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HIM ART AND POETRY
FREEDOM WRITING
DESERT
Nothing seemed to work in the same way it does in everyday life, that confused existence of a thousand puppets trying to learn how to walk on fragile wood rods of a terrible quality. Not even time seemed to pass normally and darkness’ creatures, those unmentionable mates of so many visions and low whispers were able to blow their cold puff of mysterious flatterers so that nobody could deny their existence. Silly creatures, much more lively now than when they were really alive, they spent their eternal deathtime by playing some simple games able to make the bravest man shake with fear and smile the craziest one. This way those fantastic chimeras killed loneliness which killed them in a past time.
The same disease that was eroded also the Artist’s creased soul.
Long time ago the young woman understood her incurable condition and she surely hadn’t needed a special prognosis to understand that there isn’t a cure for a so wild and clean lack of self confidence. It looked like that creature hadn’t enough strength to love herself and the others, and because of this her life couldn’t find the compromise necessary to grant her wish of happiness; but the Artist loved very much. She loved much more than any other could ever do and she did it with a love so complete and overwhelming love to graze madness, obsession, neurosis. The whole concept that that kind of love couldn’t understand at all was those puppets’ fear of the feeling they would be able to feel, an emotion too powerful to be tolerated by such weak marionette on life’s stage. The fear that a puppet able to love for real could rule that theatre without a plan and make out of it a great, fabulous success; a so huge masterpiece to be sold out every evening.
On the other hand puppets couldn’t understand that the show they were living in had been sold out from the first minute, from the fist time a man dared to pronounce words as God, Government, War, Privilege… in the moment opportunism became a watchword to get in the conformism’s inescapable tunnel, in that moment that show without an happy-end sold all its tickets; and so all the tricks have been used, sperimented, amplified, publicated and made atrocious. And no one, no one of those little, unimportant puppets understood that this way they condemned themselves to a terrible ending. Not a physical one but the worst: an interior one, a sensitive’s death, a feeling’s death… the homicide/suicide of the individuality of a single soul in peace with itself.
No one understood, no one listened , no one could use their mind and heart surrounded by an interior aridity much worse than the one the Artist was living in; that’s the reason she was there: the burning hotness of that place was bearable if compared with the apathetic eroding of the human kind in the civilized world. The infinite burning of the disease that was killing her was anyway there, with her in every moment to remind her she was alone in a corpses’ world, creatures that were turning to marionettes under a puppeteer’s mystic spell, humans who feed themselves with their own, twisted psyche. And that love that she felt, that insatiable feeling which eroded herself from inside could do nothing but makes her more and more weak in front of that era’s violence, a time she lived in without enthusiasm, and during she slowly died in pain.
Without saying anything more the Artist tried to keep that painful fire alive even if that meant to suffer terrible sufferings and nobody could share her pitiful need of participation, dialogue and passion.
Anyway she tried to feed herself up with self-confidence and meaningless fantasy, and also to put her own soul on fire by leading with all the death she saw around her, in the desert like in the city, because one thing was still able to makes a spark born in her sick heart: the weak but necessary hope that one day one of those puppets could have the courage to descend the woody rods and call with a full voice all the others and teach them that a puppeteer wasn’t needed to live by themselves with everyone else’s help, in peace with all the others and their own conscience, in love with the world and its fabulous uniqueness and that freedom was an unknown sensation, but there was still the chance to live it just being ourselves and loving the others because of their diversity.
The great Artist’s dream born and died this way, while the young woman’s eyes stared at the burning sun without the fear of passing time but with a painful question which drummed her head and burnt her chest: why, in an unawares’ world, she was the only one feeling alone as dust’s grain in a sand’s ocean.
Shikaia 590
HIS INFERNAL SKETCHES
Irony it’s synonym of intelligence, to be able to see things with the right dose of sense of humour.
This section is born indeed with this purpose: to be able to laugh for some of the adventures happened to us and, in the same time, to demythicize some commonplace , first of all what considers HIM fans as sad and depressed people, always dressed in black.
Their music makes us dream, makes us cry sometimes for the sentiment, but it helps us to be happy too!
Mrs.Lindstrom-Ros
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And where could you ever meet them if not in some certain places?
(Sketches have been conceived and drawn by Nailedtoacross.)
Planned and developed by Mrs Lindstrom with the help of Nailedtoacross, Legolas di Mirkwood,
Shikaia590Editor in chief: Mrs Lindstrom, Graphic Project: Dan[616]
