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Showing posts from March, 2018

True stories of an alien child

We punctually glorify the shared error, to the detriment of the exceptional out of place gifts.
We thought you were too different.
From us and everything that reassures us.
She cannot be one of us, we immediately said before your stretched head.
Nevertheless, the problem wasn’t the skull’s size, but the content.
Because beyond the superficial justifications, what scares us most is the inside of things.
Specifically, a brain of greater magnitude, with the propensity to extend upwards.
That is, reason and fantasy that point the heavenly vault as the only possible direction.

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True stories of a widow

Go to sleep, my husband.
Sleep and rest.
Dreams quietly, but not too much.
You know how dreams are, we perfectly know.
Like actors.
So desirous of applause, able to do anything to keep the curtain open.

The last dream, then, is the most vain between them.
A trap in the form of paradise tailored to the hero of the day.
There is time, my love.
There is still time.
An eternity, they say.
Well, I 'm not ready for so much.

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True stories of love

Today is a great day because everything is very tender.
Because the bones are the same for everyone, right?
Because two hands, even interwoven into one another, are harmless if nothing draw in the audience eyes.
Evoke.
Waking nightmares in the maze of the most obtuse fears.
Well, we have not forgotten.
“We do not want them next to us, even by dead. Because they were wrong. And if nature was wrong with them, who are we to change the story?
God, maybe?”
We, too, have never been God, not even in the dreams. Especially in the dreams.
Because when you have everything in one hand, and you already know that all that will live and die with you, under the skin, over time, up to a day like today... well, you can afford the luxury of not asking anything to anyone.

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True stories of miners

Once upon a time there was a school.
A normal school, far from favored.
By fate as the administrator of the so-called public affairs.
In the normal school there was a equally ordinary class.
On the other hand, normal or excellence it is, where there is a class here comes a teacher and them.
The sons.
Of mothers, of course.
Of life in general, every color and profile, able to survive the darkened reins of his majesty the prevailing moral.
Of course, fathers’ sons.
"What job does your dad?" The teacher asked.

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True stories same sex marriage in Australia

Come on, let's say it together, indeed, let’s scream without any hesitation.
It’s simple common sense, letting people to get married.
How could you think of further insisting on the opposite way?
Two creatures meet, both touching each other with glances and thoughts for an indefinite time, attraction starts demanding attention, as much the impelling heart asks for not being ignored.
We cannot underestimate the most exploited among human feelings by titles and rhymes of romantic songs, as well as horoscopes and cuddly soaps.
Let’s exult and congratulate the winners for the happy finish, however late.
We look at Australia with affection, now.
They did it too.

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True stories of men kissing

As the first day when a child has risen straight among the kneel ones and, in spite of silence was the cheapest answer, it asked the very first why.
As the first night that a girl went to bed with the promise of getting up the next morning to look straight into the eyes the so-called stronger sex. So, to begin with, because this, being the first, it is only the beginning of victory.
Like the first scene when humans considered inferior for any reason, indeed, madness, they looked in each other eyes. Expanding the common gaze beyond the idiot that attempts to conceal the horizon with an insult.
As the first war, sold, manipulated, exploited and cynically imposed, but just before the fatal fuse, defeated by those who always puts his heart ahead, as well as the face.
Like the first time when the most human of the ghost turned around and went back, to hell. Because heaven was only the land that he loved and also will love tomorrow.

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True stories of brave women: Marielle Franco

Well, for how many pacts the hate sellers might deal with the latter, they will never be able to fill that same square without buying it.
Because theirs is a story of one, period.
One, only one, whose life will last for a long time, of course, but when the destiny’s scythe will work for him too, the poisonous plant will be torn for good.
Instead, count the women and men who have grown old as young, because the life of the most unfortunate creatures were too much to bear.
Count and watch them.
They have never been alone.

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True stories of religion

In the silence.

