran alguna tenda per fer una mica de temps avans de menjar i pensa que podriam anar a menjar, aquell dia no i habia ganes de menjar asiatic, aixi que vam deisdir ana a menjar pasta

aixi dons vam anar al restauran Macchina Pasta i al prinsipi tu no recordavas que mimitavas a menjar, i a mi amb donava cosa dirtu pero to vaigs dir al final.. pero amb va saver molt de greu i ferme sentirme malament habertu dit...

Tu et vas demanar uns tallarins amb pollastre i pinyols i jo uns raviolis de formatge amb salsa de trufa i tels vaigs deixar provar i et va fer serte grasie

Jo volia dirte lo que mestava agobian per ditre... pero no podia... ni savia que fer ni com... pero mestava consumin moltisimi... i provablement per no haber fet jo.. te perdut...

vam marcha del restauran ja per marcha cada escun al lo se, tu habias quedat per anar a un event de tecnologia , aixi que tenias una mica de presa

es vam despedir com sempre, i com sabias que jo estava malament hambas abrasar molt fort.. pero jo sabia que aquella abrasada seria la ultima i que era un adeu.... i tenia moltes ganas de plora... per que no queria que fosi la ultima vegada que et velles... i finalment ens vam retira... i jo vaigs voler torna a enrera a nar a buscarte... per uns egon avans de entra ala estacio... per amb vaigs para en sec... i i vaais tria a la estasio undima en mi mateixa i ploran... i magama sota me meva capucha...vaigs arriva a casa i fe veura que tot anava ve... i amb vaigs tancar a la habiatsio i vaigs estra ploran una llarga estona fins que an vaigs queda dormida fins el dia segunet... per que aquell dia no habia dormit tampoc...

durant les semanas vaigs veura que tu et distaciaves... i cada cop estavas com apartanme mes... doname la sensasio que volies excluirme de la teva vida .... i finalment al maigs tot va colapsar...

era aquell el meu regal d'aniversari... apartarme i excluirme...? com tutom a fet sempre amb mi..? mai entrendre com va acavar tot aixi... pero la ferida tan profunda que tic i mas deixat no para de ferme mal... sincerament... semblava com si ja no fosis la persona que jo habia conegut...

almenys... grasies per haberi fet lo que mai a fet la gent per mi... gracies per haberme fet felis durant aquet petit temps amb tu..

per haberme fet ,riura, sonriura i divertirme ... grasies per tot aquets moments que as donat aquet llop soitari amb una vida de merda...

No crec que mai torni a confira en cap persona mai mes.. ni peso deixar que ningu sapropi mai mes a la meva vida, nomes sera simples companys i res mes...

Lo unic que se... esque si un dia tornas... seras el unic a qui li deixare les portes obertas i li donare una segona oprtunitat.. per tot lo que as fet per mi ... per que mai et deixare de considera com el meu amic... i amb vas demanar que confies en tu...

again.. grasies per tot... amic meu...

tan devo algun dia ens podem resconsiliar... i torna tot com estava i pasari petites estones junts.. come sempre feiam...

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you like my work? so feel free to support me on Ko-fi

also you can check my card fo other things!

or you can always join my discord server

[viaggiatoreantico2021]

#mie sempre in giro

Ma si scoprono bellezze dimenticate ... e memorie perdute.. o forse solo sopite.

Paese bellissimo questo!

[michelecristianoaulicino]

ASINOV VA IN PARADISO

Prologo. Quello che state per leggere non è che il resoconto di una sfortunata azione rivoluzionaria compiuta circa duecento anni fa. Oggi, date le mie condizioni di salute estremamente precarie, con fatica, ho iniziato a dettare queste memorie affinché i gesti e le idee Che avemmo in gioventù, e che tutt’ora mi incendiano, non andassero perdute. Scrivo solo oggi perché nessuno dei miei…

[ilreamedinverno]

