Porto, 6th of April 2017

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Porto, 6th of April 2017

I’ve encountered the immaterial, the boreal… The soft light that gently touches the flower of the deads after so much suffering. I’ve encountered something that only belongs to those who live in Asylum. In desertion from the common senses. I’ve touched the invisible and felted it like rain drops and spring petals. And I shed a tear, only one and let it linger above Schubert and the white chrysanthemums. I let the boreal house my soul, confine it into something purer, undress it and triumph on the edge of the light for once.

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The Path of Thorns

 

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I’ve been collecting slowly illustrations from my favorite artists! This one is called the Path of Thorns, by the talented Sandra Hultsved, see her beautiful work here . I truly love the dark forest, the dramatic and haunting atmosphere around the lonely lady: she is about to face the dark night of the soul, will she succeed?

Carmilla

“For some nights I slept profoundly; but still every morning I felt the same lassitude, and a languor weighed upon me all day. I felt myself a changed girl. A strange melancholy was stealing over me, a melancholy that I would not have interrupted. Dim thoughts of death began to open, and an idea that I was slowly sinking took gentle, and, somehow, not unwelcome possession of me. If it was sad, the tone of mind which this induced was also sweet. Whatever it might be, my soul acquiesced in it.”

J. Sheridan Le Fanu

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Over a Flowering Bed

 

16th of August 2016

Dear Diary,

Dandelions, dragonflies, little birds flying everywhere. In this garden, life appears to me as a singular delight and my soul lays peaceful in contentment over a flowering bed. Mysterious doors, closed windows, old walls, stories waiting to be unveiled and told. Here there is no sadness, no fearful nights or injured memories. Half of me shall recovery here. Half of me shall find love here.

My hideaway

 

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14th of August 2016

This week, I’ve finally finished to decor my working station, I don’t even like to call it – a working space, because, for me, this place is more a hideaway, a shelter, a place of recovery than a place to work. Once in a while, I look steadily at it and I feel proud of all of this assemblage. All the flowers and the old things that I have been collecting, finding in the streets mean so much for me… Lately, I doubt so much of myself but the simple act of looking at this place makes me realize that I am capable of something, but for these results I need time… and in nowadays, we seem to have forgotten what truly means: “slow down”. Day after day, I despise more and more crowded places, cities and chaos, I would rather live in a small cute village than in a city, I long for this day so badly, but for now I’ve this improvised shelter.

I think this day deserves too a poem from Emily Brontë:

Moonlight summer moonlight

‘Tis moonlight, summer moonlight,
All soft and still and fair;
The solemn hour of midnight
Breathes sweet thoughts everywhere,

But most where trees are sending
Their breezy boughs on high,
Or stooping low are lending
A shelter from the sky.

And there in those wild bowers
A lovely form is laid;
Green grass and dew-steeped flowers
Wave gently round her head.

Emily Brontë