Man shoots and kills three young souls.
Two girls and a guy in the beginning of life.
Three Muslim students.
Muslim.
An adjective, just a word.
Consonants and vowels, letters and sounds.
As other words try to extinguish the fire.

Religion has nothing to do.
Do not make comparisons.
No way.
It is a madman’s action.
It is an isolated incident.
Maybe he was provoked.

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True stories of immigrant women

So, enough with the waves, of living bodies rather than insensible oceans.
Listen and watch, the team that goes into the sea.
Number one, her.
The lady goalkeeper.
Fatim with ambitious and generous hands at the same time.
Protecting the only door that connects us, here.
The one of the left behind house.
The girl with the blind determination and the fatal wish.
Go ahead, friends defenders.
Rest without fear, inhabitants of the midfield.
And you, mighty goal seekers, stay well out of the game.
Because every opportunity will be grasped by her.
Since the net is large and the plots so narrow that you do well in respecting the adversary.
Yes, it's true.

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True stories of immigrants

There are 74 dead bodies on the beach, the press agency said.
Nevertheless, she said nothing more.
What beach? The first curious guy asked.
It's important? Replied another one.
In fact, admitted the other.
They’re migrants, said the expert.
Are they? Asked her directly.
We don’t know, she said.
Why? Someone asked on behalf of all others.
Because we can’t understand it, the sad stories messenger explained.
Because it's damn sad, indeed, it’s also horrible, it’s a terrifying and unacceptable thing to happen, like any useless sacrifice of creatures in the middle of life.
Here we say it and we come back no more.
What do you mean you don’t understand? It was the inevitable, following question.

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True stories of racism in Italy

Fade, light and the scapegoat of this bloody farce is once again there.
In the middle of the frame, in the water, when the clothes get too heavy.
Never comparable to the never filled gaps, as hope in tomorrow and trust in others.
You know, when lacking overpowers with arrogance the rest, sometimes you let go.
If only there was someone, at that very moment, where the perfection of a gesture as a dip in the others’ life, driven by antiquated stuff like courage or simple affection for other people's breath, it would ruin the usual narration, that's for sure.
But at that point, we could finally get out of such horrible movie room, projecting too actual nightmares to really feel them as ours.

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Trues stories from Italy

I am the cumbersome woman, personified excess, unpleasant in appearance as in the remembrance. Because then the memory transcribes everything and then dares to explain that presence.
And I am the man, who is out of tune in the melody as in the text, that you wish to never have met.
Loved.
Just watched.
I am one of the many who walk beside, in a significant travel fragment.
Fortunately on the last row.
And for a cruel fate a few centimeters to flow to the heart and eyes.
We are images of lives that must necessarily be retouched.

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True stories of gun control

Once upon a time there was a “before”.
The first and more important one.
There is always.
There was, alas.
Before you pulled the trigger? Yes, maybe.
Thanks to a simple thought, in the form of the memory of a precious admonition.
Do not touch, do not touch it.
It.
Is this the most important? No, let’s try, be brave, don’t be satisfied.
Before opening Dad’s drawer? Perhaps, it could be.
The above thought, but also a blessed distraction.
A melody behind, a more interesting game or just getting back.
Exactly what you were doing.
Before.

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True stories of death penalty

Once upon a time there were ‘those who were right’.
They still are.
By the way, we all are.
Because everyone, deeply down, thinks to be right.

Those who now reproach that death was what she then deserved.
The woman who once was a teenager.
Yes, teenager, but still murderess.
And when you was it at the time, so you will be forever.
Both teenager.
And murderess.
You might to image redemptive futures and compensation of an unexpected virtuous act.

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True stories of fattest man in the world

The weight…
How important the balance of life is.
But Manuel, like all of us, was not just that.
Because we are not only made of full things.
Of filled and saturated.
Overflowing.
More or less harmonized dowels in a most often far harmonious body.
There is also something else that's worth.
Between one kilo and the other.
Between the skin and its overvalued colors.
Among the forms and its undervalued imperfections.
Emptiness.
Yes, we are too that.
We are also a number of absences.
And I'm not referring to the certainly important space that Manuel has left closing his story on this earth.