Nascita di una Sciamana - Martha Laura Tavan

Dalle profondità della Terra è giunta un’eco, una chiamata che arriva da un remoto passato e che sta riecheggiando in lungo e in largo, in ogni angolo del pianeta. È arrivato il momento di rievocare antiche memorie, di recuperare saggezze ancestrali ormai perdute e di ridare voce allo Spirito femminile, rimasto sopito da troppo tempo. Ricordando le nostre Antenate con le sorelle in Cerchio,…

[londranotizie24]

La preziosissima Natività di Peruzzi nella collezione dei National Museums of Northern Ireland

Di Pietro Nigro @ItalyinLDN @ICCIUK @ItalyinUk @inigoinLND Una raccolta di fondi blocca l'esportazione del dipinto italiano La Natività di Peruzzi: andrà ai National Museums Ni. La preziosissima Natività di Peruzzi entra nella collezione dei National Museums Northern Ireland Ai britannici piace ammirare l'arte, e quella italiana in particolare, e ne apprezzano anche il valore. Per questo, il Governo del Regno Unito ha fatto tutto il possibile per evitare la vendita di un dipinto italiano rarissimo e di notevole valore, La  Natività di Peruzzi, praticamente l'unico quadro esistente fuori dall'Italia del celebre autore di affreschi del 1500. Sul dipinto, che fa parte di collezioni private nel Regno Unito fin da inizio Novecento, l'anno scorso il Dipartimento per il Digitale, la cultura, i media e lo sport (DCMS) del governo britannico ha posto il divieto di esportazione, dichiarandolo dunque di interesse nazionale. E la successiva raccolta di fondi a cui hanno partecipato i National Museums of Northern Ireland, sostenuti dal National Heritage Memorial Fund, dall'Art Fund, dal Department for Communities NI e dall'Esme Mitchell Trust, l'opera sarà esposta al pubblico all'Ulster Museum. La Natività di Baldassarre Tommaso Peruzzi (1481-1536), del valore di 277.990 sterline, raffigura la Natività di notte, ed è una delle poche opere di Peruzzi sopravvissute fuori dall'Italia e l'unica nel Regno Unito. "Per molti, partecipare a una rappresentazione della Natività è uno dei primi modi in cui impariamo la storia del Natale.- ha dichiarato prima di Natale Lord Parkinson, ministro britannico delle Arti e del patrimonio culturale - Ecco perché sono lieto che, questa vigilia di Natale, possiamo annunciare che questo incredibile dipinto di quel famoso evento è stato salvato per la nazione grazie al sistema di bar all'esportazione. Dipinta intorno al 1515 a Roma, La Natività è un'opera superstite eccezionalmente rara del Peruzzi. Pittore, architetto e disegnatore italiano di grande talento, Peruzzi nacque nel 1481 in una piccola città vicino a Siena ed è stata figura artistica di spicco a Roma durante il Rinascimento. Ha lavorato al fianco di Raffaello e Bramante a Roma, prima di tornare in patria per lavorare per la Repubblica di Siena, costruendo fortificazioni e progettando una diga sul fiume Bruna. E poiché la maggior parte delle opere d'arte del Peruzzi erano dipinte in affresco e sono andate pressoché tutte perdute, La Natività è di fatto un pezzo incredibilmente raro. ... Continua a leggere su www. Read the full article

[white-queen-lacus]

“After I had been murdered I understood that love and friendship give sense to things. And yet there's always something lingering: memories, lost chances, regrets... Somebody not coming back... Somebody waking up after a long coma... Who's this man? What's his relationship with my murderer? That's why I'm staying here among the livings. Even though I'm dead, I must know the truth. This is the only way I know to keep on."

***

"Dopo che mi hanno ammazzato ho capito che sono l'amore e l'amicizia a dare un senso alle cose. Eppure c'è sempre qualcosa che rimane in sospeso: ricordi, occasioni perdute, rimpianti... qualcuno che non torna... qualcuno che si risveglia da un lungo coma. Ma chi è quest'uomo? Cosa c'entra con il mio assassino? È per questo che sono rimasto qui tra i vivi. Anche se sono morto devo sapere la verità. È l'unico modo che conosco per andare avanti”

[countbleck17]

Seduto nel buio , non posso dimenticare .

