Where are you going, Little Princess?

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                                                                                        7th of September 2016

Dear Diary,

This morning, memories of my infancy flood through my eyes  – my grandfather appeared to me with his tenderness and I heard him call for me: “Little Princess, where are you going?”. I was less than 5 years old, my feet were small and fragile. Around me was the little paradise raised by my grandmother and grandfather’s hands. A vivid bougainvillea climbed through the walls with gracefulness: it was so immense and so utterly beautiful to gaze it. Peaceful I was in those days, I was part of everything and I wasn’t apart from nothing. I was fearless and pure. I didn’t felt emptiness or loneliness because I was bounded to a secret imaterial world where such a thing didn’t exist. Those days of joy where my grandfather father’s hand was still reachable are felt today with affection and nostalgia.

My new Moleskine

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 So again, I fall into temptation and bought another little notebook, I have already so many, but I can’t hold myself when I see stationeries, paper or notebooks. This one is from Moleskine. It is so pretty, I love the old rose cover and the way it is bound, it seems bound in a sort of japanese binding style. And this is a plus: it opens perfectly flat, I hate when you can’t seem to open it properly. I simply love it! Here is a page of scraps and words.

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