notes to self

lila

Lila Maria Casey

I tried to make it without a basket, I grabbed too many things

You did a good job

Thank you. How was your day?

It was a good day, A good day

It’s hard for me to have a bad day here

a bad day is in jail

a bad day is in the hospital bed

Yes, I would believe so

Are you okay?

Yes, I’m good

Hey, you’re gonna be okay. Whatever’s going on. You’re going to do big things. I believe in you.

I believe in you too, thank you

Want to:

go to the opera

films

drawing

music

Call Noah

If there was anything in my life I was sure I did not want to be, it was a writer. Every physical manifestation of sentences I composed of the thoughts within my brain read back to me as dark, twisted, evil. Dark, twisted, evil. That could not have been me who had written that, but some form of my subconscious, created from the outside world, yes that was it, that was why it was so dark and twisted, because it was not me at all.

I lived in a world that did not exist. A completely made up one, which is strange because I walked about this one quite normally. Quite physically. Quite literally. I felt my feet walk on the ground. I felt the air on my skin. I controlled myself freely, going about my day like any other person, would and did, I grabbed glasses and filled them with water and drank from them. I cooked food in my kitchen, from food that I bought at the store. I talked to my friends for hours on end. I worked a decent job. But I was somewhere that did not exist. My body was there, and I controlled it, but I lived somewhere else. Maybe this is exactly what people meant when they said, she’s lost her mind. Maybe what they meant by that is, that body right there, has lost it’s mind. Because she, she would be me, and I’m perfectly right here. My mind that is. But it’s completely detached from my body.

I must be possessed, I declared over the phone to my father, alone in my bedroom in Berkshire County. What was it grandmother used to say? A-la-ca-see-pa-pa? She spoke in tongues right?

There was something about the trees out there, I couldn’t see them as anything except for people. I looked at a tree and saw a person, it was as simple as that. I looked at everyone around me. How could they not see it too?

So my dark, twisted, thoughts, yes, the ones that lived in my mind, and seemed to be expelled when I put pen to paper, no they were not mine at all. For how could a girl my age think such things? Where had these thoughts even been created? They were not mine, were not mine, were not mine, I was just a vehicle for someone else’s thoughts to carry.

It came back in flashes, no matter how hard I tried to let it go, to make it disappear. I could be out on the top of Primrose hill, as I often was, I could be breathing in the rugged earth and roots of hampstead heath, hearing the strange birds calling out, not my birds, not the ones I knew. And still I saw the thick hot summer air under the North Carolina sky, I heard the buzz of the cicadas, I smelled the pungent salt of the marsh, I felt the crabs scuttle by. It was sunscreen and cigarettes no matter where I went.

It’s late. It’s late and it’s hot, that I know. I close my eyes as that’s the expected thing to do at half past three in the morning, rather than get up and start my day, which would be difficult because it is dark and, I would wake the dog which would be quite ironic because I am always trying to get her to sleep in by pretending not to hear her when she starts roaming about so early. So early, she starts sniffing and walking and exploring really, as if she’s never been in my bedroom and seen or heard or smelled anything in there before.

I was young when I visited Normandy for the first time. 11 or so. I didn’t understand death yet or war. I knew of these concepts, yes, I knew all about them by definition. Which is perhaps still the case as I have yet to experience either of these instances myself. But I have learned through research and speaking to those involved with such. I think the farther I am from something, from understanding it, or experiencing it, the more curious I am about it, similar to my interest in outer space, California, and enlightenment, to name a few.

I began to learn about war and death most often in school, in history classes, with a large emphasis on tragedies that occurred that lead us up to this very moment. These complexities, were in fact, complex. Easier to understand by definition, at a surface level, as something to memorize to fill in for a test. We sang songs about the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, how inappropriate I realize now looking back, but it was a way to trick our brains into remembering these names. Because at a young age, it was overwhelming you see, overwhelming to remember all the names and, overwhelming to try to grasp what had really gone on there.

Reading history textbooks felt as cold and distant as reading the backs of cereal boxes before school each morning. Listening to my teachers wasn’t much different than listening to the muffled radio of Mix 101.5 from the back of my friend’s dad’s truck as I was particularly taken up with the fog and the mist from my breath on the back windows rather than what anyone was really talking about. In one ear and out the other. I understood what was presented to me to an extent.