Anche adesso , mi rendo conto del tempo che non otterrò mai .

Un'altra storia delle pillole amare del destino .

Non posso tornare indietro di nuovo . Non posso tornare indietro di nuovo ...

Ma tu mi hai chiesto di amarti e l'ho fatto .

Traded le mie emozioni per un contratto a commettere

E quando ho visto via , ho solo finora .

L' altro me è morto .

Sento la sua voce dentro la mia testa ...

Non eravamo mai vivi , e non saremo nati di nuovo .

Ma non sarò mai sopravvivere con i ricordi di morte nel mio cuore

Mi hai detto di amarti e l'ho fatto .

Legato la mia anima in un nodo e mi ha fatto a presentare .

Così quando ho visto via , ho solo tenuto le mie cicatrici .

L' altro mi è andata .

Ora io non so dove appartengo ...

Non eravamo mai vivi , e non saremo nati di nuovo .

Ma non sarò mai sopravvivere con i ricordi di morte nel mio cuore

Visioni morti nel tuo nome .

Dita morte nelle vene.

Memorie perdute nel mio cuore

[ilcovodelbikersgrunf]

Oggi mi sono potuto gustare questo piccolo gioiellino d'Oriente ♥

Trama

15 Agosto 1945. Dopo lo sganciamento dell’atomica su Berlino, Stati Uniti e Giappone vincono la seconda Guerra Mondiale. Il Grande Impero dell’Estremo Oriente, l’altro nome dell’Impero Giapponese, si estende in tutta l’Asia Orientale. Il Giappone è la seconda potenza mondiale dopo gli Stati Uniti, nonostante la presenza di un forte movimento terroristico anti-governativo…

[perqueheplorat]

Fragment de l'entrevista a en Daniel Anglès a Vilaweb.

Aquesta temporada dirigeix Golfus de Roma, una de les comèdies musicals més populars de la història, que es pot gaudir al Teatre Condal. Que un musical de gran format –amb molts actors i una gran posada en escena– es representi en català és, a hores d’ara, una excepció a Barcelona, i més si també s’ha representat a Madrid. En parlem amb Anglès, que reivindica els esforços que s’hi han destinat per aconseguir-ho i lamenta que aquest cas sigui l’excepció.

(...)

—És un musical de gran format, i no estem acostumats a veure’ls en català. Per què és tan minoritari?

—No ho sé, perquè al nostre país, durant molts anys, el públic teatral va créixer gràcies als grans musicals en català: l’època daurada de Dagoll Dagom amb Mar i cel i Flor de nit, però no ens oblidem de Sweeney Todd i de tot el que va fer l’Àngels Gonyalons amb Estan tocant la nostra cançó, Memory, Germans de sang… O el Company, o quan amb El musical més petit vam fer El somni de Mozart. Arribaven a un públic molt ampli que no era l’habitual –fins i tot joves i adolescents–, i que després s’enganxava. Es van començar a fer musicals a Madrid i moltes empreses, com que venien amb la companyia, el feien en castellà també a Barcelona. També hi ha productores d’aquí que, quan veuen que un musical no el pots fer només en una ciutat perquè no l’amortitzes –i acabaràs anant a Madrid– decideixen de fer-lo en castellà per no haver-lo de traduir.

—Hi ha hagut una pèrdua de l’hàbit.

—Sí, és una llàstima que hàgim perdut l’hàbit de fer-los en català de manera natural. Golfus de Roma és del Grup Focus, que ho produeix pràcticament tot en català. Per nosaltres, és una decisió natural. És una llàstima que sigui una decisió excepcional i que sigui notícia. No ho hauria de ser, però és evident que aquests darrers anys ho és. Si no m’equivoco, per a veure un musical amb més de vint persones en escena, en català, en un teatre privat, te n’has d’anar sis anys enrere. I aquell ja era una excepció… Estem molt contents que amb el Golfus el públic ho valori. És evident que, per a la productora, per al teatre, és més senzill fer-ho en castellà. Golfus de Roma ja l’havíem fet a Madrid i hem hagut de canviar força gent del repartiment perquè no eren catalanoparlants.