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True stories of the Jewish girl

The surprise is an exception and a moment later becomes normal. Because even the outsiders with trophy in hand and lights in the eyes, sooner or later, gets crazy.
Nevertheless, long life to the time.
Yes, time can be a tedious narrator.
But at the end of all, if you wish to see marvelous effect you have to wait.
No really patient spectator was never disappointed so far.
So it happens that finally the long contests judge opens the envelope.
And here's the bombshell.
The perfect Aryan child is a Jewish girl.
But not only that.
There, on the very far horizon, in 80 years or even longer, maybe there are others paradoxical results.

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True stories of racism in Italy

This mad controversy around nothingness is the synthesis of the electoral campaigns that leads us to the following observations, which are based on numbers, that is, the indisputable and unendurable facts.
In our democratic country, among those entitled to vote (51 million citizens, 84% of 60.5 million people), 73% were present at the polls, about 37 million.
Adding the non-entitled ones (9.5 million, 16% of the total population), to those absent from the vote (14 million, 27%), the outcome of the consultations doesn’t necessarily represent the thought of a good 23.5 million, 39% of the total population, about 4 citizens out of 10.

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True stories of Brooke Greenberg

A secret, yes, a precious one.
Here it is.

My name is Brooke and I have lived twenty years.
Twenty years in a small space, as only the body of a little girl could be.
They say 76 cm and 7 pounds.
Well, I never paid attention to the numbers.
This is not a secret, in fact.

The child who doesn’t age, this is the title of my novel.
Indeed, of the movie.
They will do this, you'll see.
I'm curious to know who will play myself.
Sure, the plot is predictable.
Birth, 20 years and the end.
But this too is not a secret, I agree.

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True stories of love

Here, you discovered us.
We were there, below the skin and above it, in front of you. We have always been here, in front of you.
Today is a great day because everything is very tender.
Because the bones are the same for everyone, right?
Because two hands, even interwoven into one another, are harmless if nothing draw in the audience eyes.
Evoke.
Waking nightmares in the maze of the most obtuse fears.
Well, we have not forgotten.
“We do not want them next to us, even by dead. Because they were wrong. And if nature was wrong with them, who are we to change the story?
God, maybe?”

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True stories of Brooke Greenberg

A secret, yes, a precious one.
Here it is.

My name is Brooke and I have lived twenty years.
Twenty years in a small space, as only the body of a little girl could be.
They say 76 cm and 7 pounds.
Well, I never paid attention to the numbers.
This is not a secret, in fact.

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True stories of life

Death.
What do I know about death?
I am a cat.
But I know something. Or maybe it's another one I do not know.
Where is Edwin?
Who is Edwin, you say? He is the man I lived with.
The man who was there, in the bed. The new one, not the other.
At the old house.
I am talking about this place, here.
He was there, under the covers, silent. Eyes closed. Motionless.
By the way, what does it matter?
It's not the look, the true proof? Ours and everything around us?
The noise of the voice and the awkwardness of action are useless pieces in the mosaic living.

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True stories of dogs

Here I am, Mike.
We're back together.
Oops, I correct.
Without back.
Deleted.
We are together.
What I have done in the past seven years?
Excuse me, what are you talking about?
You see me grow up? Aged? Weighed down by time and fleas?
Dude, you are not Dog Pitt.
No, don’t be offended.
This is a day of celebration.

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True stories of racism

I offer radical solutions.
Let’s ban the colors.
Beautiful, huh?
I know.
Stop colors, stop racism.
And stop to pair of useless words in overvalued meanings.
White men and African American women, colored people or just black, yellows and mulattos, ebony skin and so on.
All away, simplicity time.
A few seconds and ... crash!

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