My understanding of history changed completely when I actually visited Normandy myself. Growing up in rural North Carolina and traveling around there to the beaches and the mountains once I found myself in Paris I was a long way from home.

I ask questions but I ask them quietly

I urge my viewer to ask their own

Ask their own, ask their own, ask their own.

But what does it MEAN? Well you tell me.

What are you trying to SAY? Exactly.

Only the antique stores could make me feel better. I liked pretending I was from another time.

What do I WANT:

What am I GOOD AT:

What brings me JOY:

What are my STRENGTHS:

What are my weaknesses:

What gives me PURPOSE, or makes me feel PURPOSE:

When does my body feel its best:

When does my body feel its worst:

When does my mind feel its best:

When does my mind feel its worst:

If I could show you my dream life, what would it look like? If I could have everything I wanted knowing I would not and could not fail?

In the next month?

In the next 6 months?

In the next year?

In the next 5 years? (by 30)

In the next 10 years? (by 35)

In the next 20 years? (by 45)

In the next 60 years? (by 85)

At the very bottom of a cul-de-sac, on top of a steep hill, lies an overly triangular house, with one circular window at the highest part of its peak.

The outside is guarded by a mailbox covered in Jasmine, a cobblestone walkway lined with wilted pansies, and blueberry bushes with the tops all eaten off. A set of brick steps brings a tall gray door, the paint peeling off. Rusted gold numbers read 1913.

Through the tall gray door: a chilling black and white marble floor, with old red rugs strewn about. A cream colored staircase leads directly up to a landing with three separate doors. Walking along the hall marble and rugs, to right: a slanted coat closet beneath the stairs, never used, and to the left, a room with a pink couch.

The floor has shifted to layers of old wood. Across from the pink couch sits a withered brown piano, that has remained out of tune no matter how many times a man has come to fix it. The walls are lined with shelves of books that peel apart at their spines, coupled with collected shells and rocks and leaves.

Through the pink couch room is a small half bath, most notably here, lies the smallest red rug of the entire house, and a framed set of three pressed brown pansies. The mirror is gold and adorned, fit for someone to look and admire, but no one ever does.

Across from the bathroom is the master bedroom. A grand oak mirror, a grand oak bench, and a grand oak bed frame. This room is carpeted, a light brown, but the red oriental remains a constant appearing now in the patterns of the quilt lining the bottom of the bed. Two oak side tables with two matching lamps, each riddled with coffee mug stains and and towers of books.

Back outside of the bedroom, beyond it and the half bath, is the living room. White cabinets dominate one wall, the paint peeling and cracking. A shiny brown coffee table, in the shape somewhere between a rectangle and an octogon, where we played cards, and Clue, and my mother told us when her dad died. The couches are sprawling and sunken in. One is a deep brown leather and full of chestnut colored scratches, the other a soft tan fabric, a cross between velvet and satin. The red oriental rug here is the most dominant of all in the house, with it’s green and yellow patterns creating shapes to be studied and pathways to be followed.

Indexicality: something about intention?

Because, a photo taken of the sea to show the sea I guess would be indexical - but -
If i take a photo of the sea not wanting to show you the sea, i want to resemble the sea, for one to then remember the sea - is my image indexical, conceptual, does it resemble, or does it represent?

Upon revisiting my film today, I again felt stuck.

I got up and went to my favorite cafe to sit outside with a tea and read my book.

I wasn’t remotely upset; as I’ve felt defeated by these films time and time again, so at this point it is neutral.

If anything, I was excited to go sit and people watch and catch the last hour of the dying sun at 3pm.

I knew the cafe would be slow, and it was. I got my favorite spot outside, with just one other being sitting 2 seats down from me.

I tried a new tea, which warmed my cold hands, and I got on to reading.

I know when I look tortured. I’ve sat at that cafe, hiding in sunglasses indoors, wrapped in scarves and clothes and hats and noise cancelling headphones, scribbling away my deepest secrets in my diary. This today, was not that. I looked like a pleasant, plain girl enjoying her afternoon tea.

So how strange of this man, two seats down from me, to say what he said.

He began to pack up his things to move inside as it was getting progressively chillier, and he spoke out to me with a soft confidence.

Excuse me, hi, if you don’t mind me saying, I have something to tell you.

Oh, no worries at all, go right ahead.

Well, I’m getting these, or sensing these, themes surrounding you and, I find I have to share them, other wise I start to get clogged up. May I?