—És gaire car?

—És molt car, implica tornar a assajar l’espectacle. T’implica un esforç i vol dir que has de tornar a amortitzar la producció. Si no, solament hauries d’anar pagant els sous i anar fent caixa. Hi ha una voluntat nostra de dir que, com que l’estrenem a Barcelona, l’estrenem en català.

—Mercè Martínez, una de les actrius de l’obra, va lamentar fa uns dies que, malgrat l’esforç, costi d’omplir la platea. Heu detectat cap canvi?

—Crec que molta gent pensava que estaríem molt de temps en cartell, i ha dit: “Ja hi anirem.” Però són espectacles en què surt tanta gent que, si no omples des del començament, perds diners. L’espectacle va bé de públic, però hi surten vint-i-sis actors. Amb una funció de deu actors, podríem estar dos anys amb aquest públic, però en aquest cas no podem confiar en el boca-orella i esperar que vingui més gent, perquè no arribes a pagar tots els sous. Hi ha gent que, gràcies al fil de piulets de la Mercè Martínez, s’ha sentit interpel·lada, perquè ha vist que, si no, s’acabarà abans que no volien. El fil ha tingut repercussió, i una altra reacció molt favorable ha estat la dels mitjans, que s’han activat. Alguns potser no havien vist que aquesta obra, per desgràcia, és un fet excepcional. No és una estrena més, feia molt que no es feia això en català, i si aquesta no va bé, trigarà molt a tornar-se a fer.

(...)

[lf-celine]

Parigi, estate 1944. "– Svegliati, vecchio mio. H. è pazzo. È tempo di mollare. – Dimentichi quelli che, provenienti da tutta Europa, si battono sul fronte orientale? – Credimi, li dimenticheremo presto, quando la guerra sarà finita. Cosa rispondere? E improvvisamente, ho pensato a un giovane operaio. Era passato in questa stessa stanza prima di andare a mettersi l’uniforme delle W-. «È leggendo i vostri articoli, mi aveva detto, che ho capito dov'era il cammino di un futuro più pulito». Dopo aver seguito le mie convinzioni, le aveva superate. Ero legato alla sua scelta. Se non volevo, un giorno, vivere nel rimorso e nella vergogna, dovevo raggiungere il suo esempio. E sentii, improvvisamente, che in me tutto era deciso".

www.amazon.it/sognatore-lelmetto-volontario-«Charlemagne»-libro-verità/dp/883143019X/

Ordinabile direttamente via mail a italiastorica@hotmail.com, disponibile nelle librerie specializzate di Milano, Roma e online e ordinabile in tutte le librerie via la nostra distribuzione nazionale LibroCo. Italia.

CHRISTIAN DE LA MAZIÈRE Con una postfazione di Jean Mabire

IL SOGNATORE CON L’ELMETTO Le memorie di un giovane volontario della Divisione “Charlemagne” nel libro-verità che scosse la Francia

Christian de La Mazière fu giornalista per “Le Pays libre”, un quotidiano minore della Collaborazione, volontario nella Divisione “Charlemagne” negli ultimi combattimenti sul fronte orientale, e nel dopoguerra esperto di pubbliche relazioni del cinema internazionale e amante di Juliette Gréco e Dalida: nelle sue memorie, inedite in italiano e che alla loro uscita in Francia nel 1972 furono un vero e proprio caso letterario, il “romanzo di formazione” di un giovane idealista dalla Parigi dell’estate 1944 al viaggio attraverso una Germania straziata dalle bombe Alleate sino al campo d’addestramento di Wildflecken, e all’invio in Pomerania contro i T-34 e Stalin sovietici dilaganti verso ovest, tra colonne di profughi e combattimenti disperati. Quindi, l’odissea tra le foreste baltiche dei superstiti stremati del suo reparto della “Charlemagne”, la resa, la prigionia sovietica e il rientro in Francia, il processo per collaborazionismo e il suo trasferimento da un carcere all’altro, dalla Santé a Fresnes alla cupa ex abbazia di Clairvaux, un folle universo carcerario popolato da criminali comuni d’ogni sorta e detenuti politici quali Lucien Rebatet, Pierre-Antoine Cousteau, Jacques Benoist-Méchin, sino al suo rilascio nel 1948, tra i resti delle sue illusioni perdute.

