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The Sleepy Life


The Sleepy Life: Benvenuti
The Sleepy Life: Opere


Bodypainting, soul on body.

(I don't know how, but it always ends up that someone I have just met starts talking to me about their innermost secrets, how much they earn, their battles and stories never before revealed to others.
Good listener or not, maybe subconsciously the soul of others sees something in me that I myself am still trying to understand and get to know.
"100 Stories of Japan" started a few days ago in my home, Tokyo, after a business dinner and coffee. A gorgeous girl with a story that dug deep inside made me utter the words "Can I paint you?" and then, "What is it about you that you wish me to express?" )


There are places in the heart and soul that only we know. In a society that continually bombards us with images and a perfect lifestyle, dictated by timetables and stages that seem to chase us and by a clock that beats ever louder those minutes that chime decisively within each of us, grows the impossibility of identifying ourself in a present in which one feels imprisoned. Living a life that does not belong to us, and which in many cases leads to an inner depression from which it is difficult to escape. 
But there is no time to stop. 
So every morning, after drinking your coffee and brushing your teeth, you take the mask you left on the bedside table the night before, put it on, and leave the house for a new day's work. But that object, which shows a radiant smile but encloses a dying soul, will sooner or later no longer be able to hide the inner turmoil that is growing exponentially. School, university, parental and cultural pressures, an imposed life that often does not fit. The head tries to convince itself that this is all well and good, the heart still beats strongly, but something inside is crumbling. Thirty years have passed, two of which have been soaked in a deep depression that has numbed passions, driven away friends and surrounded the body with self-destructive weapons ready to be used. 
There are no easy paths, but only people who have drawn their strength from streets full of hills to climb and potholes, skinned knees, and broken legs. The wounds heal, but the scars are always there to remind us that if we have made it once, we can make it again. 
At worst we'll have new ones to play tetris with.
There is no certainty about tomorrow, but after all have today.
What is it that you will do with this ‘one wild and precious life’?

The Sleepy Life: Testo
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