Oddly, I’m not even surprised by this encounter.

By all means, take this with a grain of salt. It’s just what I’m getting and need to share with you. Whatever it is that you are trying to do, and whatever you feel is stopping you, please just do it. It’s human nature to come up with any kind of excuses, and the truth is, no one is stopping you but yourself. Whatever you’re trying to do and whatever you feel is stopping you, it’s not. Keep going.

This is, extremely universal. But, I’ll chat with a friendly stranger any day. There is something to learn from everyone.

Funny you say that. I’ve just come to clear my head, from editing films, that I’ve never been able to get together. And I just keep getting in my own way with it I think. I’m not sure all the reaons as to why but, yeah, thanks for sharing.

Well, you see, I don’t think it’s exactly that. Or that, it’s more than that. As in, there’s something much larger going on here.

I play into this. I need to play into this. It’s a joy that I get to play into this.

Yes, I say, you see, what I was just thinking before I stopped editing my films was, and why I had such a hard time with it this far is, I feel these film rolls taught me exactly it is what I don’t want to do. There are moments that hint at what I want to create going forward but, what I want to do isn’t in the film reels. I have so many ideas for what I want to do going forward and, how I want to do it even but, I haven’t done it yet. Or anything surrounding it.

Ah yes, the manuscript. Now I’m not in anyway saying burn the manuscript but, I spoke to a writer once who wrote and wrote and wrote, everything he thought a book should be. But it never felt right to him. And it wasn’t until he burned that book, the manuscript, until he could go out, take all he’d learned from it, and rewritten what it is he wanted to write all along. Now, there are things that come easy. Writing the manuscript is the easy part. But burning it, and starting again, and doing what your soul is asking you to do, that is the hard part. But it can be done. It takes work. It takes your soul. It can be unpleasant. And just because its unpleasant, doesn’t make it wrong. And just because something else may come easy, doesn’t make that right. You have to do what it is you feel you have to do.

I hear that, completely.

You write as well?

Yes I write

You have to share

If you’re called to make you have to share it with the world

And it doesn’t have to make sense. Logic is getting in your way. Stop trying to make it make sense and just do what you want. I can’t express that to you enough.

8mm film

16mm film

projector

visual effects

color grading

tuning forks

omnichord

cassette tapes

bells

midi

synthesizer

computer

piano

harmonica

sounds of nature

Ask for renewal,

but shield from rain

Won’t you let the droplets

on your face?

Can you accept this precious gift

of peace

and purity

offered through mist?

Will you let go

Will you run free

Will you surrender

on your knees?

Or will you sink your feet

and clench your fists

And drag your notions

by their wrists

I’ll go kicking

I’ll go screaming

Free the past,

to stop the bleeding

Fly little sparrow

open your wings

after all it was you

who cut the strings

Taxi Driver
Chungking Express
La Piscine
Death in Venice
Badlands
Midnight in Paris
Requiam for a Dream
Gummo
Kids
Boogie nights
Chinatown

All Wes, All Coppola

One in a million

not as a rarity

but rather

replica

Judy Jetson

You and your perfect hair

it’s an attack to me and my character

the question of

who are you without your name

becomes increasingly pressing

show yourself

reveal it to me

what’s the price for me to see

personally:

animal symbolism
personal sound healing instruments
paint
charge my crystals
somatic dancing

Short Stories:

Lamb to the Slaughter, Skin/ Roald Dahl
Transformation, the Invisible Girl, the Mortal Immortal/ Mary Shelley
Moments of Being, Lappin and Lapinova,The New Dress/ Virginia Woolfe
The Tell Tale Heart/ Edgar Allen Poe
A Clean Well Lighted Place/ Ernest Hemingway

• 6. Bernice Bobs Her Hair, Winter Dreams/ Fitzgerald

Missing:

Extension of shadow fish with sharks

Do I need titles/ intro outro

definitely the changing of the seasons

not in a negative way- a purgatory state

they’re all souls, they’re all sentient, but they live in such parameters

extremely tragic, but they don’t know it’s tragic, but maybe they do

street cleaning interlude

the rise and the fall

with what plastic soldiers

could not recall

falling, falling, falling, dreaming

my head flat on the wooden floor

that’s so crazy!