Formato 13x20, 402 pagg., alcune ill bn e mappe, Euro 25,00 ITALIA Storica, 2022 ISBN 978-88-31430-19-7

[chubbydiarysblog]

16/365

Questi giorni sono stati difficili. Nuove esperienze, ansie, paure, incertezza e insicurezza. Sono come veleno nelle nostre vite. Un po’ come il passato. Ma nonostante sia effettivamente passato vincolato a un solo ricordo, torna come un fantasma o un ombra occulta dietro a quello che è il presente.

Nonostante questo sono grata di una cosa. Nonostante le difficoltà e le amicizie perdute per incomprensioni o scelte di vita differenti, sono grata di aver sempre a fianco qualcuno su cui possa contare. Che nel momento del bisogno mi possa ascoltare, una spalla su cui piangere, ricordandomi che non sono sola.

Affrontare i problemi da soli a dura, e credo che bisogna essere coraggiosi a fare questo passo da soli. Ma in più persone, nonostante i problemi possano esser grandi, non si sente più la fatica di avere un peso nella propria vita.

Questo blog voglio che sia una pagina di sfogo, mettere nero su bianco i problemi e vederli da un’ altra prospettiva. Quando stiliamo la lista dei propositi per l’anno nuovo molto spesso esitiamo, rimandiamo all’anno successivo.

Non ho mai credito in queste cose o meglio non mi sono mai applicata. Ma oggi 16/365 voglio applicarmi e migliorare me stessa e dedicarmi a me stessa.

Pormi la domanda “ Cosa voglio io veramente?”, una domanda che spesso sembra essere sottovalutata. Essere egoista per una volta, per tirare fuori il meglio che sono e la miglior parte di me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

These days have been difficult. New experiences, anxieties, fears, uncertainty and insecurity. They are like poison in our lives. A bit like the past. But although it has actually passed tied to a single memory, it returns as a ghost or an occult shadow behind what is the present.

Despite this, I am grateful for one thing. Despite the difficulties and friendships lost due to misunderstandings or different life choices, I am grateful to always have someone by my side I can count on. May he listen to me in time of need, a shoulder to cry on, reminding me that I'm not alone.

Tackling problems alone lasts, and I believe you have to be brave to take this step alone. But in more people, although the problems may be great, they no longer feel the fatigue of having a weight in their lives.

I want this blog to be an outlet page, to put down problems on paper and see them from another perspective. When we draw up the list of resolutions for the new year we very often hesitate, we postpone it to the following year.

I never have credit in these things or rather I have never applied myself. But today 16/365 I want to apply myself and improve myself and dedicate myself to myself.

Ask yourself the question "What do I really want?", A question that often seems to be underestimated. Being selfish for once, to bring out the best I am and the best part of me.

[widevibratobitch]

Bastianini: "O dolcezze perdute, o memorie..."

me:

[moltitudo]

Disattento Stravagante Disperso Ed il senso naturale del mio luogo mentale è la confusione di un'aria satura Non mi guardo attorno Io non apro gli occhi al grigiore di questi intorni Non distendo le mie membra tese Io non posso che voltarmi per tentare di oscurare le memorie E per un secondo, nell'aria percepisco il nero contorno e la saturazione di un terreno che è la mia disfatta ed io impotente portatore di vuoti cruenti Il biancore dell'aria piena non posso osservare quindi cedo il mio cuore all'ascolto dello spazio presente Rivivo poiché toccato e percosso dalle sommosse della memoria ed in ascolto io cedo mi frantumo stravagante e disturbato Sono errante nel mondo delle dispersioni ed ascolto Uno spazio di sopraffazioni e cadute di rotture, illusioni perdute intenti falliti e ricordi feroci cui tentiamo di sfuggire con l'ardore fatuo del sogno che ci trasporta lontani