my own voice wakes me

in a room full of people

silent - a pin drops

the voice that screams is only in my head

i wish to stay, deep underneath -

far, far away -

but they need me here

I need me here

now i’m gone

if i should become a stranger

who am i

but who are you

one plus one

is always two

ask me who invented numbers

ask me who invented sky

ask me who invented darkness

ask me who invented light

to that person i would run to

to that person i would fly

so why is it i shrug my shoulders

so why is it that i hide

there is no strength in pretending

strength in self

strength in surroundings

I am an artist

how long is forever

and what does forever mean

what happens when we die

do we go on for eternity?

the disconnect may be from language

some from heaven,

some from hell -

though we’re born into one mother tongue

there are many we can spell

there are two sides to every coin

the saturn and the sun

the understanding and the wrongdoing

lie together just as one

the playing field becomes level

when you accept without proof

that there is no “knight in shining armor”

coming to bear the truth

there is no forgiveness

without the acceptance of pain

there is no allowance

until you understand your blame

there will always be excuses

and another place to go

you must face the thing you run from

if what you wish for is to grow

two halves do not make a whole

nor does a house make a home

and just because you have knowledge

does not mean that you are known.

the dancing eels might tell you things

passing messages to carry

but just because you’re worn down

does not mean that you are weary

Alas, you must walk forward!

with your face turned to the sun

We must build the chariot together

if we wish to be as one.

do not shoot the messenger

for he has not come to kill

he’s only come to lead you

to your eternal will

condensed mic, more specific

48V button called phantom power

click the i or little head phone - then unselect for the wavelength

input 2, see the signal coming through

comes in as mono , coming out as stereo

People say there’s such thing as

a devil and angel on your shoulder but

I have two dancing eels that

look almost exactly alike

Two different beings

two different ideas

that do not sit separately but rather

intertwine and

blur together in

a confusing

and elegant way

It’s hard to tell which is which

I decide to ignore both eels and

focus on what they dance around

the heart and soul of

what I truly want

today:

vinyasa 1:45

drugs, money, fortune, and fame

is that what it takes to know a name?

hey andrew,

I hope this email finds you well. My name is Lila, and I met you maybe half a year ago, we chatted for a while about color photographers in the 70s. I don’t remember much of the content of the conversation it

tmr:

wake up 9:15

leave 10:15

10:30-12:30

poems

test

here i am/

here am i

politely put in space and time

finish films

send other poeple stuff as well

yoga and meditation

learning italian

piano lessons

grounding class

possibly sound healing: check dates

maybe paris

maybe morocco

pray pray pray pray

I say I don’t know why I ended up in Arizona but that my friend is a lie. My life in London was cold, dark, and wet. I wanted the opposite: hot, bright, and dry. I wanted it to be so hot that it felt like I was inside of an oven. I wanted sweat to drip down my body and for it to feel good. I wanted the inside of my nose and the underneaths of my fingernails to be caked with dust from the desert. I wanted to hear nothing but the air and the wind and the bats and owls at night. I wanted myself to dry up into a bit of nothingness out here and forget that the rest of the world existed. Not exactly the rest of the world, but my place in it. Or the way I inserted myself into it. I wanted to forget that I existed. In New York, London, and Paris, it was impossible to forget. My positioning was long in the forefront of my mind. Mirror after mirror after mirror held up to me reminding me exactly where I was. Which stop to get off at. When I never even wanted to get on. My body went against the world that whipped against it right back, chaos and energy whiplashed into my body and ricochet into my mind. Ringing, ringing, ringing of the ears. Mirror after mirror after mirror. More stops to get on and get off at and I kept buying tickets for the ride. I disappeared long ago while a shell of myself remained, buying these goddamned tickets. This shell was a puppet on strings inside of a board game. Ringing, ringing, ringing, around, around, around.

unfortunate and fortunate are really quite the same

(/two of the same?)

depends on how you play the pieces in this wicked game

not everyone was taught the rules, the problem here you see

they seem to bend and morph and shape

depending on one’s need

one for love,

and two for pain,

three points to forget your name

you can count the cards

but play the hand

up until you leave the land

what is liberation of the soul

is it when death comes knocking on my door

is it when i want no more

than for my own two feet to touch the floor

Transformation

in the future there is sorrow

what does not exist is in the morrow

potential is the mask of escape

only presence knows the place

Hey Mom, thanks for your help with the italian stuff. Hoping that works out eventually I’ll be checking in my portal now that I can get back in. I hope you’ve been doing well and sincerely so glad you had so much fun in Italy. I enjoyed seeing the pictures,

My spirit flows/

willingly to those/

who ask for a sip of water

who wish to wash their feet/

or back by the shore/

and listen

my words are quiet/

but ring out loud/

and wake the birds who sleep

throw me a stone/

i’ll surely accept/

i’d throw one back/

but i can’t

the fish that swim/

beneath the surface/

are mostly for me/

i’m sorry

it comes to me in dreams

birds of paradise

Superstar Frank

I lost my mind a long time ago

2 years to be exact

can’t recognize myself in the mirror but

I don’t want it back

i’d rather morph over

a million times again

fear is my biggest teacher

i’ll follow wherever it goes

feels like midnight

on a hot summers day

except it’s morning early morning

and starting to rain

freezing rain

i left my girl back home

in monica plains

and i went out on my own

i’m not a mind reader

though you’d like me to be

i’m selling everything i own phase

pneumonia phase

reading classics phase

going to run the berlin marathon phase

getting drunk phase

get high out of my mind phase

matthew mcconehey greenlights phase

doing the inner work phase phase

Joan Baez folk phase

online shopping phase

i’m going to be a yoga instructor phase

im moving to new york phase

i’m moving out west phase

ran out hydroxazine insomnia phase

bought a juul phase

i’m moving in with mom phase

i’m moving back to london phase

i’m going to harvard phase

*ACTUALLY GOES TO HARVARD*

(moves back to london)

drive 4-4:45

should have TSA/ clear, go through security at 4:45am

board 5:25am

Unabridged Dover republication (1979) of the original work Photographs by Man Ray: 1920 Paris 1934, originally published by James Thrall Soby in Hartford, Connecticut, in 1934. Reprinted in New York, New York.

go ask alice
living french
bugs bunny

last one standing you saw it all

i can count on one hand who i thought it might be

only a guess

only a dream

i prefer to make you up in my mind

one step ahead

yet always behind

to live in a world that does not exist

you stay in the sun

i stay in the mist

safer here in a land of my own

at peace among strangers

is better than known

i’ll sit with you on your bedroom floor

flowers grow from ash-essss

i went searching for my family

the ones who lived in

the birds and the trees

and the wind and the breeze

they called out to me

the hills cried out

ever so softy

ever so patiently

offering solace and protection

i’d felt it in the shoebox new york city apartment

in the red tailed hawks that cried out in long island

and in the berkshires of massachusetts

and cambridge

harvard yard

in the north carolina beaches and

in the streets of paris and

(all the landscapes i’ve ever shot in one)

can’t take away the love you gave me

it will always be mine

something i can reach for

feel all the time

phd is out the window

All

I can do

is forgive you

my last attempt at control

an engineer

mastermind

of what is yours

what is mine

so much to give, so little time

the peaks and valleys will always be mine

front seat

back seat

doesn’t matter which way

two sides of the coin to keep evil at bay

Dream journaling

get rid of more things

NO COFFEE

if you’re tired- what’s exhausting you?

fix that.

The pigeons watch from overhead

Day in, and day out

They are my guardian angels

Oh, pish posh! they say

(out of love)

The phone rings to remind me:

Birds do not worry about tomorrow,

and neither should you

It is important to remember

that pigeons sleep too

One star shines overhead - Lo, the star!

(Even if it’s just one star,

it’s enough for me to see in the dark.

I wish to see it in the day,

but it needs some time to rest)

No need to reinvent the wheel

If you do not wish to drive the car

(or bus)

(or boat)

(or plane)

No need for a wheel at all

when you have your own two feet

(and hands)

(and knees)

My dreams - are not your dreams!

No, they cannot be

For you’ve not come from where I’ve come from

or seen what I’ve seen.

But that’s not what makes us different,

or you, you

or me, me -

For we all have visions,

and we all wish to be.

It’s the measure and the martyr,

the half, and the whole,

the top dog, and the lawyer,

who do what they’re told -

It will come when you’re not looking,

but not when you close your eyes -

You won’t find it in your head,

despite how hard you try.

You’ll find it in the world,

it will reveal itself to you

if you keep your eyes open

and make yourself attuned

quick to use the voice others

cling on to their dreams

tether to their mindsets

write yourself into their scenes

susan front of house courtauld

stars

lo the star

lila

Lila Maria Casey

9 cups above my head

not sure of which to choose

Clover

Long and winding road that you never asked to go on

Eagle in the tree

watches of me

sends me on the way

tells me I know how

connected to the moon because we’re all made of water

strange how we need science to make sense of what we feel

who said it was such a bad thing to unravel

just because you’re unsure of what happened

doesn’t make it any less real

from the outside looking in, I have no idea what i'm doing

from the inside looking out, I couldn't tell you either

one thing I can promise is how deeply I've tried

I lose everyone trying to find myself and I do not mind

every path ive gone down

I take every step alone

wade in pale waters-

tie me to grace-

forget me, forget me,

please would you forget me

regret me, regret me

please would you regret me

put it all behind you so that i could do the same

I never asked for your approval - for what from it would I gain?

Attention to the martyr

Attention to the throne

Attention to the lover

Attention to the bone

I have a new found love - letting go with the wind

Nothing's mine to hold onto - no matter how tight the grip

I dont view you. I view me through your eyes.

I see through you

Can you see through me?

What color am I-

pink blue purple violet

Hello? Who's there?

(888) spam risk

red, yellow, blue, it's darkness I choose

Loneliness- a price I'm willing to pay

Rise/Fall

(my insanity is my sanity)

I dance with the devil

Look him in the eyes and smile

just one puff of his cigarette

to make it worth the while

I will not hide any longer

I wish I could burn it all in my brain, all of it. Everything here, that was waiting for me as I'd left. Even Richmond Avenue, the glow of our lights I could only see from the outside in down below, our olive tree on the front porch - the usual fox that lingered by the trash cans - it was almost as if no one had moved a muscle. But I had. I'd changed completely, gutted myself from the inside out.

Everything I do is art.

I believe my body is a vessel, and I let the cosmic order speak through me.

Every decision I've ever made is my own - something to reckon with. Something to own up to. To take accountability for.

How can I say something and mean it?

Do we ever really have agency - or freedom in democracy?

Free will?

To break free of the matrix?

or to endure it?

I believe we do. We can learn to take complete control of our minds, our bodies. That is what our souls came here to do. I deeply believe we all chose to come here - with something to say - with something to do - with something to contribute - we all have powers - we all have intuition - we are all connected to something far greater than ourselves.

It's the cosmic order. The nature of all things.

Is it honest?

Is it pure?

And is it true?

I used to be quite hungry you see - my soul was starving. All of our souls are.

What rules am I subconsciously following?

There are no rules.

I don't understand it, any of it, these expectations that are placed on me, in this world.

Shedding my skin, shedding my skin, shedding my skin, time and time again.

Free will. Do any of us have it?

How do we decide? Who has control over us, over our minds?

If the answer is me, I have control, then why do so many things feel out of my control?

The intrusive thoughts that have plagued me for years - anxiety, addiction, anger, fear.

The same problems follow me wherever I go - sadness, grief, fear -

the fear of being seen,

the fear of being forgotten about -

I've always chosen what makes the most sense.

Close your eyes, don't look at the menu, and tell me what you want.

5, 33

daughter of her son

During my meditation today-

he led us to our final destination, inviting us

to a cave filled with blue light

into an open door

of bright, soft, enveloping light

to symbolize love

we were to feel it,

be it,

experience it,

fully

if we so desired

I entered the door

the soft white light

burned my skin

my body,

an electric current

of energy

fight or flight

Love, this love I experienced

it was unknown to me

my ability to love others-

is it only leveled by the amount I love myself?

And, what dictates the amount I can receive love?

How do I open myself up to it?

Is it possible to love without fear?

Is it possible to be loved without fear?

Let go of that green lamp. Let go of that dream.

What it's connected to - intellectualism.

You cannot own a lamp, when you need to be on the move -

(go? go where?)

Mi manchi. Mi manchi tanto.

Pensieri oscuri... nei pensieri.

vegan, vegan, vegan

sober, sober, sober

will you love me?

will you ever love me for who I am?

(me, to me)

All I want is to know myself. To trust myself. To understand the best I can.

Why I came to this universe.

I am so, wide, awake, it baffles me how the rest do not see it.

All the same. I know I am still blind.

What's my greatest dream?

A dream is but a dream...

but a dream...

Wake up, wake up

open your eyes

See shiny blue carriages

marshmallow skies

sogno realizzato

(fulfilled wish)

(realized dream)